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“A mixed legacy,” Riley said, lengthening her stride to keep up with Emerson.
“Yes,” Myra said. “There’s a bit of scoundrel in the bloodline. The jury is still out on Emerson.”
Emerson pulled up at the end of the hall, where a narrow winding staircase led to the tower room. “I haven’t yet reached my full potential,” he said, looking back at Riley. “The Knights are late bloomers. It’s likely that in a few more years I’ll be a rutting bastard.” He motioned her through the door. “Be careful on the stairs.”
Riley was pretty sure this was Emerson having a sense of humor…but then maybe not.
The staircase ended at a small landing and a single closed door. Emerson opened the door and crossed to a large freestanding safe that looked to Riley as if it belonged in a mob movie. The room itself was a round turret with windows on three sides and a stunning view of D.C. and the surrounding park. With the Washington Monument and the Capitol off in the distance, it looked like a picture postcard. The furnishings were rustic Victorian. She could picture Mark Twain sitting at the rolltop desk, eyeing intruders into his lair with an expression of disapproval.
“This reminds me of my granddad’s office, but the view is much better,” Riley said.
“This was my father’s hideaway,” Emerson said, working the dial on the safe.
“His hideaway from what?”
“My stepmother,” Emerson said.
The lock clicked and Emerson swung the door open and removed a large duffel bag.
“What’s in the bag?” Riley asked.
“Money,” Emerson said. “Rainy-day money. Plus some off-the-grid essentials.”
“Where are we going?”
“?‘Over the mountains of the moon,’?” Emerson said.
“The obscure literary quotes are getting old,” Riley said.
“It’s Edgar Allan Poe. ‘Eldorado.’ I’ve been thinking about Poe a lot lately. ‘The Gold-Bug,’ of course. And The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket, where the hero descends into the Hollow Earth. That’s rather ironic, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, ironic.”
As if her life wasn’t bad enough she had to be saddled with Emerson Knight, Riley thought.
“It’s ‘The Purloined Letter?
?? that I keep coming back to,” Emerson said. “You remember the story.”
“Remind me. Quickly.”
“Auguste Dupin, the very first fictional detective—a lot more impressive that that poser Sherlock Holmes—is tasked to find an incriminating letter. The room has been searched thoroughly but no letter has been found. Do you know where he finds it?”
“Right out in the open. Stuck on a mantel.”
Emerson looked impressed. “You’ve read it?”
“My father was a county sheriff. All us kids read it.”
“It’s been staring us right in the face. The Grunwalds and McCabe. They’ve been stealing gold. Perhaps they’ve been stealing it for years. But no one noticed. Until I came along.”
“Until we came along,” Riley said.
“That doesn’t have the same ring to it, but okay. The point is, why have they been stealing the gold? They’re already rich. They couldn’t spend the money they already have in a hundred lifetimes. Why take this kind of risk?”
Riley shrugged. “Greed. Arrogance. Maybe it’s just a game to them.”
“No. It’s got to be more than a game. They’ve diligently and painstakingly infiltrated themselves into the highest levels of our government. And, they’re not limiting themselves to stealing from the Blane-Grunwald vault. They’re stealing from the Federal Reserve, and the Chairman of the Fed is complicit.”
