Slashing Mona Lisa

by D. M. Barr

  She asked Viviana to cover for her and then snuck into the kitchen to collect her traveling clothes. Her two outfit changes were still waiting for her in the cardboard box where she’d left them. But after pulling the burqa from its hiding place, she confronted her second disaster of the evening. There was a big tomato stain on its front, no doubt the result of its recent stay on an unwashed cabinet shelf. She grabbed it and ran to the bathroom, ensconcing herself in a stall where she could deal with the problem in secret.

  Scratching at the stain dislodged the stuck-on bits, but the discoloration remained, a bull’s-eye that was sure to identify her as anything but an average, modest, lobby-exiting Muslim woman. She had to think quickly, figure out how to salvage their elaborate plan, but it was almost impossible with the tomato scent romancing her olfactory glands. Memories of summer picnics kidnapped her focus—triple-decker cheeseburgers piled high with ketchup, pickles, onions, and bacon. Realizing time was fleeting, Cam forced herself to stop salivating and instead concentrate on the dilemma at hand.

  She donned the two additional sets of clothes as she pondered her quandary. She needed something black. Like a magic marker. Paint. Or—wait! The answer was right there in front of her. Or at least in the general vicinity.

  She needed to get something from the kitchen, and she couldn’t be seen doing it. Nor could she text anyone but DeAndre, since she couldn’t risk sharing evidence on any phone that might be hacked. She took a chance and sent him a message, praying he’d steal a look at his burner phone between songs. It worked. Within five minutes, Annalise was knocking on her stall.

  “You needed this?” she said, slipping a jar under the door.

  “Thank you.”

  “Dee told me not to ask any questions, but I do have one. You okay?”

  “I’m fine. Everything’s fine. Thanks for the help.”

  “Okay. See-No-Evil, out. If I only had a mic, I’d drop it.”

  Camarin heard the bathroom door close. She reached down and opened the jar of blackstrap molasses, the secret sauce that transformed ordinary ribs into the mainstay of Benji’s menu. Hands shaking from the anxiety of plans gone awry, she dipped in two fingers, and as steadily as she could manage, rubbed the thick, sticky goo onto part of her burqa stain, watching the red slowly transform into a dark blackish-brown. It’s not perfect, but it’ll have to do, she decided as she spread the glob over the entire blemish. Then she pulled the sweet-smelling cloak over her ensemble, covering every inch of her other than her eyes.

  The smell enveloped her as completely as the outfit, again evoking memories of guilt-ridden food orgies followed by obligatory purging. How many hours had she spent over the past fourteen years vomiting into toilets like this one? She felt a shroud of self-pity descend over her but quickly cast it off. There would be plenty of time for self-castigation once she was in hiding.

  She exited the stall, disposed of the jar under some towels in the garbage, and yanked open the bathroom door, praying she could make it out of the hotel without attracting every fly in Manhattan.

  Once in the corridor, instead of taking a right and heading back into the club, she took a left and walked through the kitchen, ignoring the staff’s inquisitive looks, to the door at the back that Dee had assured her led to the freight elevator. To her relief, for the first time tonight, something went right. Sweating profusely—a combination of nerves and wearing four layers of clothing on a warm summer night—she hurried down the deserted hallway and pressed the elevator button. The piano music from the club drowned out the squealing of the gears.

  When the door rattled opened, she entered, hit B, and put her faith in a contraption so rickety it must have been an Otis prototype. The elevator descended at a snail’s pace and stopped with a clunk that nearly made her topple over. She sprang from the death trap as soon as the doors reopened and half-walked, half-ran through the maze of massive boxes, broken tables, spare chairs, and every other discarded or not-immediately-needed item that crowded the basement level.

  Spying a door at the opposite end, she pushed through the clutter toward another elevator, which she assumed led to the Laidlaw lobby. This one was even more terrifying than the last, not only because of its age but also because there was already a workman waiting inside. He gave her an odd look and took one step back as she entered and pushed the button for Lobby.

  “I feel so stupid. I’m terribly lost,” she said, in her best Arabic accent, which came out sounding more Indian than authentic.

  He just nodded, giving her a wide berth. The car creaked its way up one level as they rode without further discussion.

  Once the doors opened again, she turned and took a chance on the little Arabic she remembered from her brief encounter with DeAndre’s girlfriend. “Which way to the hotel lobby, Sayyed?”

  He pointed to the left, and she hurried off, smiling as she imagined him trying to fathom how the ditzy Muslim tourist in a molasses-stained burqa ever managed to drift that badly off-course.

  The lobby was filled with a large contingent of conference attendees, and Cam easily blended in. The men were chatting animatedly in their native tongue, their wives standing silently nearby. When they started toward the exit, she joined them, walking about one step behind, heart racing faster every footstep closer she came to at last breaking free of her unwanted surveillance. One of the women turned to stare. Perhaps she had smelled the sickly-sweet aroma? Camarin nodded politely and said nothing.

  She followed them about two blocks down Broadway and then veered off onto a side street. By that point, she figured she’d probably lost anyone attempting to trail Camarin Torres. Anyone else who spotted an unescorted woman in a burqa hailing a cab at eleven-thirty wouldn’t have thought twice about it, Manhattanites being as open-minded and self-absorbed as they were.

  She gave the driver the address that she had memorized from Xavier via DeAndre. It was an apartment in Harlem, owned by a friend of the butler’s father, far from anywhere her enemies might have expected her to hide. Hopefully, her outfit wouldn’t garner any unwelcome attention in that neighborhood, because she couldn’t risk removing the garment until she was safely locked inside her safe house.

  “It’s pretty late for a lady like yourself to be out alone on the streets,” said the driver, who continued to chat, unanswered, for the entire twenty-five-minute drive uptown.

  When they arrived at 116th Street, she fished through her pockets for enough cash to pay the meter.

  “This is Graham Court,” he announced, apparently happy with the sizeable tip she’d given him. “It’s Harlem’s answer to the Dakota. You know they filmed New Jack City and Jungle Fever here?”

  She nodded, eager to speed up the process, get inside, and disrobe to just one layer.

  The man who answered the doorbell at 7A was an elderly gentleman leaning on his cane, his leathery face framed by white hair and a beard. There was something trustworthy and comforting about him, and she immediately felt safe in his presence.

  “Come on in, miss,” he said with a slight Jamaican accent. “I’m Malcolm Harvey. You call me Malcolm. I don’t know what kind of trouble you’re in, and I don’t want to know. Xavier Edouard’s father vouched for you, and that’s the only visa I need. You stay here as long as you like. Cockroach nuh business inna fowl fight.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It means I mind my own business, stay out of yours.”

  First Cockney rhyming slang, now patois. She couldn’t travel around New York without a translator.

  “You are so kind to welcome a stranger into your home, especially one arriving at your door at midnight,” said Camarin, reaching out to shake his hand. “I won’t be any trouble. All I need is a mattress, a bathroom, and a computer, and I’ll pay you back when I can.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about any payment.” He laughed. “Xavier sent two thousand dollars by messenger a few days ago, said I should use it to cover any food or supplies you might need. If you protested, I was told to remind
you that your actions saved the lives of some people he’s very fond of, so shut up and enjoy.”

  Camarin just shook her head and sent up thanks to God for putting her in the hands of such caring, loving people. “I won’t protest a peep. But if you could show me where I could take off this damned disguise, I’d be forever in your debt. I’m burning up in here.”

  He pointed her to the bathroom. “I left some pajamas and a robe hanging on the back of the door. I bought them with some of that money, figured you’d need something to relax in. By the way, how do you feel about a late-night snack? I’ve got some jerk chicken wings I’d be happy to heat up.”

  Malcolm’s words bathed her in calm.With the first part of their plan behind them, she was safe and in control of her circumstances. At least for tonight. “Malcolm, if your wings are as half as great as you are, this is the beginning of a wonderful friendship.”

  Chapter 36

  After a glorious night of uninterrupted sleep in silk pajamas on Malcolm Harvey’s pullout sofa bed, Camarin awoke refreshed and less stressed than she’d felt since before her trip to Philadelphia. It seemed like a million years had passed.

  Today was the day the Invisible Woman expected her to kill the family she’d grown to love. Knowing everyone was safe and her enemies were no longer privy to her whereabouts and activities, nor those of DeAndre’s and his family, filled her with a sense of well-being she’d wondered if she’d ever experience again. She checked her burner phone for any urgent communiques and got out of bed.

  “What’ll you have?” asked Harvey, already frying up some bacon and eggs.

  “I’m afraid I don’t eat much in the mornings. Do you have any coffee?”

  “Whole pot full, help yourself. Mugs are up there on the shelf. But if you’re going to stay here, you gotta learn to eat. You barely touched your snack last night. You need food for strength, to think clearly. And don’t give me that look. You pay heed to your elders. De olda de moon, de brighter it shines.”

  She shrugged, knowing when she’d been outranked. Maybe some real food would help her to link the puzzle pieces together. Monaeka’s ever-present voice, with its constant body-shaming reprimands, had diminished substantially since the revival. Could her sister’s desire for revenge have been satisfied by Cam’s public humiliation? Could she finally eat without judgment?

  She poured herself a mug of coffee, searched the fridge for some milk, and then sat down in front of one of the two full plates he’d set down on the table. Calorie count, at least seven hundred, and she planned to enjoy every single one. Take that, Monaeka. Same to you, Mom.

  “What’s on your schedule today, Malcolm?”

  “Same as every day, miss. I give thanks that the Lord saw fit to treat me to another day. I go to church to thank him proper and then go to the soup kitchen or the hospital and help where I can. You’ll have the whole place to yourself until I come home and make dinner. Fridge is full. You take whatever you need.”

  “You’re the best. Do I need a password to get into your computer or internet?”

  “Computer’s on the desk in my bedroom. All signed in for you.” He pointed to the fridge. “I left my phone number on that pink sheet of paper. If you need me, I won’t be far.”

  He finished up and left his plate and silverware in the sink.

  “If you wanna do something, feel free to wash the dishes. One thing I hate to do. And no leaving. Desmond—that’s Xavier’s dad—told me that’s the one big rule. You need something, you call me, and I’ll get it for you. We good?”

  “We good.” She saluted in jest.

  “You joke, but don’t forget. Chicken merry, hawk deh near.”

  She nodded, more somber. He was right: trouble could be waiting right outside the door.

  He walked out without another word, leaving Cam with her days’ worth of research. She ditched the remainder of her breakfast down the sink, at least three hundred fifty calories not destined for her hips, turned on the water, and snatched the sponge. Best do them now before she forgot.

  Once she’d dried the dishes and put them in the cupboards, she entered Harvey’s simple but spotless bedroom—he’d even made the bed—and sat at his computer, determined to track down some answers.

  First, she checked the news sites; still no additional reports on Mangel’s condition. He must be dead, she surmised. Otherwise, they’d be announcing every tiny change in his condition, looking to eke out every iota of free publicity. Then she clicked on his website, which indicated that the revival was set to open next weekend in Charlotte as planned.

  A shot-in-the-dark attempt at a Google search for the Invisible Woman turned up over sixty-three million links, including movie and book titles, but nothing she was after. Something had to be here somewhere. What was she missing?

  The burner rang. Heart fluttering, she ran back into the den, doubling as her makeshift bedroom. It could only be Dee.

  “Hello?” she answered with trepidation.

  “Looks like you made it.”

  “I did. A few shaky moments but everything worked out, and I’m here, safe. What’s your story?”

  “Benji blew a gasket when he realized you took off, but I told him you were still sick, likely a stomach virus or something, and he quieted down. You should be good on that count, at least through the weekend. I’ve got two new roommates, Zach and Brody, not nearly as pretty as you, but my parents insisted. I call them Tweedledee and Tweedledum, along with some other choice nicknames. They’re supposed to follow me everywhere, but that’s only if they can break free from Annalise.”

  “They’re big and brawny?”

  “Truth.”

  “Her favorites. She must be going out of her mind. How did you explain why they’re there?”

  “I just told her my parents received death threats from someone who was unhappy about a story. She bought it.”

  “And me not being there?”

  “Told her you were spending the night with your boss, maybe the weekend too.”

  “Well, don’t let her near Rachel. She knows Fletcher is out of town and will blow that story out of the water.”

  “I’m on it. She still believes she’s banned from the club until further notice so Benji doesn’t fire me. Whether she continues to listen, that’s a different story.”

  “Do you absolutely have to go to the club tonight?” she asked. “You know it’s not safe.”

  “James Sakal is in town. Not going to miss a chance to play opposite him.”

  “Just stay safe. Promise.”

  “Hey, with Hans and Franz here, flanking me at every turn, what choice do I have? Talk later.”

  She carried the phone into Malcolm’s bedroom and sat back down, wondering what Wynan would think when she didn’t show up this morning. She couldn’t call in sick because if the phones were tapped, she couldn’t risk giving her location away. And an email from Malcolm Harvey’s account? Suicide. He was just going to have to figure it out on his own. Same with Rachel. No doubt one or both of them would call Fletcher, and she hated the idea of him worrying about her whereabouts, but what was the alternative? Shame to lose her job because she was off saving lives. Might make a terrific story though.

  Back at the computer, she started throwing anything she could find against the proverbial wall to see what might stick. Searched the names of every speaker she could remember from the revival. Their stories all panned out. The real key to everything was Mangel. Maybe the Invisible Woman was just someone from his past who was out to get him, like an unsatisfied customer. After attempting to frame him in a series of murders didn’t work, she’d gone the more direct route. Cue Camarin, stumbling onto the scene, the perfect patsy to take the fall.

  The backgrounder prepared by April Lowery had been chock full of praise and platitudes but light on biographical details and absent of any pictures whatsoever. She had an idea about how she could learn more, but she needed a photo, and there were absolutely none in his bio or on his website. Frustr
ated, she retreated into the kitchen, turned on the radio, and made herself a pot of tea.

  The ’90s station was playing Still Can’t Hear You, and as she searched for a tea bag, she sang along, remembering the time she’d stood outside the Beverly Hilton for hours, camera and jewel box in hand, waiting for the lead singer for her favorite band, Aphasiac, to come out and autograph her CD of Paralyzed. How times had changed. Now snake oil salesmen like Terry Mangel were the celebrities.

  Wait. That was it! Would Terry’s rabid fans allow a chance to photograph their idol to escape them? No way. She recalled how no one had confiscated cellphones at the rally. They had just warned about prosecution for the snapping of unauthorized photos.

  She set down her mug, ran back to the den, and started searching through Google Images as well as Facebook and Instagram pages of anyone who had favorably reviewed anything Mangel-related, searching for an illicitly obtained photo.

  After about five minutes she found one. It was slightly blurred, shot from a distance and uncaptioned. But it was unmistakably Mangel, preaching his little heart out. She snipped and saved the photo and then downloaded a face identification app. Taking that Research for Reporters class was proving to have been worth every tuition dollar.

  Once she installed the program, she entered Mangel’s picture, and less than a minute later, voilà. Meet Harry Gordon Spiegel, born in Pennsylvania, raised in Possum Grape, Arkansas. Graduated from Henderson State, without honors, looking scrawny but oddly charismatic even back then.

  Camarin followed the links that told of his meteoric rise to the middle of the advertising field, ending up with the burgeoning firm of Hymanson & Caliciotti outside Pittsburgh, which dissolved after some computer glitch cleared out the company’s entire bank account along with those of all its major clients. No leads or indictments, no arrests. And no further mention of Spiegel anywhere on the internet.