Curious Minds

by Janet Evanovich

  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.”

  “I’m also interested in Günter. And where he’s gone,” Emerson said. “I haven’t been able to speak with him for some time.”

  “Günter isn’t a typical Grunwald,” Werner said. “He’s a bit of a free spirit.”

  “That may be the case,” Emerson said, “but I’ve done a small amount of investigating and the results are intriguing. From what I can determine, Günter has been missing for at least a month. Irene Grunwald filed papers to gain power of attorney for the joint property owned with her husband. She informed the court that said husband, Günter Grunwald, was missing. Oddly, Mrs. Grunwald never filed a missing persons report with the police.”

  “Irene might have a small drinking issue,” Werner said.

  “I turned up more missing persons,” Emerson said. “Yvette Jaworski, a key Blane-Grunwald employee, went missing two months ago. Hasn’t been seen since. Two people in a firm that employs thirty-one thousand seven hundred worldwide? Not statistically significant. But interesting. Also, there have been two suicides of high-profile Blane-Grunwald executives in the past month. One in Tokyo, one in London. Both leapt from their office windows. Both men worked in the division that handled commodities, like gold. As did Yvette Jaworski.

  “It’s a stressful job,” Werner said. “How did you come upon this unfortunate news? Do you have a contact within the firm?”

  “I have a contact within the Internet,” Emerson said. “And the ability to focus my mind with laserlike precision on any subject.”

  Riley thought the laserlike focusing was in the ballpark of the mind-clouding disappearing act. A little out there, but what the heck did she know? There were people who could lower their blood pressure and sleep on nails, right? Maybe she should ask Emerson if he could sleep on nails.

  “There’s something else,” Werner said. “I’m telling you this in utter confidence. There have been some improprieties in our bookkeeping.”

  “You mean embezzlement,” Emerson said.

  “That’s the layman’s term. But I assure you, all the misappropriated funds have been identified and replaced.”

  “And did this misappropriation coincide with Günter’s disappearance?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did it involve Günter’s clients?”

  “Some of them.”

  “Me, for instance?”

  “Yes, but as I said, as soon as the discrepancy was identified, the money was replaced.”

  “How long did that take?”

  “Six hours,” Werner said, his face a mask of remorse.

  “That’s rather fast.”

  “We keep a close eye on our clients’ portfolios.”

  “How much was appropriated by the misappropriation?” Emerson asked.

  “The culprit took only a small amount from a limited number of clients,” Werner said.

  “The amount?”

  “One hundred thousand dollars from each client.”

  Riley had to remind herself that she was living in a world where a hundred thousand dollars was a small amount.

  “And you’re thinking that your brother absconded with these funds and disappeared?”

  Werner nodded grimly. “It appears that’s what happened.”

  “How many clients were involved?” Emerson asked.

  “Six.”

  “How much is Günter worth? Conservatively speaking.”

  “I’m not sure I understand what you mean,” Werner said.

  “When his wife sued for power of attorney. How much was at stake?”

  Riley thought she saw a flash of anger in Werner’s eyes. And then it was extinguished.

  “Approximately ninety million dollars,” he said.

  “Ninety?”

  “Approximately. Most of that comes from the family holdings.”

  Emerson focused on Werner’s face with what Riley could only call laserlike precision.

  “You’re telling me that Günter left ninety million dollars behind and ran off with a paltry six hundred thousand?”

  “I know it seems strange. But Günter’s wealth is tied to this firm, to his family, to his wife. If he wanted to make a clean break, to get off on his own, he might have felt he needed to…”

  “Misappropriate?”

  “There’s no telling what he was thinking. Günter had been going through what I suppose you’d call a ‘midlife crisis.’ He’d been acting strangely, disappearing for days at a time, missing work, going off on his own for long weekends.”

  “Though we travel the world over to find the beautiful,” Emerson said, “we must carry it with us or we find it not.”

  Werner looked a little uncertain at that. “Yes. I think he just went off the deep end.”

  “With six hundred thousand dollars? Why wouldn’t he take more?”

  “Maybe it was all he could get his hands on, on short notice.”

  “But why the short notice? If he ran off, he could do that at any time, on his own schedule. Was something pressuring him?”

  Werner laid his hands, palms up, on the table. “We just don’t know.”

  Riley tried to restrain herself, but the question just couldn’t be held in. “Have you gone to the police?”

  Werner looked at her. “You’re familiar with my family?”

  “Of course,” Riley said. “Siblings who occupy the highest seats of power in America. You and your brothers are called the Three Musketeers of Twenty-First-Century America.”

  Werner nodded. “Problem is, there are four of us.”

  Riley knew the story. The Grunwald brothers had grown up in Washington, the sons of the legendary Bertram Grunwald, the Harvard professor who went on to become chairman of the Federal Reserve and who raised his sons to excel at all costs. Professor Grunwald died seven years ago, having succeeded in pushing his boys beyond his or their wildest dreams.

  Werner graduated at the top of his class at Princeton and went on to conquer Wall Street. Scaling up the corporate ladder of the stodgy old banking concern of Blane Brothers, he had transformed it into one of the most powerful investment firms in the world. Before he’d reached fifty, he had added his name to it and made it his own personal fiefdom.

  More impressively, there was Hans, who had gone to West Point. He had distinguished himself in the field and became commanding general of the U.S. Army Intelligence and Security Command at Fort Belvoir in Virginia. Two years after he achieved the rank of four-star general, he’d been picked to run the National Security Agency. This was one of the few appointments made by the current administration that had sailed through Congress without a murmur of protest.

  As if running the NSA and one of the world’s major banks wasn’t enough for the Grunwald family, there was Manfred Grunwald, the judge. Manny graduated with honors from Yale Law School. He served as a clerk for Supreme Court Justice Rehnquist before starting his own law firm. Now Manny was about to be sworn in as associate justice of the Supreme Court.

  The Grunwalds had conquered America.

  Except for the youngest brother, Günter.

  Günter hadn’t gone to Yale or Princeton or West Point. Günter had gone to Northwestern. He went on to be a successful trader on Wall Street and had been hired by his brother to work at Blane-Grunwald, where he had made millions as head of the Investment Management Division.

  Millions, not billions. Head of a division, not head of an empire. A success, not a legend. When Riley googled Günter Grunwald, all she got was infor
mation on his brothers.

  “You might say that Günter is the black sheep of the family,” Werner said with a sigh. “The underachiever.”

  “And now, apparently, the felon,” Emerson said.

  “ ‘Felon’ is such a harsh word,” Werner said. “And this is a very delicate matter. My brother Manny is about to be sworn in as a Supreme Court justice.”

  “And this would be a bad time for a scandal to break?” Emerson asked.

  “The worst time.”

  “So Günter gets to disappear with impunity.”

  “Not impunity,” Werner said. “We would like to bring him back here, but without the involvement of law enforcement or the press.”

  “In other words, without anyone knowing about it,” Emerson said.

  Werner rose, indicating that the meeting was concluded. “Yes, I suppose that covers it.”

  Emerson nodded decisively. “All right, I’ll do it.”

  Werner looked surprised. “Do what?”

  “I’ll help you find Günter.”

  Werner looked around the room. He was apparently so confused he even looked to Riley for clarification.

  “I don’t think Mr. Grunwald was asking for your help,” Riley said to Emerson.

  “Of course he was. Why else would he tell me all this? In fact, I’m quite good at finding lost things. Not my keys or the television remote, but other things of more interest. My high school aptitude test scored me very high as a finder of lost objects. And I once found a man bobbing about in the Indian Ocean.”

  Emerson stood, stuck his hand out, and Werner, looking a little dazed, mechanically shook it.

  “If you feel I need to be compensated for my time you can make my payment out to your favorite charity,” Emerson said to Werner. “I assume Günter’s office is next to yours?”

  “Yes,” Werner said, puzzled. “How did you know that?”

  “He’s your brother. You’d give him the second-best office. Nice, but without the view of the Capitol. Not because you like him or feel compelled out of family responsibility, but because one must keep up appearances.”

  Emerson walked out of Werner’s office and into Günter’s office. Werner followed him. Riley followed Werner.

  The office was nearly as big as Werner’s. Though Werner’s was decorated with austere Danish Modern simplicity, Günter’s décor was baronial, with heavy furniture, dark wood paneling, and full brocade curtains on the windows. Riley almost expected to see Rumpole of the Bailey sitting in the embossed leather chair at the monstrous desk.

  Emerson stood in the middle of the room, turning slowly around, as if he were a camera, taking it all in.

  “There are no mementos, no personal photographs here,” he said.

  “His wife came in a few days ago and may have removed them,” Werner said. “I think she’s given up hope that he’ll return.”

  “Did Günter have an assistant?”

  “Maxine Trowbridge,” Werner said. “She’s just one office away.”

  Emerson gave one last sweeping look around and went to the door. “I’d like to speak to Maxine.”

  “Of course,” Werner said, leading the way.

  Emerson paused at the open doorway and looked in at Maxine.

  “Emerson Knight, here,” he said. “Could I talk with you for a few moments?”

  Maxine was in her midthirties. Her hair was blond, pulled back at the nape of her neck, and secured with a simple gold clip. Her makeup was tasteful and perfectly applied but unable to hide the dark circles under her eyes. Her conservative designer suit was a snug fit, as if Maxine had recently gained weight. Stress, Riley thought. She’d seemed close to Günter when Riley was interning, and now that Günter was MIA she had to be worried.

  Maxine looked past Emerson to Werner, who nodded his assent.

  “Do you have any idea where Günter has gone?” Emerson asked Maxine.

  “No,” she replied, shaking her head.

  “Do you think he embezzled money and ran off with it?”

  She shook her head again, more emphatically this time. “No. I know that’s what everyone is saying. But I can’t believe it. Not Günter. He’d just been given a new responsibility. He’d gotten everything he always wanted.”

  “Everything?” Emerson asked.

  “Well, everything within reason,” she said. “He’d just gotten back from a business trip to New York. He said it was going to make or break him. He was on the verge of something tremendous. He wouldn’t run out now.” She glanced over at Werner, and the line of her mouth tightened. “He is a good man.”

  “Do you have any further questions for Ms. Trowbridge?” Werner asked Emerson.

  “Not at the moment.”

  Werner stepped away from Maxine’s office.

  “I should tell you that Günter had not recently been given new responsibilities,” Werner said to Emerson. “And the New York trip was one of those long weekends he took. He wasn’t on company business.”

  Emerson nodded. “Understood. I’m off to find Günter. I’ll report back when I’ve located him.”

  “Wait,” Werner said. “Take Moonbeam with you.”

  “Moonbeam?” Emerson asked.

  “That’s what we call Miss Moon here,” Werner told him. “We all have nicknames.”

  “What’s yours?”

  “Everyone but me.”

  “I’ll find a nickname for you,” Emerson said.

  “Please don’t.”

  “And why would I take Miss Moon with me?”

  Werner shrugged. “You could use an assistant. Riley is good with people.”

  “And I’m not?” Emerson asked.

  “I didn’t say that. But now that you’ve said it, no, you’re not.”

  “I can’t argue with that. Personal interaction has never been my forte.”

  “Well, then, this is your girl. She can talk to anybody, can’t you, Riley?”

  Riley had never before had a panic attack, but she thought she felt one coming on. Werner was giving her away. He was moving her out of the office. Had she just been fired?

  “Trust me,” Werner said. “She could talk a dog off a meat truck. She’ll be a great girl Friday for you.”

  “I’m not entirely comfortable with this,” Riley said.

  “Person Friday then,” Werner corrected himself. “Aide-de-camp.”

  Emerson turned to Riley. “What do you say, Miss Moon? Do you want to be my amanuensis?”

  Riley had no clue what that meant. She made a mental note to look it up when she had the chance. She hoped it wasn’t just a fancy word for chauffeur.

  “Is this a permanent reassignment?” Riley asked Werner.

  “Absolutely not,” Werner said. “I’m sure this search will take only a few days, and you’ll be back at your desk.”

  “We’ll begin tomorrow morning at seven o’clock at my house,” Emerson said to Riley.

  Riley made an effort not to grimace. Seven o’clock in the morning? “Sure,” she said. “Seven o’clock. Do you want me to drive you home now?”

  “Of course.”

  “I need a moment with Moonbeam,” Werner said to Emerson.

  Emerson turned on his heel and strode off to the elevator. “I’ll be at the car.”

  Riley followed Werner into his office and waited until the door was closed before she spoke.

  “Sir, I’m so sorry,” she said. “He insisted we come here.”

  “You did the right thing. He needed reassurance that his assets were being protected. And now he’s going to be occupied by this wild goose chase, so it all worked out perfectly.”

  “Do you think he can find Günter?”

  “Not for a moment. Just keep me in the loop, and we’ll all be happy, Moonbeam.”

  Riley squared her shoulders. She didn’t like being called Moonbeam. And she didn’t especially like her new assignment.

  —

  Werner watched Riley leave his office. He hoped he’d chosen wisely. She
had two advanced degrees from Harvard but no street cred. She needed Blane-Grunwald to pay off her loans and push her up the corporate ladder. He had her pegged as psychotically ambitious, and he was counting on her to sell her soul for a shot at the corner office. If it turned out otherwise, he might have to kill her.

  —

  Riley caught up with Emerson at the car. He was leaning against the right front quarter panel, eyes closed, lost in thought. Probably having an out-of-body experience, Riley thought. Or maybe he was convening with aliens from another solar system.

  “Hey,” she said. “What’s up?”

  “I’m waiting,” Emerson said.

  “For?”

  “For you.”

  “Of course.”

  She unlocked his door and ran around to the driver’s side. She plugged the key into the ignition and backed out of Günter’s space. “Just exactly what is it you expect me to do?” she asked.

  “Drive my car.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I tend to forget details that aren’t important to me. I would expect you to remember them. You might even record them, amanuensis style.”

  Crap, Riley thought. There was that word again.

  She drove through the bustling streets of Washington, through the pastoral woods of Rock Creek, and up the long driveway to Mysterioso Manor.

  “Would you like to take the Bentley home with you?” Emerson asked.

  “Nice of you to offer, but no. The Bentley is lovely, but the Mini gets better gas mileage. It’s more environmentally responsible. It’s the car I picked out as the wisest for my new life in Washington.”

  “I thought you bought the Mini because it was the only car that would fit in your assigned parking space.”

  “That too.”

  —

  Riley’s apartment was on Monroe Street in the Mount Pleasant section of Northwest D.C. It was a tiny one-bedroom flat that occupied the entire third floor of a converted Victorian built in 1907. The plumbing sounded considerably older. The radiator clanged, the water pipes gurgled, and she lived in fear of the toilet exploding.

  She stripped off her executive uniform and got into her sweatpants and big, roomy Batman T-shirt. She’d wanted to grow up to be a superhero, and in a left-turn kind of way she felt like she was on track. She was going to be a financial superhero, helping people invest in their future, safeguarding the country’s monetary system. At least she had been on track last week. This week she wasn’t so sure. This week she was chauffeuring a goofball around town.