Slashing Mona Lisa

by D. M. Barr

  “His wife. She hanged herself. Right in their apartment. He found her there. Oh, that poor, poor man.”

  She laid down the phone, engulfed by grief for her lover as well as for a woman she’d never known. Having a loved one commit suicide was something she understood too well. How she longed to reach out to Fletcher, clasp him in her arms, make him whole again.

  Annalise snatched up the phone and read the article herself. “You can’t tell him you know about this.”

  “Why not?”

  “You want to admit that first you looked through his wallet, and then you stalked him online?”

  “Well, he does know I’m a journalist.”

  “This is like an open wound for him. I really don’t think you want to go rubbing salt in it. He’ll tell you when he thinks it’s appropriate, I’m sure.”

  She hung her head. “I’m sure you’re right. It makes me wonder though...why do you think he left law for journalism? I mean, after all his wife went through. He was fighting for right, defending the unjustly accused, and then he leaves that for an industry he must despise?”

  “Well, maybe if you two keep ‘editing’ together, you’ll unravel that mystery too, Nancy Drew. Speaking of which, what happened with the big revival investigation? You get what you were after?”

  “I never even got to speak to him,” said Camarin, determined to keep her story consistent. “I guess I’ll have to find some other clues to pursue.” She downed the last of her coffee.

  It occurred to her that the right thing to do would be to let the police know that an active murderer was still out there, knocking people off, the latest target being Mangel, whether or not the mission had been successful. But how to let on without placing herself at the revival and risking that the information could somehow reach Fletcher and Wynan?

  Annalise reached for a piece of bread and, pinching her thumb and forefinger together, proceeded to turn it into a pile of crumbs. “I’m going to sprinkle these from here to the bedroom. Give you something to follow. If you don’t get changed soon, you’ll never make it to work. Even if banging the boss does buy you a free pass, you don’t want everyone else, AKA Rachel, to get wise and start resenting you.”

  Realizing that her roommate was right, Cam rose from the table. “I’m sure she already knows,” she said before disappearing into the bedroom to search for alternate apparel. “Rachel was at the club last night. She may be many things, but one of them definitely isn’t blind.”

  Chapter 31

  Rachel flashed an enormous I-know-what-you-were-up-to-last-night smile when Camarin finally pushed open the door at Trend just after eleven.

  “Not one word.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it. In case you’re wondering, Mr. Fletcher hasn’t arrived yet. But Wynan’s been asking for you. You’d better show your face before he hands you your head.”

  “What, no cutesy slang innuendo?”

  “Nah, I think you’ve got enough to work out today. But before you go in, I need your help. I’m supposed to have dinner with Dee’s parents this Friday. He says you’ve been there tons of times before. Any advice?”

  “You do know they publish Drift, right?”

  “Yeah, he mentioned something or other about that. That’s the black version of Trend, right?

  “It’s African American–owned, yes. More importantly, it was a pioneer publication. His grandparents were breaking down barriers long before Ebony and Jet came along. You want to make points? Study up on the history behind that magazine. What changes his parents have made since they took over. And be super respectful. They’re like the family I never had.”

  “Thanks for the tip. Now get in there and dazzle the knickers off him, luv.”

  Cam took a deep breath, pulled open the door to the inner offices, and headed right for the bullpen and Wynan’s desk.

  “I’m so sorry I’m late. It won’t happen again.”

  “You okay?” He looked concerned rather than angry.

  “Yes…why? Is this about the article? I spoke to Mr. Fletcher yesterday. He expressed some concern over its tone, so we agreed that all three of us should revise it.”

  “Actually…I thought it was excellent. Exactly the type of snarky journalism our readers have come to expect. I told layout to run with it. It’s this week’s print cover story, and it’s already on the website. Congratulations.”

  She felt her stomach drop. “No…I wrote that story in a panic because she hadn’t given me the real interview. I was angry and desperate—”

  “Are the facts correct? Is your account what really happened?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “But nothing. It’s accurate. We run it.”

  “It’s just that Lyle said…he felt my story could destroy that poor girl. That there were more compassionate ways to help, not shame her and destroy her relationship with her record company.”

  “That’s not my problem. My problem is putting out a magazine that readers pull off the shelves. And honestly, that’s now your problem too. I’ll deal with Lyle. If he manages to make it in today.”

  Camarin’s face started burning, half out of embarrassment and half out of frustration over this cover story bungle. She wondered if Wynan would even notice, much less care. She decided to take one last shot at making this right.

  “One question. How is this any different than those boys beating you up at boarding school when you were friendless and vulnerable?”

  “One answer. I was an innocent kid. She’s an adult. She owns her own choices. She agreed to an interview, and she’ll make millions from the album she’s using our story to promote. Not bad for your first byline. Speaking of which, after showing me your chops with that Evans piece, I’m taking you off copyediting detail. I have a ton of articles and interviews I can assign you. You can meet any celebrity you desire.”

  “But once they see how I smeared Perri to hell and back—”

  “They’ll still kill to meet with you. Something you’ll grow to understand about people in the spotlight. Any publicity is good publicity.” He reached into his desk and pulled out a list of names. “Here are some ideas I came up with a few weeks ago. Controversial people who would make great interview targets. Take it to your desk and start doing some background research. Start with whomever you choose.”

  She picked up the paper and skulked back to her cubicle. How could Wynan be so heartless and unfeeling? She regretted ever turning in the Evans assignment. Publicly humiliating celebrities for their shortcomings was not the job she’d signed up for. It would not cleanse her soul nor garner her the redemption she craved. It would merely make her part of everything in society she despised. If this was Manhattan journalism, she wanted out now.

  She closed her eyes at her desk and silently meditated. There was no problem that couldn’t be solved, given enough time and thought. Of course, if one of those problems was a total absence of sleep the night before, perhaps shut-eye was not the answer. She felt herself drifting off and forced her eyelids back open. Where were a pair of toothpicks when you needed them?

  Best idea, do the job. But do it her way. Study each celebrity, conduct in-depth research, find something redeemable about every name on the list. Their charitable work, how they overcame the bullies in their youth, something, anything. This she could do. A challenge worth undertaking.

  Just as she was starting to feel calmer about the assignment, Rachel burst into the bullpen area and pointed the remote at the monitor hanging on the wall. “Oh my God, it’s all over Twitter. You have to see this!”

  Every muscle in Camarin’s body tensed as she looked up at the screen and saw April Lowery. This was it, everything she had feared, the news she could have played a role in preventing. The legend said that April was speaking from Wilmington, DE. Still primped to excess, she looked a bit paler than Camarin remembered. Rachel turned up the volume, and together they watched April address the crowd from a podium covered in microphones.

  “Ladies and gentlemen
of the press. I’m devastated to announce that there’s been…” Her voice cracked, and Cam could see she was fighting back tears. “There’s been an incident. Sometime on Sunday morning, someone entered Terry Mangel’s trailer. They attacked him. A man who wanted nothing more than to spread love and acceptance in the world…and someone hurt him.”

  “Is he alive?” yelled out one reporter.

  “Where is he now?” screamed another.

  Camarin braced herself, waiting for the answer.

  “We cannot comment on Mr. Mangel’s location or condition other than to say that he’s somewhere secret and safe, being closely monitored by his organization’s own team of nurses and physicians. We are doing everything possible for him, and we hope to have the Feel Good About Yourself revival continue as planned, a week from Friday in Charlotte, North Carolina, at the Metrolina Fairgrounds. We hope that everyone in the viewing audience will attend this spectacular event. Thank you for your prayers.”

  “I can’t believe she’s using the news conference to promote the business,” said one editor in the bullpen. Camarin just stared at the screen, speechless, guilt engulfing her like quicksand.

  The camera panned over to a reporter interviewing a policewoman. “Have you found any clues to this horrible assault?” she asked.

  “Nothing to find,” answered the officer, resigned. “This is Delaware. The attack was in Pennsylvania. Out of our jurisdiction. We asked to see the trailer where the crime took place, but Mangel representatives told us they’re a very private organization and would investigate this internally. They said there was a surveillance camera in the trailer, but it’s allegedly gone missing. So, there are no leads for us to follow up.”

  “Any idea why Mangel’s crew might have driven their convoy from the scene of the crime?” asked the reporter.

  “Not an inkling. Unless they were scared the attacker might strike again. In any case, we can’t do a thing here.”

  “Shut it off, please. I’ve seen enough,” Camarin called out to Rachel, who clicked the remote and hurried to her side.

  “I didn’t want to say anything, Cam, but isn’t Mangel the bloke you went down to Philadelphia to see?” Rachel whispered.

  Cam’s head already felt like it was hosting a conga drum recital, and her limbs were tremoring in time to the beat. Rachel’s questions intensified the clamor.

  “Yes, but as I told everyone last night, it was such a madhouse, I never got close,” she lied. “I feel awful. I could have helped prevent that.” At least that part was true. Mangel got what was coming to him, based on the little she recalled from the trailer encounter. But that didn’t make her culpability any less palpable. “I think I just need a little time alone. You understand, right, Rachel? Just please, the details about my trip to Philly—could we just keep them to ourselves?”

  “You know me. I’m like a black hole of information. Nothing ever escapes.” Rachel headed back to the reception area.

  Camarin knew nothing of the sort, except that black holes could end up exploding, and that was the last thing she needed. She pulled a bottle of spring water from her desk drawer, downed half, and then leaned her head on her desk, trying to calm herself and alleviate her headache.

  Once the pounding subsided, her curiosity returned, and she decided to see what was being reported about the incident on the internet. Maybe with her inside knowledge, she could uncover some clues the police had missed. She waited for her computer to boot up and then typed in her password. M-O-N-A-E-K-A. Her email icon was flashing as if daring her to click. A love note from Lyle perhaps, something to brighten up her morning and explain his absence? That would be nice. She could use the distraction.

  Last night had been a game changer, a message cast in flames against a black sky that good men existed, and love was possible. Her future was out there, like the daisy he’d given her, waiting to be plucked. Tempted as she was to wax poetic, especially considering which words rhymed with plucked, she took another swig of water, and with a tingle of excitement, clicked on the blinking envelope.

  Life truly can change in an instant, and in Camarin’s case, that instant was followed by a violent coughing fit caused by a gulp of liquid swallowed the wrong way. She struggled to shut down the screen before any good Samaritan who raced to her aid could catch a glimpse.

  Three well-meaning women quickly surrounded her, one pounding on her back, convinced she was a baby who needed burping, another threatening to perform the Heimlich maneuver. She held them at bay, arm extended and hand up, a wordless ‘hold off.’ After about a half-minute of frantically trying to catch her breath, the attack subsided, and the throng of do-gooders dispersed. Only then, when prying eyes were safely beyond viewing distance, did she attempt to steady her quivering hand long enough switch her screen back on.

  The email, from someone named anon@ymouse.net, revealed a sight so hideous she tasted bile working its way up her esophagus. A digital photo, unmistakably of her, brandishing a white marble-handled letter opener at a naked Mangel. Then a second photo, showing her standing with the opener dripping in red, beside Mangel’s crumpled, bloodied body. And then a third, date-stamped a minute later, documenting her exit from the trailer. There was no note, but the pictures alone sent a bolt of terror through her.

  Could they be real? she wondered as she broke out in a cold sweat. She’d blocked out so much of the encounter, she couldn’t be absolutely sure. But even in her wildest nightmares, she couldn’t conceive of being capable of anything like this.

  No, this was definitely a frame-up. Someone had taken photos from inside the trailer, altered them and was attempting to implicate her. That was the only conceivable answer. She refused to contemplate any other.

  She turned her head wildly, checking to make sure no one was peering over at her screen and then, in a panic, deleted both pictures from her hard drive. Not that she believed for one minute that she’d seen the last of them. But why risk leaving them on the network for anyone else to stumble across?

  She was at a loss over her next move. She’d told everyone who’d listen that she’d never met up with Mangel. How could she explain these photos away without her lies betraying her?

  And then, of course, there were the people she hadn’t told. Specifically, Wynan. Lyle. They’d sent her to Washington on assignment. How could she explain cashing in the tickets to cover a side trip to Philly as well?

  Maybe the DC trip and the resulting article were her alibi, but it was partial at best. Especially when thousands heard her on stage, recounting her crimes against her sister. Terrific way to kill a budding relationship, being caught dead-handed before your second date. She would have appreciated her own pun more if she hadn’t started shivering uncontrollably.

  She closed her eyes, trying to temper her anxiety. Once she had the shakes under control, she pretended to look over Wynan’s list of names, terrified to switch her screen back on lest ‘Anon’ decided to transmit another zinger. She practically jumped when her desk phone rang, but calmed when she saw it was from an office extension.

  “Torres.”

  “How do you feel this morning, Camarita?” Lyle’s voice was like balm soothing cramping muscles.

  “A little worn out,” she said, surprised that her voice didn’t wobble and reveal her inner quandary. “Thanks for letting me have the morning off.”

  “As I recall, you turned in an extra-credit assignment that more than made up for the lost time.”

  Despite the Mangel trauma, she couldn’t help but smile, recalling how he’d picked up her naked body and carted her back into the shower for round number three. But then this morning’s discussion with the executive editor came to mind and her mood returned to somber.

  “Lyle, Wynan put through the story about Perri Evans as originally written. He’s making it this week’s cover, and it’s already on the website. Is there anything you can do to kill any of this?”

  “I wish there was. He caught me as I walked through the door, filled me
in on the whole dilemma. Come into my office, and we’ll discuss it further.”

  She hung up the phone and pushed back on her chair, standing just as it rang again. She smiled as she picked up the receiver. “Forget to tell me to bring an extra bar of soap, just in case things get dirty again?”

  Instead of the laughter she expected, the line was silent, other than a low crackle. Then she heard a distorted voice, not distinctly male or female, like some subway announcer or a robot from a science fiction cartoon. “Camarin Torres?”

  A chill enveloped her, and her teeth began to chatter. “Y-yes?”

  “Did you enjoy the pictures I sent?”

  Her knees buckled, and she plopped back down. “I don’t know what you want, but those pictures were faked. I had nothing to do with anything,” she whispered to avoid being overheard.

  “What I want will become very clear to you in time. Mangel’s people chose not to elaborate on the attack or their suspicions about its perpetrator, but their reticence doesn’t extend to me. I might be an Invisible Woman, but I’m not a mute one.”

  “Go away and leave me alone. I am not party to any of this.”

  “So you said earlier, but the pictures certainly tell a different story, don’t they? Not to mention your fingerprints on the letter opener. Tomorrow I will call you with a task. The others have performed them voluntarily, but you, my dear, you may need a bit of extra coaxing, no? I’m sure I can make a very persuasive argument to ensure your cooperation. In the meantime, not a word to anyone, and I mean anyone. Otherwise, people very close to you are going to die. My spies are everywhere, so don’t take this warning lightly. Until tomorrow then.” Click.

  Camarin stared at the dead receiver, her entire body shaking even more violently than before. She tried to focus, to think. Others? What others? The murderers in her pack of vigilantes? And people close to her…who did the caller mean? Her roommates? Lyle? Her mother?

  She had to do something, extricate herself from this growing nightmare. But even if she wanted to go to the police, or even to her editor or publisher, why should they believe her? The pictures were damning, clearly putting her at the scene. Any denial would make it sound like she was making up a story to protect herself from prosecution.