Mystery Girl: A Novel (24 page)

to stand, sit, walk, or speak. If it was a long process there’d be food, a shower, even a nap. Then I would cross a hall or step through a sliding door and meet the man himself. The client. The boss. Sometimes I would punish him. I’d be dressed in a red silk robe, nude beneath, and I’d tie him to a cross and I’d whip him while forcing him to recite his crimes. I still remember: murderer, fornicator, liar, thief, pervert, scum. I had to call him a hack and a commercial sellout. He’d beg for mercy and kiss my feet and thank me for punishing him. Then in the end I had to forgive him and like hold him and tell him it was all right, that he was a good boy and a great artist and I loved him. I had to tell him he was a genius and that I respected his work so much. Once I had to dress like a nun, although with stockings and a garter belt under my habit and perform an exorcism on him while he was tied to the bed, sprinkling him with holy water and spanking him with a huge cross to cast out the demons. Then of course the forgiving at the end. I had to let him suck my boob a little too, which was sort of gross, but harmless. The scary nights were when he would pretend to sacrifice me. It was like a pagan ritual or Satanic I guess. There was a five-pointed star, like a pentagram drawn on the floor, with candles burning at the points and torches. Now I was in a white robe and he was in black, hooded. He tied me down and chanted over me. He had a wafer, you know the sacramental thing, and wine, and he’d make a big deal out of desecrating them, spitting on them, stepping on them, sticking them between my butt cheeks and then mumbling the Our Father while he took it out with his mouth. Silly. I know. I probably would’ve giggled if the whole atmosphere wasn’t so spooky. Then he’d sacrifice me. The first time I was terrified, although I’d been warned and assured and really the ropes holding me down weren’t too tight. I could have slipped out pretty easy. In fact, he liked me to struggle but I had to be careful or they’d fall off. Still when I saw him kneeling there above me with that huge dagger held high above him, yelling, Hail Satan! I freaked. He brought it down right between my tits. Of
course it didn’t hurt at all, not really. A slight pinch as the rubber blade retracted and then the fake blood squirted out. He went nuts then. He actually jerked off on my belly. I never once saw his face. He wore a mask. Ridiculous, I know, the whole thing. It just seemed like a harmless joke. A lot less work than porn for a lot more money. It seemed like a crazy dream except I woke up holding an envelope full of cash. I’d live my very normal daily life. I’m really very conservative, believe it or not, very conventional. I’d go to the gym and yoga, clean my house, look after my portfolio. I like to cook. And then, maybe once a week or once a month, I’d get a call, always from that man, telling me what time and where to meet. Anyway, I’m rambling but I guess it’s sort of like an excuse or an explanation for how I ended up in this fix, how I let myself drift into it. One day the man, the agent or manager guy said they had a different kind of role for me. That’s what he called it, a role or a game, like it was all make-believe and fun. I was to learn my character, my name, and backstory. I moved into the rented house they provided, complete with props, clothes. There was a man, they told me. The man was you. I let you spy on me, watch me dance and touch myself. I put on a show, like in porn. Yes of course I knew you were out there, hiding in the bushes. It was hard not to laugh when that little poodle had you cowering. And I knew it was you at the beach and in the lingerie shop. How could I not know? Your wig? I let you follow me around like they said and left the clues. I left my panties for you in the trash. Did you take them? No? Huh. I was sure you would. Then I went up to Big Sur. I waited for you in the bar and they told me what to talk about and how to act. To say my name was Ramona Doon and act all femme fatale–like. They said that was your thing. Then I was supposed to take you back to the hotel. To get you relaxed and you know, to seduce you. And then disappear. I just hopped over the balcony and the agent guy was there, waiting to help me down. He had the room below. Then we left and he paid me, a lot, and that was it. Look, I knew it wasn’t really a game or a practical joke like they said,
I’m not that stupid. I knew they were conning you for some reason. I thought insurance or blackmail or something. Catching you with a girl. That’s all. And I was scared by then, too. I wasn’t entirely truthful before, you see. They weren’t my only clients. I was performing a similar service for other men, other rich guys who I met in hotels and well one of them turned out to be a cop. I was arrested and I was out on bail and really scared of jail, of how it would affect my future, everything. Well they knew, this agent, he somehow knew all about it, which right away frightened me. How did he know? Was he involved with the cops? He said he could fix it, make it go away, and he did. As soon as I agreed to the job with you, I got a call the next day. All the charges were dropped and the whole thing was erased from my record. It was gone. So I understood then, these were powerful people, and I was even more afraid of them now than the police, but I swear I didn’t know about the suicide. I didn’t know about a death. I thought I, she, the character, Mona, would just disappear like a mystery for you. I thought she was make-believe, a fiction. But I was worried, so I kept an eye out, watched the news and read the local papers online and then I saw the little piece in the police blotter about a body found, a missing girl who jumped to her death, Mona Naught. And I knew it was a setup. I became terrified. I couldn’t go to the cops. I was a criminal, right? A hooker. And I was involved, some kind of accomplice. I had no names to give them, no addresses, nothing. And apparently they had a lot of power with the police. I slipped into the inquest in disguise. I saw you and heard that doctor, Parker, describe the girl I’d played. I started to get paranoid and think I was being followed. That my place had been searched. Not like this, not wrecked, but things were moved, or gone. Then I read about Parker dying. And I was afraid to go home, to call anyone. Who would I even call? I have no friends, not really. No family. No one I can turn to. I was trapped. So I came here to you. For help. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I got you involved in this, whatever it is. I don’t blame you for hating me, but I can help, we can help each other. I have
money. Here, with me. Cash. Just don’t call me Mona again or Ramona or anything like that. I hate that name now. I wish I’d never heard of that fucking girl.

61

THE DOORBELL BUZZED
. It took a second to register, as Mona or, I guess Nic (or Nica?) was telling me her story in my kitchen, where we were both still standing across from each other. It wasn’t a comfortable arrangement for conversation, with me gripping the cleaver, ready to spring if she ran, and her in the doorway, hands on the frame, as if awaiting permission to enter. The sun was bright now, shining in my eyes, giving her the tactical advantage in case of combat, and washing her blond hair (which was real: this gold or Mona’s black?) with a blurry nimbus, suitable for a ghost visiting the fall of the house of Kornberg. The scene was hypnotic, and the drone of the doorbell seemed far off, like an alarm clock intruding upon deep sleep. Plus, no one ever used the bell. They knocked or walked in. I barely knew what it sounded like.

But Nic reacted like a hunted animal. She ducked low, as at a rifle’s cock. “Who’s that?” she demanded.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Just ignore it.”

It buzzed again.

“I’d better check,” I said. “Killers don’t usually ring first do they?”

“No one can see me here.” She looked frantic.

“OK,” I said. “Hide in that room. But don’t move or touch anything. Just wait.”

She nodded and vanished back through the door, then popped her head out. “The knife,” she whispered.

“Right.” I put it on the counter as she slipped out of sight, then
cleverly moved it again and hid it under a towel. Then I went to the door. “Coming!” I yelled. As soon as I peeked through the peephole I knew. They were plainclothes cops. Two tightly groomed men in blue suits, one white in his forties with mustache and red tie, one brown in his thirties, blue tie, no mustache.

As always when authority appears, I panicked immediately. Were they looking for Nic? Or Mona? Or any of them? Would they accuse me of killing Kevin? What about the break-in and trashing of my house? Did they somehow know? I suddenly felt the need to conceal the wreckage, although it was of course my house. I was the victim and could trash it if I wanted anyhow.

“Who is it?” I asked in voice that sounded thin and strangled and not very convincing. They know I know, I thought.

“It’s the police ma’am. Sorry to disturb you.”

I cleared my throat and opened the door a few inches. “Hi,” I said. “Good morning.” I stepped out onto the landing, shutting the door behind me casually. I realized I was still dressed oddly, but these were LA cops. I could have been naked for all they cared.

“Good morning, sir,” the white one said, holding out his ID. “I’m Sergeant Northing. This is Detective Dante.” He pulled out a pad. “Are you Mr. Kornbrenner?”

“No,” I said eagerly, hoping the guy they meant lived up the block. “I’m Kornberg.”

“Yes, sorry, sir, that’s what we mean.” Northing made a note on his pad. Dante spoke up.

“You witnessed a crime recently. The suicide of a Mona Naught?”

Probably I should have blurted out the truth right then and run to their car for protection. She’s here! Hiding in my office! Shoot! But I played it cool. “Right,” I said. “That was me. But I already gave a complete statement and I don’t know anything more. Nothing else has happened at all. Except normal everyday things, of course.” I chuckled casually.

“Yes, sir,” Dante said. “You were very cooperative, thank you. However there’s been a small problem and we’re liaising with the
San Louis Obispo County Police on this one, just contacting everyone connected with the case in the hopes of clearing this up.”

“A problem?” I wondered lightly. Like she’s not dead, perhaps?

“Yes, sir.” The white one consulted his pad again. “As part of the normal postautopsy processing, the deceased’s fingerprints were added to our federal databases. Well, it took a while but we got a hit. From the INS actually. That’s why it didn’t pop right away.”

“So?” I was relaxing a bit. I didn’t see what this had to do with me or the girl cowering in my house.

“Well, the match in the INS computer had no connection with any Mona Naught. Apparently, these prints belong to a Mexican national who was reported missing by her family some years ago. Her name was… Maria… Consuela…”

Dante stepped in as whitey began torturously overenunciating the Spanish. “Maria Consuela Martinez Garcia, from Tepic, Nayarit. Does that name ring a bell?”

“No, not at all,” I said. Another girl? Another name? How many were there?

“Seems she first entered the country back in 1990 on a student visa.”

“Sorry.” I shook my head, answering honestly for once. “I have no idea what this means.”

“OK. No problem. Since her death has already been ruled a suicide, and no one else claimed the body, the coroner went ahead and released it to the family in Mexico.”

“I see,” I said. To them the case was closed. It didn’t matter who the dead girl was, as long as they could file her away under something and shut the drawer.

“Hey, you know what?” I added, in a casual tone. “I didn’t really know the woman, but still, after all, I’d like to send her family a card. Do you mind if I get that address from you?”

“Certainly, sir.” Dante smiled his approval and Northing printed carefully into his notebook and tore out the page. “Here you go. I’m sure they’ll appreciate the thought.”

62

STEPPING BACK THROUGH
my own door was like stepping into space. Perhaps the house would be gone completely, leaving only a green hill. It all seemed equally possible. My wife might even be back, sitting on the sofa, complaining about the mess.

Nic, it seemed, was real, so far. Or at least she hadn’t changed into a cat or anything. Still, rather like a cat, she poked her head out of the kitchen as soon as I shut the door.

“Is it safe to come out?”

“Not really. But come on anyway. We have to go see someone.”

She stepped away, shoulders back. “Who?”

“My boss. The one who hired me to follow you. He’s a detective. He can help.”

She narrowed her gaze, figuring the odds. “Why should I trust him?”

I shrugged. “Don’t trust anyone. I wouldn’t. Especially not you. You’re the biggest liar of all. I’m just a schmuck.”

She seemed to find this reassuring. She removed my meat cleaver from where she had been concealing it under her skirt and laid it on the counter. “OK. Let’s go see the boss.”

I opened the door and made sure the cops were gone before ushering her out. “Actually, I thought this guy was a total nut job up till a few hours ago. Now I think he might be a genius.”

63

MRS. MOON LET US IN
. Lonsky, regarding Nic without shock or surprise, heard our story in the study while his mother made an egg salad sandwich for “the girl,” who admitted, when Lonksy asked, that she had not eaten anything but Tic Tacs for a day or more. As was his
wont, he settled deep in the brown leather armchair, listening like a log until she finished her tale and then lapsed into uneasy silence, awaiting his response. He sighed. A finger twitched. She gave me a look. I nodded reassuringly. Roz came in with a sandwich and a glass of ice tea.

“Here you go, hon,” she said. “I put sliced cuke and tomato on the sandwich. Hope that’s OK.”

“Oh yes, thank you.” Nic sat up eagerly and balanced the plate on her knees.

Perhaps sniffing the food, Lonsky raised his lids. “Even with sliced fruit, that is hardly a sufficiently nutritious meal.”

“I know what you’re going to say, Solly,” Roz said, wiping her hands on her sky blue slacks as she left, “but to me cukes and tomatoes are still veggies. Have been for as long as I’ve been alive. Never mind what modern science discovers.”