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It was Saturday. Blane-Grunwald was mostly closed. There would just be a skeleton crew in the building, tending to emergency transactions. She’d retrieve her Mini Cooper from Emerson’s house. Then she would calmly and casually stroll into Blane-Grunwald, clean out her desk, and sneak off. By the time Monday rolled around she’d have figured out the next step.
—
Riley flagged down a cab two blocks from her house and directed the driver to Mysterioso Manor. Aunt Myra was on the front porch when Riley arrived.
“Were you going out?” Riley asked Myra.
“No. I was just coming in from feeding some of the critters. They’re scattered all the heck over the place. Sometimes I think I should just let them eat each other and be done with it.”
“I came to collect my car and to talk to Emerson.”
“Emmie’s not here, hon. I thought he was with you.”
“No. We got separated in New York. He said he was going off the grid. I wasn’t sure how off he was talking about.”
“Well, he’ll find his way back. I remember when he was nine years old and ran away to join Greenpeace.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes. We were very worried. But he was back two days later, ready to eat everything in the fridge. He’s got some homing pigeon in him.”
Riley glanced at the monkey curled in a rocking chair. “Looks like the monkey is still here.”
“Seems like he comes and goes. Already had a runaround with the armadillo this morning,” Myra said. “Truth is, I’m not sure it’s always the same monkey. I think we might have a pack of them.”
Riley wondered if Rollo was coming and going too. Hiding out there somewhere, watching, waiting to pounce on Emerson. And maybe on her as well. It was a chilling thought. It reminded her that she needed to stay vigilant.
“Have you seen Emerson’s and Vernon’s blog?” she asked Myra. “Why the Sam Hill would he provoke the Grunwalds?”
“Emmie wants to expose the gold stealers. He said if he couldn’t bring Muhammad to the mountain, he’d bring the mountain to Muhammad, or something like that. Guess that’s his way of saying if he can’t get to the bad guys, he’ll have the bad guys come to him.”
“That sounds like Emerson.”
Riley moved off the porch and walked toward her car. “Tell Emerson to call me when he comes home.”
“I’ll have him call you first thing,” Aunt Myra said.
Twenty minutes later, Riley was at the Blane-Grunwald building on Constitution Avenue, circling it repeatedly, trying to decide whether to pull into the garage or to get on I-66 and go back to Texas.
Her dad would tell her to hitch up her jeans and just get on with it, so she turned in to the garage and drove down to her space, feeling like she was driving down the Nine Circles of Hell. Plus a few more. She parked, took the elevator to the lobby, and was relieved to see a familiar face at the reception desk. She was waved through to the bank of elevators, took one to the fourth floor, and made her way through the maze of desks to her cubicle. She could hear someone working on the far side of the room. Eager beaver, she thought. Someone going the extra mile to impress, hoping to move up the food chain. That would have been her if she hadn’t gotten involved with Emerson Knight.
She put her few personal belongings in a tote bag she’d brought. A couple granola bars, a roll of peppermint Life Savers, a Starbucks coffee mug, Burt’s Bees lip balm, and a picture of her fa
mily standing in front of a Christmas tree. She hadn’t occupied the desk long enough to really take possession. She would have left all but the picture.
—
Werner was on the golf course when a text message came in from office security, alerting him that Moonbeam was in the building. Ten minutes later he received a text that she had removed personal items from her desk and was offsite. He couldn’t care less except that he knew the message had also been sent to the old man. The old man was informed of everything. And the message would trigger a phone call. The one phone call he couldn’t ignore. Ever.
Werner’s phone dinged and he pushed down the panic that always arose in his chest whenever he heard the telltale ringtone.
“It’s under control,” Werner said on answering. “He’ll be taken care of. And so will she.”
There was a long pause before the sound of labored breathing came through the line. “I hope so. For your sake.”
—
Riley drove back to her apartment and parked in the space allotted to her in the alleyway behind the Victorian. She hiked the tote bag onto her shoulder, locked her car, and crossed the small yard to the house’s rear entrance. She had her house key in hand when a man rounded the Victorian from the street side.
