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“That would be a fib,” Emerson said. “You would be starting your day in a cosmic deficit for fibbing.”
“Seriously?”
“Of course you haven’t had to fib yet, so unless you’ve done something terrible that I don’t know about, you’re on safe ground.”
Riley blew out a sigh and got out of the car.
They took the elevator to the lobby, she carded them past the reception desk, and they rode the next elevator to the top floor, the exclusive domain of the senior executives. The average junior analysts had never even seen the seventeenth floor, condemned as they were to spend their days in the rat’s nest that was the fourth floor. Riley had visited this floor as an intern. That she had made it up here again, first thing on her second week of real employment, had seemed to her like a significant vote of confidence. That was at nine o’clock this morning, and now a little over two hours later she was thinking this might not have been a good career move.
Emerson left the elevator without the slightest hesitation, seemingly oblivious to the blindingly white high-arching walls or the huge, expensive abstract art that was hung there. The whole place reminded Riley of the inside of the Death Star after Grand Moff Tarkin had taken over. The interior of the Death Star, like the seventeenth floor of Blane-Grunwald, was designed to awe and subdue.
Clearly it would take more than the Death Star to subdue Emerson, Riley thought. Whether this was due to his privileged upbringing or his own basic weirdness, she couldn’t guess, but his attitude gave him an air of invincibility.
Emerson marched straight for Werner’s office, and Riley made an end-run around him in an attempt to head him off. She stumbled past Emerson, crashed into the door, and careened into the office.
Werner Grunwald looked up from his desk at Riley’s unexpected entrance. “Ah, Riley,” he said, with a smile, “did you take care of our reclusive client?”
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p; Emerson breezed past her into the room. “Your client is right here,” he said. “And he’s concerned.”
If Werner was disturbed by Emerson’s appearance, his smiling face didn’t show it. He looked to Riley for an explanation.
“He wanted to see you,” Riley said.
“Yes, I did,” Emerson said. “And, by the way, Miss Moon has a very poor parking space. You should do something about that.”
Riley groaned inwardly but kept her professional demeanor. Werner made an effort to look appropriately horrified by the news.
“Of course,” Werner said. “I’ll personally look into it.”
Werner’s office occupied the entire west side of the building with a view of the Capitol filling the broad window behind his massive desk. It was furnished in Danish Modern, the only personal touches being photographs of Werner and various political and media celebrities hunting and fishing and generally killing things.
Werner had a full head of gray hair, cropped short on the temples, a little shaggy on the top. Riley knew it took a skilled barber to make a haircut appear that effortless. The result was that he looked like George Clooney crossed with Cary Grant, which, Riley had to admit, was a good cross. Today he was wearing a perfectly tailored dark blue suit, custom white shirt with his initials embroidered on the cuff, and a blue and silver silk rep tie that reeked of good taste and money.
“It’s so good to see you, Emerson,” Werner said, rising from his executive office chair, offering him a hearty handshake. “Have I told you how deeply your father’s death has affected all of us?”
“Yes. At his funeral. Several times. But nice of you to reiterate it.”
Emerson took a seat at the round table by the window. The view of the Capitol was breathtaking, but Emerson took no notice of it.
“Mr. Knight has some questions,” Riley said.
Werner took the seat opposite Emerson. “Of course he does. And I don’t blame him. I’m familiar with the Knight account and would be happy to jump in.”
Werner moved into full salesman mode and proceeded to fill the air with such double-talk and gobbledygook that even Riley had trouble following it, and she had a degree from Harvard Business School.
“I’m not interested in hedge funds, venture capital, or fixed income portfolios,” Emerson said, interrupting Werner’s dissertation on the world economic system. “I want to see my gold.”
Werner leaned forward. “Excuse me?”
“I’d like to see my gold,” Emerson said. “I’m thinking of moving it.”
“Of course,” Werner said. “I’ll make arrangements and we’ll get back to you.”
“Now,” Emerson said. “I want to see it now.”
“Even I need to make arrangements to get into the vault,” Werner said. “It’s very secure. In the meantime, is there anything else I can do for you? Would you like tickets to a ball game? We have a hospitality suite for the Redskins.”
