Curious Minds (4 page)

“Yes,” Werner said, puzzled. “How did you know that?”

“He's your brother. You'd give him the second-best office. Nice, but without the view of the Capitol. Not because you like him or feel compelled out of family responsibility, but because one must keep up appearances.”

Emerson walked out of Werner's office and into Günter's office. Werner followed him. Riley followed Werner.

T
he office was nearly as big as Werner's. Though Werner's was decorated with austere Danish Modern simplicity, Günter's décor was baronial, with heavy furniture, dark wood paneling, and full brocade curtains on the windows. Riley almost expected to see Rumpole of the Bailey sitting in the embossed leather chair at the monstrous desk.

Emerson stood in the middle of the room, turning slowly around, as if he were a camera, taking it all in.

“There are no mementos, no personal photographs here,” he said.

“His wife came in a few days ago and may have removed them,” Werner said. “I think she's given up hope that he'll return.”

“Did Günter have an assistant?”

“Maxine Trowbridge,” Werner said. “She's just one office away.”

Emerson gave one last sweeping look around and went to the door. “I'd like to speak to Maxine.”

“Of course,” Werner said, leading the way.

Emerson paused at the open doorway and looked in at Maxine.

“Emerson Knight, here,” he said. “Could I talk with you for a few moments?”

Maxine was in her midthirties. Her hair was blond, pulled back at the nape of her neck, and secured with a simple gold clip. Her makeup was tasteful and perfectly applied but unable to hide the dark circles under her eyes. Her conservative designer suit was a snug fit, as if Maxine had recently gained weight. Stress, Riley thought. She'd seemed close to Günter when Riley was interning, and now that Günter was MIA she had to be worried.

Maxine looked past Emerson to Werner, who nodded his assent.

“Do you have any idea where Günter has gone?” Emerson asked Maxine.

“No,” she replied, shaking her head.

“Do you think he embezzled money and ran off with it?”

She shook her head again, more emphatically this time. “No. I know that's what everyone is saying. But I can't believe it. Not Günter. He'd just been given a new responsibility. He'd gotten everything he always wanted.”

“Everything?” Emerson asked.

“Well, everything within reason,” she said. “He'd just gotten back from a business trip to New York. He said it was going to make or break him. He was on the verge of something tremendous. He wouldn't run out now.” She glanced over at Werner, and the line of her mouth tightened. “He is a good man.”

“Do you have any further questions for Ms. Trowbridge?” Werner asked Emerson.

“Not at the moment.”

Werner stepped away from Maxine's office.

“I should tell you that Günter had not recently been given new responsibilities,” Werner said to Emerson. “And the New York trip was one of those long weekends he took. He wasn't on company business.”

Emerson nodded. “Understood. I'm off to find Günter. I'll report back when I've located him.”

“Wait,” Werner said. “Take Moonbeam with you.”

“Moonbeam?” Emerson asked.

“That's what we call Miss Moon here,” Werner told him. “We all have nicknames.”

“What's yours?”

“Everyone but me.”

“I'll find a nickname for you,” Emerson said.

“Please don't.”

“And why would I take Miss Moon with me?”

Werner shrugged. “You could use an assistant. Riley is good with people.”

“And I'm not?” Emerson asked.

“I didn't say that. But now that you've said it, no, you're not.”

“I can't argue with that. Personal interaction has never been my forte.”

“Well, then, this is your girl. She can talk to anybody, can't you, Riley?”

Riley had never before had a panic attack, but she thought she felt one coming on. Werner was giving her away. He was moving her out of the office. Had she just been fired?

“Trust me,” Werner said. “She could talk a dog off a meat truck. She'll be a great girl Friday for you.”

“I'm not entirely comfortable with this,” Riley said.

“
Person
Friday then,” Werner corrected himself. “Aide-de-camp.”

Emerson turned to Riley. “What do you say, Miss Moon? Do you want to be my amanuensis?”

Riley had no clue what that meant. She made a mental note to look it up when she had the chance. She hoped it wasn't just a fancy word for chauffeur.

“Is this a permanent reassignment?” Riley asked Werner.

“Absolutely not,” Werner said. “I'm sure this search will take only a few days, and you'll be back at your desk.”

“We'll begin tomorrow morning at seven o'clock at my house,” Emerson said to Riley.

Riley made an effort not to grimace. Seven o'clock in the morning? “Sure,” she said. “Seven o'clock. Do you want me to drive you home now?”

“Of course.”

“I need a moment with Moonbeam,” Werner said to Emerson.

Emerson turned on his heel and strode off to the elevator. “I'll be at the car.”

Riley followed Werner into his office and waited until the door was closed before she spoke.

“Sir, I'm so sorry,” she said. “He insisted we come here.”

“You did the right thing. He needed reassurance that his assets were being protected. And now he's going to be occupied by this wild goose chase, so it all worked out perfectly.”

“Do you think he can find Günter?”

“Not for a moment. Just keep me in the loop, and we'll all be happy, Moonbeam.”

Riley squared her shoulders. She didn't like being called Moonbeam. And she didn't especially like her new assignment.

W
erner watched Riley leave his office. He hoped he'd chosen wisely. She had two advanced degrees from Harvard but no street cred. She needed Blane-Grunwald to pay off her loans and push her up the corporate ladder. He had her pegged as psychotically ambitious, and he was counting on her to sell her soul for a shot at the corner office. If it turned out otherwise, he might have to kill her.

R
iley caught up with Emerson at the car. He was leaning against the right front quarter panel, eyes closed, lost in thought. Probably having an out-of-body experience, Riley thought. Or maybe he was convening with aliens from another solar system.

“Hey,” she said. “What's up?”

“I'm waiting,” Emerson said.

“For?”

“For you.”

“Of course.”

She unlocked his door and ran around to the driver's side. She plugged the key into the ignition and backed out of Günter's space. “Just exactly what is it you expect me to do?” she asked.

“Drive my car.”

“Anything else?”

“I tend to forget details that aren't important to me. I would expect you to remember them. You might even record them, amanuensis style.”

Crap, Riley thought. There was that word again.

She drove through the bustling streets of Washington, through the pastoral woods of Rock Creek, and up the long driveway to Mysterioso Manor.

“Would you like to take the Bentley home with you?” Emerson asked.

“Nice of you to offer, but no. The Bentley is lovely, but the Mini gets better gas mileage. It's more environmentally responsible. It's the car I picked out as the wisest for my new life in Washington.”

“I thought you bought the Mini because it was the only car that would fit in your assigned parking space.”

“That too.”

R
iley's apartment was on Monroe Street in the Mount Pleasant section of Northwest D.C. It was a tiny one-bedroom flat that occupied the entire third floor of a converted Victorian built in 1907. The plumbing sounded considerably older. The radiator clanged, the water pipes gurgled, and she lived in fear of the toilet exploding.

She stripped off her executive uniform and got into her sweatpants and big, roomy Batman T-shirt. She'd wanted to grow up to be a superhero, and in a left-turn kind of way she felt like she was on track. She was going to be a financial superhero, helping people invest in their future, safeguarding the country's monetary system. At least she had been on track last week. This week she wasn't so sure. This week she was chauffeuring a goofball around town.

She sat at her small kitchen table and unwrapped the turkey breast and Swiss cheese sandwich she'd picked up at Potbelly on her way home. She switched on her laptop and Facebooked her mother and brothers while she ate. When she'd caught up on her family she went into Oracle mode. Oracle had been her favorite comic book character when she was a kid. And truth is, Riley still loved comic books, and especially Oracle.

Oracle was Barbara Gordon, Commissioner Gordon's daughter. She was Batgirl first, but after the Joker put her in a wheelchair she became a computer whiz who could find any information about anyone with just a few clicks of her keyboard.

Riley could do almost the same thing. She typed in “Emerson Cranston Knight,” and sources of information flooded her screen. The Knights had been newsworthy for several generations, not just for their wealth but also for their eccentricities.

Emerson was described as an American business magnate, investor, inventor, and philanthropist, the only child of communications and aerospace mogul Mitchell Brown Knight. If Riley read every article on the Net about Emerson's father she'd be up until dawn, so she skimmed Wikipedia and kept her research to articles that addressed Emerson particularly.

The Knight fortune stretched back to Emerson's great-great-grandfather Lamont Knight, one of the legendary robber barons of the Gilded Age. Emerson's father was a confidant to presidents and a close friend of Professor Bertram Grunwald, the architect of the U.S. economy in the post-Vietnam years.

Riley thought it was curious that the Knight-Grunwald connection went back two generations and yet there didn't seem to be any warmth between Emerson and Werner.

Emerson's mother, Sophia Delgado, was a supermodel from Spain. She and Mitchell separated when Emerson was two, and she went to live in Paris with soccer star Ronaldo Diaz.

Riley scanned some tabloid articles and found that Emerson was raised by a variety of stepmothers and went to a variety of boarding schools.

The most intriguing article was an extended obituary on his father that included a short paragraph on Emerson, the new heir to the Knight fortune. It stated that Emerson was best known for his dramatic disappearances. Following graduation from college he had sailed off on a luxury yacht for points unknown. The world lost track of him completely for a year. After that Emerson would resurface from time to time but always suddenly vanished again. The obit ended by saying that Emerson had returned to his Washington, D.C., home following the death of his father, and that his whereabouts during his absences remained a subject of conjecture.

At the risk of being cynical, Riley couldn't help but speculate that maybe Emerson had been at home all along but in his cloud of invisibility. Or maybe Emerson had removed himself to an alien astral plane. Or maybe he periodically checked himself into rehab.

A
t six
A.M.
Riley finally gave up hitting the snooze button on her bedside clock and dragged herself out of bed. She had to be at Mysterioso Manor in an hour. She had no idea why. What on earth was Emerson going to do so early in the morning?

She took a shower and dressed down in skinny black slacks, a pin-striped fitted shirt, a little black wool jacket, and Jimmy Choo ankle boots she'd found on sale. She chugged a cup of coffee and ate some toast, brushed her teeth, swiped on some lip gloss, and was on her way.

At precisely seven o'clock, Riley parked in the paved area behind Mysterioso Manor and hiked her messenger bag onto her shoulder. The RV was still in the same location, and a big, impressively muscled guy was working on the engine. His dark hair was cut into a mullet, and his T-shirt advertised beer. She guessed him to be around thirty.

He stopped working when she walked by and gave her a big, good-natured grin.

“Howdy,” he said, with the same cheerful mountain accent as Aunt Myra. “You here to see Emerson?”

“Yes,” she said. “Are you Vernon?”

“That's what they call me. My mom said you were here yesterday, and you were sweet as tea. And she was right. You sure are pretty.”

“Thank you. Do you live here with your mom and Emerson?”

“Sometimes, but mostly I live in Harrisonburg, Virginia. That's about a hour from Charlottesville. I come up here when Emerson needs something fixed. I keep all his cars running spit spot.” He grinned again. “That's from
Mary Poppins.
”

Riley smiled back. “One of my favorite movies.”

“Yeah, me too,” he said. “I like when that guy dances like a penguin. If you're looking for Emerson, he's probably out in the conservatory at this hour of the morning. Just go around the house till you see the zebras, then turn right.”

Before yesterday, Riley would have thought she'd misheard him. Now she went looking for zebras.

R
iley counted eight zebras behind a fence. The gate to the enclosure was open, and they could have wandered off, so she guessed they were pretty content where they were. She turned right as directed, and the walkway led to a giant greenhouse. It was a glass and iron structure of intricate design with a big Victorian cupola on top. It looked to Riley like a massive crystal wedding cake.

The glass panes were shattered in spots, and vines grew through the gaps and wrapped themselves around the outside of the building as if they wanted to swallow it whole.

Walking through the open door, she heard the booming seventies funk music that she now associated with Emerson. The interior was humid and crammed with ferns, fruit trees, and flowering plants.

“Hello?” she called. “Mr. Knight?”

No answer. She punched his cell number into her phone, waited while it connected, and heard the phone ringing somewhere on the other side of the jungle. She cautiously crept along the stone path, brushing ferns aside, keeping a watchful eye out for spiders and lizards. She reached an open area that had two pretty white wrought iron benches and a small table. Emerson was sitting cross-legged on the table, eyes closed, his mind obviously somewhere far away.

Riley sat down on one of the benches and watched Emerson. He didn't seem to be breathing, but he was most likely not dead since he hadn't toppled off the table. She checked her email on her cellphone and organized her messenger bag. She went back to watching Emerson and decided he had a nice mouth. Sensuous. And she'd kill for his thick black lashes. Too bad he was so weird. Not that it mattered to her date-wise because she'd decided to put that part of her life on hold while she got a grip on her career. She checked her watch. It was almost eight o'clock. She could have slept an extra half hour.

She leaned forward. “Excuse me? Mr. Knight?”

He didn't respond so she picked a couple kumquats off a nearby tree and pitched them at him. The first one sailed past his ear. The second bounced off his forehead. He opened his eyes, stretched, and came off the table.

“The Siddhar sends his salutations.”

“The Siddhar?”

“Yes. Thiru Kuthambai Siddhar, the nineteenth to bear that exalted title. I've studied with him from time to time on Nancowry Island, a tiny spot of land in the northeast Indian Ocean between the Bay of Bengal and the Andaman Sea. Now that my responsibilities dictate that I live here, I've had to discontinue my studies with the Siddhar, but I still commune with him every morning.”

“Astral projection?”

“Skype.”

Riley wasn't sure if she was relieved or disappointed. “I thought maybe you were talking to him while you were on the table.”

“That was a simple yoga relaxation exercise. I find it helpful to periodically clear my mind.”

“An excellent use of time,” Riley said. “After you get it empty you can pick and choose the information you want to put back in.”

“Precisely.”

“I was kidding,” Riley said.

Emerson snatched a gray sweatshirt off the floor, shook it, and a lizard fell out. “I wasn't. That's why
you're
here. To collect and preserve all the worthless bits and pieces of information deemed too insignificant to be returned to my brain.”

“Now you're kidding,” Riley said.

“Yes, now I'm kidding, although there is an element of truth to it.” He slipped the sweatshirt on over his navy T-shirt and grabbed his rucksack. “Come along, Miss Moon. We'll take the Mustang this time. Larry used to like to drive the Mustang on weekends.”

“I'm not Larry and this isn't the weekend.”

“More's the pity,” he said, and he disappeared behind the ferns.

E
merson's Mustang was a green '68 GT Fastback, just like the one Steve McQueen drove in
Bullitt.
For all Riley knew, it
was
the one McQueen drove. Talk at her parents' dinner table was that McQueen always regretted not driving the Mustang off the set and keeping it for himself. He'd searched for years and never found it, so who was to say where the car resided.

Riley drove the car off the property and headed south through Rock Creek. This was a muscle car, like her father's GTO, and it felt good to be behind the wheel.

“Where are we going?” she asked Emerson.

“To Günter Grunwald's house. I want to ask his wife a few questions. Take the George Washington Parkway. I'll tell you where to turn.”

“Did you call and tell her we were coming?”

“And lose the element of surprise?”

Riley looked at her watch. “It's eight-thirty. Irene Grunwald doesn't impress me as an early riser.”

“Do you know her?” Emerson asked.

“I met her once. At the office. Let's just say I'd call first.”

“I met her, too. At my father's funeral. She seemed rather distant. You may be right. I'll consider calling.”

Riley drove past the golden statues of the improbably muscular horses and riders that guarded the entrance to the Arlington Memorial Bridge. She crossed the Potomac and turned onto the George Washington Memorial Parkway. Riley looked out at the quaint redbrick townhouses of Alexandria, and eventually they gave way to a densely wooded parkway with the broad Potomac River sparkling on her left.

Günter's house was on the riverside, off Southdown Road. It was a large Colonial with black shutters and professional landscaping. Riley parked in the curved driveway and turned to Emerson for further instructions.

“Now what?” Riley said. “Do we get out and ring her doorbell?”

“You suggested we call first,” Emerson said. “So you should call.”

“But we're already here.”

“Does that matter?”

“
Yes.
We can't call from the driveway. We should have called a half hour ago. It'll be like we're stalking her if we call now.”

“Really?”

“Yes. You wouldn't call a girl and tell her you're waiting outside her apartment, would you? She'd think you were deranged.”

“That explains a lot,” Emerson said, getting out of the car.

He walked to the front door and swung the little pineapple-shaped door knocker. No one answered. He tried the door knocker again, waited two beats, and took off around the side of the house.

“Hey!” Riley whispered, tiptoeing after him. “Psssst! What are you doing? You can't just go wandering around somebody's yard!”

“Of course I can,” Emerson said. “Look at me. I'm doing it.”

“But what if she sees you?”

“Then my goal will have been achieved.”

Emerson reached the back of the house and stopped short, hands on hips, taking it all in. It was a large yard, landscaped into a formal garden that sloped down to the river. There was a dock at the river's edge and a large sailboat tied up to the dock.

Irene Grunwald stood in the middle of the yard with her back to Emerson and Riley. She had a spade in her hand, and she was looking into a freshly dug hole.

“Stupid saint,” she said to herself. “I hate these stupid saints.”

Irene was silver blond, in her midforties, and professionally toned. She was dressed in creased tan chinos, a pastel-collared shirt, and fashionable work gloves, presumably to preserve her manicure. Martha Stewart would have approved.

Riley elbowed Emerson and made a gesture to indicate that he should alert Irene of their presence. Emerson cleared his throat. Irene gave a yelp, dropped her spade, and whirled around with her hand over her heart.

“Emerson Knight?” Irene said, squinting at Emerson. “Good Lord, you scared the bejeepers out of me. I didn't hear you drive up.”

“Are you digging for buried treasure?” Emerson asked.

“Hardly. My gardener was preparing a flower bed for mums when he dug up a plaster statue of a saint and freaked out. He said it was a bad omen, crossed himself a dozen times, and took off. And it's not the first time this has happened.”

Emerson looked into the hole. “Saint Nicholas,” he said. “I'd know him anywhere.”

“Are you planting the mums yourself?” Riley asked Irene.

“No. I'm filling the hole and selling the house,” Irene said. “This is like some kind of weird burial ground. The place is lousy with these stupid saints. God knows how long they've been here or why they're here. We didn't plant them. We aren't even Catholic.”

“How long have you lived in this house?”

“Five years.”

“Saint Nicholas is in extraordinarily good shape for having been in the ground for at least five years.”

“He's a saint,” Irene said. “They probably hold up better than the rest of us.” She turned her attention to Riley. “I believe we met once before. It's Riley, correct?”

“Yes. I was an intern at Blane-Grunwald this past summer.”

“My husband took a special interest in you. He thought you had potential.”

“He was a wonderful mentor. And I'm sure he was instrumental in hiring me.”

Emerson swung his attention to the boat at the end of the dock. “Nice sailboat.”

“I suppose,” Irene said. “Günter loved it. He said it was his escape.”

“What was he escaping from?”

“Me,” Irene said. “He used the boat like a ‘men's only' back porch.”

“It wasn't your back porch as well?”

“I get seasick looking at it. In all the time we've owned it I think I've set foot on it twice.”

“Pity,” Emerson said.

“Mr. Knight has a few questions,” Riley said to Irene. “He's been engaged to look into Günter's disappearance.”

Irene looked shocked. “Who engaged him?”

“Werner,” Emerson said.

“So thoughtful of Werner,” Irene said. “Of course I want to help in any way. What would you like to ask me?”

“Did you kill your husband?” Emerson asked.