Curious Minds (10 page)

T
he hickories and oaks that spanned Rock Creek Park formed an arch framing the many gables of Mysterioso Manor. When Riley pulled up the next morning the sun had just risen and the world looked dewy and fresh. She'd spent the night telling herself she absolutely was not going to drive Emerson to New York. She'd dressed for the office in black heels, a simple white silk T-shirt, and a black suit with a short fitted jacket. She'd pointed her Mini toward Blane-Grunwald. And somehow she'd ended up here.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she said out loud in the privacy of her car, referencing herself, and Emerson, and the world in general.

She parked and watched Emerson and Vernon wrestling what looked like a tank of compressed air into the trunk of a vintage cream-colored Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow. They slammed the trunk lid closed and turned to look at her. Vernon smiled and waved. Emerson was stoic.

Riley grabbed her messenger bag, left her car, and walked over to the men.

“You look darned pretty with your hair pulled back,” Vernon said to Riley. “And I like that you're always so dressed up in heels and everything. You look like you could be president of the United States.”

“I like it too,” Emerson said. “Very professional. Although it's entirely unnecessary when you're working for me. Perhaps I never mentioned that.”

“I'd planned to be at my desk at Blane-Grunwald today,” Riley said.

“But you're here instead,” Emerson said. “You made the correct choice.” He tossed his rucksack into the Shadow's backseat and handed Riley the car keys. “Drive carefully. We have a science experiment in the trunk.”

T
he first stop in Manhattan was on East Forty-Third Street. The Mauritius Permanent Mission to the United Nations.

“Mauritius again?” Riley asked.

“I have a helpful contact,” Emerson said.

“Is this contact going to get you into the vault?”

“Yes. He's going to get us into the vault.”

“No, no, no. There's no ‘us' in the vault. I'm the innocent driver.
You
are the guy in the vault. I don't even want to talk about it. I don't want to know any details.”

“Actually, you brought the subject up. I merely gave you an address.”

“Good point. Won't happen again. I swear I won't ask another question.”

“That places the burden of imparting information squarely on me,” Emerson said. “So I should tell you that I'll be in this building for exactly thirty-five minutes, at which time you can pick me up and take me to the Carlyle hotel.”

Emerson went into the building, and Riley circled the block with the Silver Shadow creeping along in heavy traffic. Her Mini would have been much easier to maneuver, especially on the cross streets. Emerson reappeared on Riley's third swing. He jumped into the car, and they headed uptown.

T
he Carlyle is located on Madison and Seventy-Sixth Street. It's an intimate luxury hotel and an iconic model of discretion where presidents have had clandestine trysts and movie stars have entered and exited through a system of secret tunnels. The building is art deco, and the service is impeccable. The bathrooms were state-of-the-art when the hotel was built in 1930.

The receptionist behind the front desk greeted Emerson like the prodigal son. “Mr. Knight! How good to see you. It's been too long!”

“Always good to be here, Maurice. Is my suite available?”

“Of course. And Jane is playing in the Café Carlyle tonight. Shall I book your table?”

“Absolutely. A table for two.” Emerson gestured to Riley. “This is Riley Moon. Miss Moon is my amanuensis. She'll be staying with me.”

“Welcome to the Carlyle, Miss Moon,” Maurice said. He turned his attention back to Emerson. “I'll have James bring your bag up immediately.”

Emerson nodded, turned on his heel, and took off for the elevator with Riley tagging behind.

“Hold up,” Riley said. “What was that all about back there? I'm not staying with you.”

Emerson stepped into the elevator. “Of course you are. Where else would you stay?”

“I assumed I'd be going home.”

“You assumed wrong. I need you to drive me to the Federal Reserve tomorrow.”

“I'm not prepared for this.”

“I've prepared for both of us.”

The elevator doors opened to the thirty-first floor and Emerson stepped out.

“I have no clothes,” Riley said. “I haven't got a toothbrush. I don't want to be here.”

Emerson unlocked the door to his suite. “Why wouldn't you want to be here? It's very comfortable.”

Riley looked into the suite and had to agree. It was very comfortable. It had a view of Central Park and beyond that the West Side skyline. There was a baby grand piano, a dining room table, assorted couches and chairs, fresh flowers on the side table, and fresh fruit on the coffee table.

“This is lovely,” Riley said.

“My father used this quite a lot, and I have to admit that I find it convenient, although I use it sporadically. Your bedroom with bath en suite is down that short hall. I'm going to my bedroom for a moment of meditation, and then there are things I need to discuss with the Siddhar. Dinner is at seven.”

H
ans Grunwald stood at parade rest with his back to his brother. He was staring out the window in Werner's office, looking at the Capitol, and he wasn't happy.

“They're in New York,” Hans said. “This has gone too far.”

“It's a harmless wild goose chase,” Werner said. “He's a complete flake. If it wasn't for Moonbeam he couldn't find his way home.”

“He found the gold, and he found us at Fletcher's Cove.”

“This is an entirely different situation. Plus we have Rollo on the scene.”

Hans turned and looked at Werner. “You'd better be right. The old man will have your head if this goes south…literally. And I'll be the one to carry out his orders.”

R
iley sat at the writing desk in her room and googled Mauritius on her smartphone. There were a lot of pictures of a beautiful island nation about twelve hundred miles off the coast of Africa. A picturesque jewel of white sandy beaches in the Indian Ocean, mostly known for being the home of the dodo bird before it went extinct. Mauritius was now a model democracy with a booming economy and a population consisting of a homogenous blend of Indians, Africans, Chinese, and Europeans. There was an awful lot of stuff about banking hours on its official site, but other than that, and the fact “nudism and topless sunbathing are frowned upon on our public beaches,” it looked like a pretty fun place.

Next up for Google was the name on the note they'd found in Günter's office. Dr. Bauerfeind. Riley found three listings. An anesthesiologist in Augusta, Maine. A gynecologist in Lucerne, Switzerland. A chemist in Frankfurt, Germany.

She read the information on the anesthesiologist and the gynecologist and was about to check out the chemist when there was a knock on her door.

“Fortunately, this hotel has an excellent personal shopper,” Emerson said, handing over several boxes. “This should get you through the next twenty-four hours.”

Riley looked at the boxes. “How did the personal shopper know my size?”

“I gave her the information. I have an excellent eye. And I personally made the decision on the dress. I think it will be perfect.”

“Did the Siddhar tell you to do this?”

“Perhaps telepathically. I haven't had a chance to speak to him yet.”

Emerson left and Riley brought the boxes into her room and opened them. Silky pajamas, lingerie, basic toiletries, jeans, T-shirt, sneakers, fleece hoodie, and a little black dress. She stripped her suit off, dropped the dress over her head, and looked in the mirror. Emerson was right. The dress was perfect. Better than perfect. It was the dress of her dreams. Simple, classy, sexy, flattering. She was Anne Hathaway after the transformation in
The Devil Wears Prada.

T
he Café Carlyle is an intimate dining room with a tiny stage, low-key lighting, and wall murals that look like Matisse and Picasso painted them after they'd been out together on a bender. The waiters are elderly gentlemen who take their jobs seriously. There was no barbecue on the menu and no room on the floor for the Texas two-step, but Riley thought it was wonderful all the same.

She looked at Emerson sitting across from her. He was wearing a black Tom Ford blazer over a black T-shirt. He was getting a five o'clock shadow, and his teeth were exceptionally white in the dimly lit room. Riley was reminded of the wolf in “Little Red Riding Hood.”

Riley took in the candlelight, the wolf, and the glass of champagne that had magically appeared in her hand.

“This isn't a date, is it?” she asked Emerson.

“Between you and me? I don't think so. Do you?”

“I don't think so.”

“I don't think so either.”

She sipped her champagne and looked around the room.

“Is that Al Roker at the next table?” she asked Emerson.

“Yes. He's a nice man. And surprisingly funny.”

“You know him?”

“I did him a favor once.”

“You do a lot of favors.”

“Opportunities arise,” Emerson said.

“I bet. Tell me about Dr. Bauerfeind. I ran out of time before I could research him.”

“He's a German chemist who has developed a technique for reading the fingerprint of gold even after it has been recast.”

“Fingerprint?”

“Precise chemical composition.”

“And this fingerprint reading is a big deal?”

“It's unique to him.”

“And we care about this, why?”

“On a personal note, someone could be stealing my gold, melting it down, and putting it into some other form. Ordinarily it would be untraceable. On a global scale the theft and transformation of the world's gold could bring about economic chaos.”

“Wow.”

“Exactly.”

“So have you done Bauerfeind any favors?”

“Not lately.”

“About tomorrow,” Riley said.

“It should be a fascinating day. I have a plan in place.”

“I'm not part of the plan, am I?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

Emerson glanced at his menu. “I'm very fond of the chicken hash.”

“I'm going with the prosciutto-wrapped monkfish,” Riley said. “I'm all about anything related to bacon. Although it's sort of a bummer that it's wrapped around fish.”

“You don't like fish?”

“I like to catch them. I'm not crazy about eating them unless they're fried and smothered in tartar sauce.”

“I'm sure if we give those instructions to our waiter it can be arranged. The chef is very accommodating here.”

“About the plan, and the fact that I'm not participating in any way other than driving you to the Federal Reserve.”

Emerson reached behind him, grabbed the champagne bottle from the ice bucket, and refilled Riley's glass.

“Thank you,” Riley said, “but I still want to make my role in the plan perfectly clear.”

“We can talk about it tomorrow,” Emerson said.

Riley narrowed her eyes. “Now.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“You're going to ruin the moment,” Emerson said.

“I thought we weren't having a moment.”

“We aren't having a
date,
but we could have a moment.”

“Would it be a romantic moment? A romantic moment might be awkward.”

“It could be a chicken hash moment,” Emerson said.

“I suppose that would be okay.”

“And you can have a prosciutto moment.”

“I owe it to the dress to have a moment,” Riley said. “It's wonderful. Thank you. But just to state my position one last time before the moment begins, I'm dropping you off tomorrow morning and going home.”