By the time Julius signed the suicide note the ash at the end of his cigarette had grown so long it collapsed landing on the wet ink. He cursed and tried to blow it off without smudging the letter. There wasn't time to rewrite it. He dashed around the hotel room placing a few personal items in his bag and removing others. These items he strategically placed in visible locations–a sweater over the back of a chair, his toothbrush and a comb in the bathroom–until the page, sufficiently dry, could be stuffed into the envelope he'd already addressed to his wife. Then Julius snorted a line of cocaine off the glass coffee table. Breathing deeply, he stood, straightened his tie, ran his hand across his smooth cheek while admiring his handsomely youthful face in the mirror and made his escape from civilized society, never to be seen again.

One week later at his home in an upscale neighborhood in Vienna, Paul wrestled the letter his wailing daughter clung to, as if for dear life while convulsing dramatically on the floor. Just as he suspected, it was from Julius. He hadn't written in weeks, they didn't even know where he'd gone. He walked into his study, leaving Mia screaming in the foyer. Slowly, Paul poured himself a scotch, smoothed out the crumpled paper, and sat back in his leather armchair to read what his son-in-law had to say. In the short time he'd known Julius, he'd displayed a knack for making poor choices and consistently avoided his responsibilities. A pretty party boy, Julius managed to drain his considerable inheritance at an alarming rate. At least he'd had the decency to divorce his wife and marry Paul's daughter when he got her pregnant. Enough decency. Paul harrumphed. With considerable persuasion.

Paul read the letter and drained his glass. When he looked up, Mia stood in the doorway, tear-streaked, clutching the doorway and prepared to swoon if necessary.

"Suicide," said Paul, setting down the glass with a loud thump. He doubted the sincerity of Julius' words but elected to keep this thought to himself. "It's for the best. The bon vivant couldn't control himself."

Mia helped herself to a drink, lit a cigarette, and sat down across from her father. "I suppose one day I shall love again?" Her words trailed off, and Paul didn't reply. She gave her father a wounded look, "Won't I Papa?"

Paul snorted. "Yes, dear, but we'll need a death certificate if you ever wish to marry again, and that might not be easy to acquire." He stood, poured himself another drink and began pulling papers out of the drawers of his desk. "Pack your things, Mia. We'll leave for Constantinople in the morning." 

As the train rolled into the Constantinople station, Mia stared through the large window of her first-class coach at the buzz of activity on the platform. But she didn't really see it. Julius had seemed distant for a week or two before his disappearance, but Mia hadn't expected this. Then again, she knew all too well about the volatility of addicts. He'd gone on many 'therapeutic' trips to trying to tame his cravings, before inevitably relapsing. The brakes screeched noisily to a halt jerking Mia out of her thoughts.

Paul led his daughter through the noisy throngs and found a private car for hire. "Pera Palace Hotel," he commanded the driver.

Normally, Mia would have watched the bustling streets with enthusiasm, but the task ahead of them had her on edge. Her typically jovial father's foul mood on top of the early five-hour train ride from Vienna only added to her stress, but she knew better than to drink in front of him before three in the afternoon. She cursed herself for the dozenth time for mistakenly leaving her tablets at home.

They pulled up to the grand hotel, and a bellboy in a crisp uniform began unloading their luggage as another opened Mia's door. Before she could swing her legs out, her father put his arm across her and addressed the driver and the bellboy.

"We are just dropping off the luggage," he said.

Mia gave her father an incredulous stare. "Can't we at least check-in and rest for an hour?" she asked.

"No, the office will close soon and I want this done today."

Mia didn't protest, nor did she make eye contact with her father as the car resumed its crawl through the busy streets. Her head throbbed. He was doing this to punish her for eloping when she got pregnant. His disapproval of Julius had been palpable from the start.

An hour later they sat uncomfortably on the worn wooden chairs in the dilapidated office of the medical examiner. Mia held a monogrammed handkerchief to her face to avoid vomiting from the smells assaulting her nose. Paul thankfully offered the unfriendly gentleman behind the desk a cigarette and lit one himself masking the odors. He did not offer his daughter one, though they both knew she needed one desperately.

"We need a death certificate," her father explained, pushing an envelope and a photograph of a handsome young man and his infant daughter across the desk.

The homely man ran small fingers through greasy hair and adjusted his monocle before gingerly picking up Julius' suicide letter.

He glanced briefly at the photograph and a form Paul and Mia had filled out before their appointment describing Julius in detail. "I'm afraid we haven't found a body matching your husband's description in the last week," he stated dryly shoving the letter and photograph back to Paul.

Paul pulled a second envelope out from his coat pocket and placed it before the medical examiner. "You can understand how much, my daughter, his widow, needs a death certificate to put his affairs in order," said Paul, his voice low and even.

The little man stared hungrily at the bulging envelope with dark beady eyes. He placed his hand on top of it, but Paul's large hand stopped him. They locked eyes.

"I expect you to triple your efforts," said Paul. "Please contact us at the Pera Palace Hotel when you find the body."

"Of course," replied the medical examiner. I'll put my best men on the case right away." He gave them an obsequious smile and hastily placed the envelope in his coat pocket.

Mia and Paul rose to leave. Before the door even swung shut, Mia lit herself a cigarette.