Mystery Girl: A Novel

by David Gordon

  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.”