“What am I looking for?” she asked.
“The data history. We should be able to use it to track Wayan Bagus’s movements over the past couple months.”
Riley read off the first set of GPS coordinates, and Emerson plugged them into his laptop.
“That one is Rock Creek Park, Washington, D.C.,” Emerson said. “Mysterioso Manor, to be more precise. They’re in reverse chronological order. Skip backward until you find a period of time where he was in just one place for a while. We can assume anything else is him traveling to America.”
Riley scrolled through the data. “He was at 8°24'34.2648" south and 115°11'20.1084" east for a couple weeks.”
“That’s a small island off the coast of Bali,” Emerson said. “That’s where he went after he was evicted from his stolen island. How about before that?”
“He was at 11°3'36.3544" south and 171°5'39.2232" west for six months.”
“Bingo,” Emerson said. “That’s in the middle of the ocean, about two hundred miles from Samoa. He was either floating around in the Pacific for half a year or that’s his deserted island hermitage.”
Riley put the transponder on the desk and traced her finger down the map in the book to 171° west, looking to see if there were any islands in the approximate area. “Here! There’s a little unnamed island, labeled with those exact coordinates.”
“Odd,” Emerson said. “This island had obviously been surveyed at the time of the book’s publication ten years ago, but the image from Google Earth shows nothing but ocean at that location.”
“Not surprising,” Riley said. “Google Earth also shows an empty field where my parents live. Everybody knows it’s just a compilation of various satellite images and still photographs. It’s notoriously inaccurate when it comes to rural and unpopulated areas.”
“Perhaps,” Emerson said, accessing the National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration website. “Let’s check out the most current nautical maps. These were revised last year.”
Riley looked over Emerson’s shoulder as he found the set of online maps that corresponded to page 233 in the book.
“There’s nothing at 11°3' south by 171°5' east,” she said. “In fact, there’s not even anything close to that location, except water. It doesn’t make sense. The island was there five months ago. Wayan’s emergency transponder proves that. And the NOAA mapped it more than ten years ago. So why isn’t it on the most current NOAA maps?”
Emerson smiled. “There’s only one explanation. Someone erased the island from the NOAA database.”
“Why would someone do that?” Riley asked.
“For the same reason a murderer hides the body,” Emerson answered. “To cover up a crime. Someone stole Wayan Bagus’s island. Tomorrow we’re going to hunt it down.”
TWO
Riley woke up at eight in the morning, stretched out on the giant sheepskin rug in the library. She was still wearing yesterday’s clothes, and Emerson had obviously covered her with a comforter and put a pillow under her head sometime during the night. The NOAA book was lying next to her, still open to the last page Riley had read before falling asleep.
Her first thought was that it was sweet of Emerson to tuck her in. Her second thought was that there was something stuck to her forehead. She reached up and removed a Post-it note.
There are only two mistakes one can make along the road to truth: not going all the way and not starting. Having breakfast with Wayan.
Riley sat up and looked at the comforter Emerson had draped over her. It was covered with more Post-it notes. Emerson had been sticking notes on her while she slept as if she were a refrigerator. Most of the notes were work-related. A couple were personal reminders like “Find socks” and “Eat more vegetables.”
“The man needs a keeper,” Riley said to the empty room. Oh crap, she thought, that would be me. I’m his keeper.
Emerson’s Aunt Myra was also his keeper. She was Vernon’s mom and Emerson’s father’s sister. She was a no-frills, practical woman who’d stepped in when Emerson’s father passed. She could usually be found in the kitchen, but this week she was in West Virginia tending to a sick relative.
Riley left the library and checked out the dining room and the kitchen. No Emerson. She helped herself to coffee and a piece of leftover pizza and set out for the conservatory. If Emerson wasn’t in the library or the kitchen he was almost always in the conservatory, which was actually an immense greenhouse located a short distance behind the main house.
The garages and Vernon’s RV were also behind the house. Riley was about to walk past the RV when its door crashed open and two young women in skimpy black maid’s uniforms popped out, followed by Vernon. Vernon was buck naked except for a John Deere hat covering his privates. He was holding a feather duster in his free hand.
“Thanks for helping me clean up my RV,” Vernon said. “Appreciate you ladies showing up on short notice. Hope you don’t mind the job took so long.”
The women giggled something that Riley couldn’t hear, got into a Prius, and drove away.
Riley clapped a hand over her eyes. “For the love of Mike, Vernon. Put on some clothes.”
Vernon looked down at himself. “I got all my nethers covered.”
Riley peeked at him from between her fingers. “I’m looking for Emerson. I think he’s having breakfast in the conservatory.”
“I’m powerful hungry,” Vernon said. “Wait up for me, and I’ll go with you.”
Two minutes later Vernon was dressed in jeans, cowboy boots, a tight-fitting white T-shirt, and he had the John Deere hat on his head.
“This here’s my lucky hat,” Vernon said, joining Riley.
“Apparently so. Did you hear the alarm last night?”
“Oh sure. But Emmie texted me not to come unless my unagi told me to. And I wasn’t getting any unagi danger signals, which was a good thing being that I was busy with the maid service.”
“They were here all night?”
Vernon grinned. “Turns out we had a lot to do, cleaning-wise.”
“Good grief.”
“It’s not what you think,” Vernon said. “Most people gotta pay for ladies in maid suits, but Jolene and Mary Beth and me went to high school together back in Harrisonburg. They live in D.C. now, and they come over on occasion to tidy up and enjoy my bachelor amenities.”
Don’t ask, Riley told herself. Best not to know too much about his amenities.
The grounds surrounding the main house and the conservatory were tended by a well-meaning but partially blind ninety-two-year-old gardener. The result was a riot of grasses and flowering plants run amok. Riley thought it suited the property perfectly because everything about Mysterioso Manor was amok. It was an extravagant display of wealth and bad taste set in a heavily wooded area of Rock Creek Park, in the northwest quadrant of Washington, D.C. It was horribly wonderful.
Riley led the way along the stone path to an elaborate iron and glass structure topped with a Victorian-era cupola. It was almost as large as the main house, and it contained a jungle of exotic tropical plants and fruit trees. It was, on one hand, a magical place. On the other hand, it was a living minefield. Spiders dropped from trees, birds shot through the air, assorted rodents and small animals scurried across walkways, and a larcenous colony of monkeys howled and screeched at visitors.
Benches were sprinkled throughout the conservatory, usually beside a small fountain or hummingbird feeder. A larger sitting area had been placed in the middle of the greenhouse, under the cupola. A pretty wrought iron table with four chairs held court in the center. More fancy wrought iron chairs and benches were stationed along the perimeter.
Riley watched for mice and spiders as she made her way to the sitting area, and Vernon held on to his hat for fear a monkey would steal it.
“I don’t know why Emmie likes this place so much,” Vernon said. “Looks to me like a swamp. And I don’t know why he puts up with the monkeys. They’re all a pack of thieves. Esp
ecially that Mr. Manfrengensen. He’s the worst. He takes anything not nailed down, and he don’t even care if you yell at him.”
“He listens to Emerson.”
“I reckon. Emmie has a way with dumb animals.”
Riley squelched a grimace. She hoped she didn’t fall into that category.
Emerson and Wayan Bagus looked up from their breakfast when Riley and Vernon stepped into the clearing. Mr. Manfrengensen was on a nearby bench, eating a slice of dragon fruit.
Vernon pointed two fingers toward his own eyes and then one finger at the monkey. Mr. Manfrengensen kept eating.
“I’m watching you,” Vernon said.
Nothing from Manfrengensen.
Vernon turned his attention to the food on the table. Lentils. Whole grain, seeded bread. Fruit from the greenhouse garden, and honey.
“Where’s breakfast?” Vernon asked.
“This is my friend Wayan Bagus,” Emerson said. “He’s a Buddhist monk, so it’s a vegetarian breakfast.”
Wayan Bagus stood up and bowed to Vernon, who just kept staring incredulously at the lentils. “But where’s the bacon?”
“Bacon’s not a part of a vegetarian diet,” Emerson said.
Vernon scratched his chest. “What about sausages and fried ham?”
“Those are all meats.”
“Are you telling me he doesn’t eat any of them? That’s just all wrong. That’s practically not even American.”
“Wayan Bagus is Balinese,” Emerson said.
“No shit?” Vernon said. “How cool is that!” He looked down at Wayan Bagus. “Well, Little Buddy, any friend of Emmie’s is a friend of mine, even if you don’t know how to eat breakfast.”
Vernon grabbed the monk and gave him a big bear hug.
Emerson had his hand up, trying to get Vernon’s attention. “Buddhist monks don’t like to be touched,” Emerson said.
“You’re making that up,” Vernon said to Emerson. “Everyone likes a hug.” He lifted Wayan a couple inches off the ground and swung him side to side. “You’re just a cute li’l ol’ oompa loompa, aren’t you?” he said to Wayan.
“Apologies,” Wayan Bagus said in his quiet monk voice.
Next thing, Vernon was on his back, and Wayan Bagus was in his seat at the table carefully spreading a bit of honey on his bread.
Vernon pulled himself to his feet and grinned at the monk.
“I can see you like to wrassle,” Vernon said to Wayan Bagus. “I’m a big wrassler myself. We’re going to be good friends, Little Buddy.”
Wayan Bagus nodded politely. Noncommittal. “All living things have Buddha nature,” he said.
“I was thinking the same thing,” Vernon said, reaching up to adjust his hat. “Hey, what the heck. Where’s my hat?” He whipped his head around. No hat. No Manfrengensen.
“Sonofabitch! Damn monkey!” Vernon said. “That’s my lucky hat. You’ll have to excuse me from this here breakfast party while I kill that monkey.”
Everyone watched Vernon stomp off and disappear into the vegetation.
“Right,” Emerson said. “Now back to business. As soon as we’re done with breakfast we’ll head off to the Department of Commerce to meet with the NOAA administrator.”
“Count me out,” Riley said. “I slept in these clothes. I need to go home to freshen up.”
“You can’t go home,” Emerson said. “You have to drive. You always drive.”
Riley narrowed her eyes. “No.”
“I’ll let you pick out the car,” Emerson said.
Riley blew out a sigh. Emerson knew how to tempt her. She’d grown up in a family that revered the flag, apple pie, and NASCAR. She’d spent weekends with her dad and her brothers restoring junker muscle cars. She’d driven in a couple local stock car races. Giving Riley access to the Knight garage was like giving a five-year-old the keys to a candy store. Emerson’s father had amassed a mind-boggling collection of classic and luxury cars. Shelby Mustangs, Rolls-Royce Phantoms, Dodge Chargers, Pontiac Firebirds. The collection seemed endless to Riley.
Emerson had inherited the collection from his father, along with a menagerie of animals that ran loose on the Mysterioso Manor property, a bunch of charitable trusts, and a boatload of money. Emerson accepted the responsibility of maintaining the property and the trusts, and he found the money to be useful. At best, he was uninterested in the cars. He used them for transportation and the occasional bribe.
“I’ll drive,” Riley said, “but we’ll have to stop at my apartment on the way to the Commerce Department.”
“Deal,” Emerson said.
—
Riley tapped the security code into the garage door opener, the doors rolled up, and she took stock of the cars that were lined up neatly in rows on the shiny white epoxy floor. Her personal choice would be something small and sporty, but she had to accommodate two more people, and Emerson was over six feet tall. There weren’t any midsized cars in the collection so she went with the newest luxury car, the silver Mercedes-Maybach.
“Is the Maybach okay?” she asked Emerson.
“Good choice,” Emerson said.
They got in and Riley drove the car out of the garage, past Vernon’s RV, and followed the driveway to the front of the house.
“Have you spent much time with Wayan?” Riley asked.
“Seven years, off and on.”
“What was that like?”
“It was like living with a combination of Yoda and Jiminy Cricket on a fifty-foot boat.”
“He speaks excellent English, and he seems very worldly. Has he traveled a lot?”
“So far as I know, not at all. My understanding is that he’s spent most of his life in a monastery in Bali, studying Buddhism and the martial arts. He seems worldly because he doesn’t engage in unnecessary conversation. He keeps his own counsel.”
“It was impressive the way he flipped Vernon onto his back. Does he have Jedi powers? Did he share them with you?”
“I was his student, but I doubt I’ll ever achieve his level of power and control.”
Wayan was waiting at the porch steps. He slipped into the Maybach’s big back seat and shook his head.
“All this excess,” he said. “It’s not good. Not good at all. Down the path of dukkha it will lead you.”
“Dukkha is suffering,” Emerson explained to Riley. “It’s caused by the three poisons, which are raga or greed, moha or delusions, and dvesha or ill will.”
Wayan ran his hand over the ebony wood finish and plush leather seat. “Sitting on dead animals. Not good. Not good at all.”
Riley turned to look at him. “What about the sandals you’re wearing?”
Wayan looked down at his feet. “Faux leather. Very uncomfortable.” His attention caught on the screen built into the back of Riley’s seat. “What is this?” he asked.
“That’s the entertainment center,” Riley said.
She pushed a button and The Little Mermaid appeared on the TV screen. Sebastian was belting out “Under the Sea.”
Wayan Bagus leaned forward. “It’s a singing crab. Have you seen this, Emerson?”
“Yes,” Emerson said. “He’s excellent.”
THREE
Thirty minutes and four Disney songs later, they reached Riley’s apartment. She left everyone in the car, ran into her building, and reappeared in ten minutes wearing clean clothes, her hair still damp from the shower.
She jumped back behind the wheel and drove them to the Department of Commerce, circled a couple blocks, and finally found a parking space close to the NOAA administrator’s office, near the White House. They entered the building and paused in the lobby.
A short monk in a saffron robe, a tall eccentric rich guy, and a woman with wet hair, Riley thought. They looked like contestants from a bad reality show.
“Exactly how do you expect to get in to see the head of NOAA without an appointment?” Riley asked Emerson.
“I have a plan,” Emerson said.
He pulled
a pair of thick black-rimmed spectacles from his pocket and put them on Wayan.
“Showtime,” Emerson said, opening the large glass door in front of them and making a sweeping gesture indicating they should all troop up to the desk beyond the door.
The receptionist glanced at them as they approached. She had a round face, short black hair shot with gray, deep red lipstick, and ears like Dumbo. She looked like she was counting the hours and minutes before qualifying for her government pension.
“His Holiness, the Dalai Lama, is here to see the administrator,” Emerson said to the receptionist.
The receptionist stared down at Wayan, who really did look like the Dalai Lama in the glasses. “Are you really the Dalai Lama?” she asked.
Wayan Bagus nodded politely. “No.”
She looked back at Emerson. “I’m feeling generous today. What else do you have?”
“I’m really, really rich?”
The woman leaned forward. “That’s great. I really, really need a new Louis Vuitton handbag.”
Emerson turned to Riley. “Do you have any money?”
“Are you kidding me?” Riley searched in her purse. “I have seventeen dollars and fifty cents. Don’t you have any money? You’re the gazillionaire.”
“I don’t believe in carrying money,” Emerson explained to the receptionist. “How about a million-dollar smile?”
“Only if I can use it to pay for a new handbag.” The receptionist looked at Riley. “You’re up.”
What have I got to lose? Riley thought. I’m a nutcase by association.
“Dracula sent us to warn the administrator that Poseidon is about to release the Kraken,” Riley said.
A tailored woman in her midforties opened the door behind the receptionist and smiled. “I’m Cheryl Rhoads. I’m the administrator. What’s this I hear about the Kraken?”