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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.”
