Curious Minds Page 8

  Riley parked the Mini, hung her purse on her shoulder, and joined Emerson.

  “This is Lieutenant Lepofsky and Lieutenant Dannay,” Emerson said to Riley. “They’re old friends, and they’ve been kind enough to allow me access to Maxine’s apartment. Come inside. I have something interesting to show you.”

  Lepofsky and Dannay stayed on the stoop, and Emerson led Riley into Maxine’s living room. He pulled the wooden box from the bookcase and opened it so Riley could look inside.

  “Check the serial number,” Emerson said. “It’s different. For whatever reason, someone felt it necessary to substitute this bar for the original.”

  “That’s weird. If they didn’t want the bar found, why didn’t they just take it?”

  “Good question. Maybe they didn’t want the fake bar found. Or maybe they wanted a bar found with a different serial number.” Emerson closed the box and put it back on the shelf. He took a piece of paper from the desk and put it into his pocket.

  “What’s that?” Riley asked.

  Emerson removed the paper and read it aloud. “ ‘Deliveries to 51. Plan 79.’ ”

  “That’s Günter’s handwriting,” Riley said, looking over Emerson’s shoulder. “What does it mean?”

  “I don’t know. The crime scene unit has already been through the house and removed what they thought necessary. This was left as insignificant.”

  “But you think it might be significant?”

  “Günter wrote it, so it must mean something.”

  Emerson returned the paper to his pocket and crossed the room to the door. “How did it go with Rollo? Did you tell him you were meeting me here?”

  “No. He didn’t ask.”

  “Did he give you a phone?”

  “Yes. A red cellphone,” Riley said.

  “Give him a call and tell him I’m leaving here. Tell him we’re going to the Uptown Theater.”

  Emerson thanked the plainclothes guys on the way out, and looked across the street at Riley’s Mini.

  “You’re still driving that little car,” he said.

  Riley narrowed her eyes ever so slightly. “And?”

  “I suppose we’ll have to make do.”

  Riley reminded herself that she was a professional, and stabbing Emerson with her nail file wouldn’t be appropriate. She opened Rollo’s phone and saw that there was only one number in the contact list. It had a 410 area code, which meant it was local. She tapped the number and Rollo answered on the second ring.

  “Hello, Miss Moon,” Rollo said. “How are you?”

  “We’re leaving Maxine Trowbridge’s house. We’re on our way to see a movie.”

  “Which one?”

  “I’m not sure. We’re headed for the Uptown Theater.”

  “Splendid. Keep calling in.”

  Riley disconnected and looked at Emerson. “I feel like I’m in a cheesy spy movie. Now what?”

  “Now we drive to the 4300 block of Connecticut Avenue.”

  “What about the Uptown Theater?”

  “That was a fib.”

  “I thought telling fibs was bad for our karma.”

  “I’ve excluded Rollo from my karmic scorecard.”

  “You can do that?”

  “I just did it,” Emerson said, crossing the street, folding himself into the Mini. “I removed him from yours as well. Done and done.”

  —

  Riley pulled to the curb in front of a seventies-style nondescript office building on the 4300 block of Connecticut.

  “Pick me up in exactly one hour,” Emerson said, maneuvering out of the car.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I have business at the Mauritius embassy.”

  “Are you sure you don’t need an amanuensis in there?”

  “Possibly, but I’m going to risk taking this meeting alone.”

  Riley watched him walk away. His rigid confidence bordered on arrogance, and was flat-out annoying. It was tempered by an honest simplicity that was charming. Plus he thought she smelled nice.

  She put the car in gear and cruised up Connecticut Avenue. She reversed direction and found a parking place close to the embassy. She looked down at herself and gave up a sigh. She had dressed for success, in case today was the day she’d return to her desk. Tailored pale gray suit with a pencil skirt, white silk T-shirt, black pumps. She looked like a junior executive at Blane-Grunwald. She no longer felt like one. Truth is, she felt foolish. She was all dressed up, sitting in her too-small car, waiting to chauffeur some odd guy around while he played detective and got her involved in heaven-knows-what.

  The NSA guy was creepy. Maxine’s death was sad and suspicious. It looked like the Grunwald brothers had something unsavory going on. And how did Günter fit into all this?

  If she had any sense at all, she’d clean out her desk and look for another job. Something safe and sane, like catching alligators or looking for land mines in Afghanistan.

  Okay, stay calm, she told herself. You don’t want to quit the dream job. It’s only been three days. Surely there’s a logical explanation for all this. And Werner said this assignment was only for a short time.

  —

  Forty minutes later Emerson emerged from the embassy, walked to the corner, and hailed Riley.

  “How did it go at the embassy?” she asked him when he was settled in and buckled up.

  “It was cordial. I got the information I needed, but we’re on a tight schedule. We’re going to have to leave for New York first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “What? I can’t do that. Why do you have to go to New York?”

  “I need to look around.”

  “Can’t you look around here? Is this about Maxine?”

  “It’s about gold.”

  “If it’s that you still want to see your gold, I’m pretty sure I can get you a picture.”

  “A picture won’t tell me what I need to know, so we’re going to New York to the Federal Reserve gold vault.”

  “You aren’t thinking about stealing your gold, are you?”

  “That question is wrong on so many levels. First of all, the Federal Reserve Bank holds gold from almost every country, but not from individual citizens. So my gold isn’t in that vault. Second, we’re not going to steal from it. We’re just going to look around. Then, if we have time, we’ll look around in the Blane-Grunwald gold vault for Knight gold. And even if I did steal gold from Blane-Grunwald it wouldn’t be stealing because it’s my gold.”

  “You mean if we have time after serving our sentences in federal prison?”

  “You’re funny when you exaggerate like that.”

  “I’m not exaggerating!”

  “What can you tell me about the Federal Reserve vault?”

  “Not much. I skipped that course when I was at Harvard.”

  “But you worked for Günter, and he was the Blane-Grunwald gold guru.”

  “I got him coffee and sandwiches, and copied documents. My knowledge isn’t extensive. I know that the Federal Reserve vault holds more gold than Fort Knox. Fort Knox only holds about four thousand six hundred tons of gold. The Federal Reserve vault holds approximately seven thousand. That’s a lot of gold.”

  “Indeed. It’s nearly a quarter of the world’s gold reserves. Blane-Grunwald’s vault holds nearly that much as well. The gold is stored in New York in vaults resting on bedrock, eighty feet below street level. The walls of the vaults are steel-reinforced concrete. The vaults are impenetrable.”

  Riley gave him a single raised eyebrow. “But you’re going to penetrate it?”

  “Yes. The countries let us keep their gold because they trust the United States government. They started storing it there during and immediately after World War Two, when it looked like America was the safest place on the planet. So they keep it all in tidy lockers.”

  “Lockers? You make it sound like high school.”

  “The vault lockers are a bit bigger.”

  Riley thought he was probably cute bu
t nonconforming in high school. He wouldn’t have been one of the Goth kids. He would have been the kid who spoke Klingon and ignored his homework because it was tedious.

  “Getting back to the gold, it makes sense to have it all in one place, after all,” Emerson said. “If country A wants to make a monetary deal with country B, all it has to do is shift the gold from one locker to another. It’s like the world map in a single vault.”

  Riley nodded. “I get that.”

  “Recently, the trust has been shaken. And Germany’s Bundesbank asked to repatriate their gold.”

  “Repatriate?”

  “They want it back. In Germany. But the Fed is dragging its feet. To date they’ve only given back a portion of it.”

  “Why won’t the Fed give it back?” Riley asked.

  “Logistics, they say. But what if the gold isn’t there? What if someone has been replacing it with fakes like the one we found in Maxine’s apartment?”

  “That would take years.”

  “What if it has taken years? What if it’s the longest and largest con in the world?”

  “That’s pretty far-fetched.”

  “The farthest. Tell me, do you know what the largest private gold vault in the world is?”

  “Blane-Grunwald in Manhattan?”

  “Excellent. It’s rumored to have five hundred billion dollars’ worth. That’s half a trillion dollars in bullion. Including my paltry amount.”

  “That’s a lot of…you know.”

  “I know. And do you know where the Blane-Grunwald bank in New York is located?”

  “Sure. One Chase Manhattan Boulevard.”

  “Right across the street from the Federal Reserve,” Emerson said.

  “And?”

  “The diabolical possibilities are endless.”

  “Here’s the thing,” Riley said. “I’m not really into diabolical possibilities. I’m more into logical explanations.”

  “Maxine’s body was found on Liberty Street. Just a block from the Federal Reserve. The logical explanation is that Günter and Maxine uncovered something big in New York. And it involves the world’s gold supply.”

  Riley’s heart skipped a beat. “Involves?”

  “Someone is stealing the world’s gold supply and substituting it with counterfeits.”

  “Someone?”

  Emerson shrugged. “Mystery creates wonder, and wonder is the basis of man’s desire to understand.”

  “Buddha?” Riley asked.

  “Why would Buddha steal the world’s gold supply? He believed that material possessions were the root of unhappiness.”

  Riley did an exasperated eye roll. “I meant, who said ‘Mystery creates wonder’?”

  “Oh, that was Neil Armstrong. He didn’t steal the world’s gold supply either.” He leaned into her and whispered, “He’s dead, you know.”

  “I don’t want to hear any of this. You’re a good client and probably a nice guy, but it has to end here. I’m going to take you home, and I’m not coming back.”

  “Of course you’re coming back. You’re on loan to me, and I need you to drive me to New York. How else will I get there?”

  “The train.”

  “The train doesn’t fit into my plan.”

  “Then have someone else drive you to New York. Your aunt or your cousin.”

  “I’d prefer not to involve them in this.”

  “And me?”

  “You’re already involved. And you’re an excellent driver.”

  The 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.”

  —

  The 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.

  —

  The 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.”

  —

  Hans 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.”

  —

  Riley 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.