The Dead Key

by D. M. Pulley

  “Don’t look down, don’t look down . . .” She went one cold, slippery rung at a time until she hit a metal plate hovering above her. It was a hatch door. She pushed up on it, and it gave just a little. She tried again, and it moved a little more. Shoving with all her might, she forced the hatch open with a loud clank. Her head popped up into a room the size of an outhouse. Freezing-cold air hit her in the face, and she could hear the wind whistling around the thin walls of the shed. She scrambled up the ladder and looked around. There was nothing but the faint outline of a door. The handle turned easily and she pushed it open, not knowing what she’d find on the other side.

  Beatrice was in an alley between two tall buildings. She didn’t recognize either one. The plain brick backsides of the towers hovered over her head. Metal fire escapes and garage doors surrounded her. She stepped out, staring up at them without thinking, and the door swung closed. She ran back but was too late. It was locked. She tried the handle, and it wouldn’t budge. She felt her pocket and reassured herself that she still had Max’s heavy ring of keys. She was certain one would open the door. In the meantime, she had to find out where she was. She made her way down the narrow driveway between the two buildings and onto the street.

  A limestone building stood across the road with the words “United States Post Office” etched across the top in ten-foot letters. She rounded the corner and saw a street sign that read “Superior Avenue.” Then she recognized where she was standing. She was in the back of the hotel. The wind whipped through her sweater, and she realized she wasn’t wearing a coat. She’d followed Ramone not knowing where they were headed. Her eyes darted around the empty sidewalks. It was quite late. All of the windows were dark.

  A half a block away up ahead on the sidewalk, the shadow of a large person caught her eye. Whether they were walking toward her or not, Beatrice couldn’t quite tell, but she started running back to the door in the alley. She pulled the keys from her pocket. Glancing over her shoulder, she could still see the shadow. At the door, she fumbled to find the right key and willed her fingers to move faster.

  A key slid home on the third try. She yanked the door open and leapt inside. The shadow had moved farther down the street. Beatrice let out a breath and backed into the open hatch and nearly fell fifteen feet down the hole. She caught herself just in time, then scrambled down the ladder.

  Her nerves were shot from all of the sleepless nights. She told herself to relax as she scurried back down the tunnels. She passed through the cavernous junction and was nearly back to the stairs to the bank when she slammed right into Ramone’s ribs.

  She screamed, and Ramone clapped his hand over her mouth. “Shh! It’s me. You can’t come back up yet.”

  When she could speak without shrieking, Beatrice whispered, “What do you mean?”

  “Someone’s in the vault.”

  He led her back to the large cavern, where they could both stand.

  “What do you mean, someone’s in the vault?” It was after 10:00 p.m.

  “One of the bigwigs. He told me it was official bank business and asked me to leave.”

  Ramone lit a cigarette.

  “Is that normal?”

  “It’s getting more normal these days. But hey, they’re the ones with the keys, right?”

  “Did you get his name?”

  “It’s a younger guy. Reggie or somethin’.”

  “Randy? Randy Halloran?”

  “Yeah, maybe.” He exhaled smoke. “Only authorized personnel have the combination to the vaults. The combination changes every week. If he can open it, he’s authorized.”

  Beatrice scowled, then asked, “Who changes the combinations?”

  “A tall guy. He comes down every Monday morning. Vice president of something or another.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “That’s ‘Mr. James Stone to you, boy,’ ” he said in the condescending voice of an old white man.

  Beatrice’s eyes widened. Maybe James Stone was the Jim she’d heard talking in the middle of the night about bribing officials. Ramone tossed his cigarette onto the cement floor. “So how did your trip down the tunnels go?”

  “Okay, I guess.”

  “Like I told Max, this shit is for emergencies only, got it? These tunnels ain’t exactly safe.”

  Beatrice nodded in agreement and waited for Ramone to give her the all-clear signal before climbing back up the stairs out of the dark.

  CHAPTER 49

  Saturday, August 22, 1998

  A team of five officers in uniform flooded the room, carrying duffel bags of equipment. Iris would have put up her hands if she wasn’t so petrified. She sat on the floor next to the bathroom door in a daze as they turned on every light they could find. None of them spoke to her. They filed into the bathroom one by one. She could see the flashes of a camera bouncing off the walls in quick succession as if the pile of dead flies in the shower stall were movie stars on a red carpet.

  A man in his midforties wearing a sports jacket and jeans stepped into the room. He had on a Cleveland Indians baseball cap. He could have been a middle-aged dad on his way to a Little League game. He looked right at her.

  “You must be Iris.”

  He walked over and smiled warmly at her. She tried to smile back, but her face was frozen.

  “I’m Detective McDonnell. I understand that you were the one that found the remains.”

  She nodded blankly.

  “Let’s get you out of here.” He held out his hand to help her stand up.

  Iris recoiled from his hand as though it might strike her. She shook it off and pushed herself up from the floor. Her arm hoisted her field bag onto her shoulder. The sudden weight shift nearly sent her toppling over. The detective caught her shoulder as she staggered back on her heel.

  She followed him out of the room, down the hall, and into the freight elevator without looking back. She never wanted to see the place again. When the elevator door finally closed, she sucked in what felt like her first breath in hours.

  Her eyes began to refocus. “Where’s Ramone?”

  “He’s being questioned by Detective Mendoza. Would you like to go get a cup of coffee?”

  “I could really use a drink.”

  After everything she’d seen, she could use about a gallon of vodka. The bones buried under the flies rattled in her mind. She grabbed the wall of the elevator to steady herself. Suzanne had told her several people had disappeared when the bank closed. Beatrice’s abandoned suitcase still sat in a closet up on the eleventh floor. But the body she found belonged to a man. The young girl’s body might be buried somewhere else in the building. She could still see the metal grate to the cold-air return. It had been loose.

  “How about a beer? I know a good place.”

  Iris raised her eyebrows. She gave a small nod and wondered what kind of cop would take her to a bar for questioning. A good one, she decided.

  They stepped out of the elevator into the loading dock, where Iris caught sight of Ramone and a large Latina woman talking. He was smoking a cigarette. Iris stared at the gray plumes hanging in the air. Cigarette. Her purse and cigarettes were waiting inside her parked car.

  “Tony, you want me to call the coroner?” the plump woman asked.

  “Yeah,” Detective McDonnell said. “We’re going to need forensics too. I’ll be back in an hour.”

  “Um, excuse me?” Iris pleaded with the detective, not taking her eyes off the cigarette dangling from Ramone’s lips. “Do you mind if I drop off this bag? It’s kind of heavy.”

  “Absolutely.” The detective nodded, then walked over to Detective Mendoza and Ramone.

  Iris ran down the steps from the loading dock to her rusted Mazda and dropped her bag inside. It was then she realized the dead man’s key was still in her hand. Iris glanced back at the loading dock, where the detective was
standing, and opened her mouth to say something. No words came out. She couldn’t explain the key. Why didn’t she give it to him right away? He would ask questions. She chewed her lip. He might check her bag. She glanced down at the ring of keys and stolen files sitting at the bottom of it. Guilt washed over her. Then panic. She shook it off. It doesn’t matter, she told herself. You are not a suspect. A key didn’t kill whoever was buried under the flies. It was just lying on the floor. She dropped it into her field bag, then grabbed her purse and lighter and joined the detective on the loading dock.

  “Okay, Rita. I’ll be back. No one else gets in that room until forensics arrives,” the detective commanded as he led Iris out of the loading dock and onto the street.

  The road behind the bank was clogged with police cruisers and flashing lights. Iris wondered when on earth she’d be able to go home. She expected the detective to lead her to a car, but instead he began walking down the sidewalk.

  “Come on,” he said. “It’s not far.”

  Iris stopped and lit a cigarette. She sucked in enough smoke to overwhelm the taste of rotting insects and vomit in the back of her throat at least for the moment, then kept walking.

  “Some fuckin’ day, huh?” he said, watching her drag on the cigarette again.

  She startled at the sound of an older man, a policeman no less, cursing. She blew out a lungful. “You have no fucking idea.”

  They walked three blocks and turned into a door. Iris remembered the bar. It was Ella’s Pub. Tony shoved the door open and called out, “Carmichael! We have an alcohol emergency!”

  A wrinkled old elf popped up from behind the bar. The sight of him almost made Iris smile.

  “Ah, Tony! To what do I owe this pleasure?” He rushed out from behind the bar and shook the detective’s hand. He smiled a grandfather’s smile, and then his eyes fell on Iris. “Ah, bella! I remember you. You are working in the old bank! It has been too long. Please come in. Come and sit. What can I get you?”

  Iris ordered a Guinness, and the officer ordered a black coffee. He was still officially on duty, she reminded herself, tamping out her cigarette. Once she’d had a large swig of beer and lit another smoke, the detective took out his notebook. Iris glanced over at Carmichael, perched on a bar stool, watching the game. He looked up and gave her a resigned smile that seemed to say, I warned you not to disturb the ghosts.

  “Now, Iris. Tell me everything that happened today.”

  Iris downed half her beer in one swig and began to talk. She told him about her job, about working on a Saturday, about being frustrated and kicking in the door. She left out the details of her pathetic romance with Nick and her anxiety over the ring of keys she’d taken from the vault. She’d have to explain how she got them and so much more—the intruder in the building, her conversation with Suzanne, the files she’d stolen. The voices she’d been hearing. He would think she was crazy, she rationalized. Besides, the detective wouldn’t care about missing items in an abandoned building. When her car was broken into the year before, the police officer informed her that there was no way the cops were going to waste time trying to find her missing cassette tapes and radar detector. What would this cop care about missing stuff from twenty years ago? It all sounded good in her head, and she repeated the excuses to herself over again as a cold fear gripped her stomach. She had stolen things from the building. If she told the detective, she’d be caught. She might get fired. A fly crawled up her arm. Iris recoiled violently, swatting at her skin.

  “You all right?” The detective looked up from his notepad.

  Iris shook her head. There was no fly.

  She downed her beer. She itched to order another one, but she had to drive home in front of half of the Cleveland Police Department. She asked Carmichael for water instead and waited patiently for the detective to finish scribbling his notes. When he finally did, he looked troubled. The knots in her stomach tightened, and beer rose up in her throat. Were the lies written all over her face?

  “You know, I never thought I’d have to go back into that building again.” His temples and beard stubble were gray, but his light blue eyes looked surprisingly young, almost boyish, but sad.

  “You’ve been in there before?” she managed.

  “Not since around the time it closed. I was just starting out. They gave me the lead on an investigation . . .” His voice trailed off. He pressed a hand over his mouth and shook his head.

  “What sort of investigation?” She avoided his eyes. He obviously didn’t want to talk about it, but she was desperate to know. “I’m sorry. I just find the building to be so . . . strange.”

  “Strange in what way?” He raised an eyebrow.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Things are still sitting on the desks. The filing cabinets are still filled with files.” Talking was like loosening a pressure-relief valve. She wanted to tell him everything, to confess it all—Beatrice’s suitcase, her notes, the stealing. She bit her lip hard. “It’s like the whole building is a time capsule, like a bomb went off in 1978 and vaporized all the people but left everything else behind.”

  “Oh, a bomb went off all right. When the bank let the city default, the people down at city hall got angry enough to finally let us open an investigation into the board of directors. Within two weeks the place was shut down, and the bank was gone.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The bank holdings were sold off to an out-of-town company, Columbus Trust, and the feds locked the building down to protect deposits. I’m just glad we got a few indictments first. We brought down one crooked family, but the rest got away. Some people disappeared. I think you just found one of them.”

  The devoured body on the shower floor. She swallowed hard and tried to distract herself from the smell of vomit still lingering in her hair and clothes. She kept her cigarette close to her nose. Two weeks, she thought to herself. The city defaulted on December 15, and the bank was sold on December 29. Didn’t Suzanne say that Beatrice had disappeared before the bank was sold? She couldn’t remember.

  “Did you know anyone who disappeared?”

  “My sister for one,” the detective said, his eyes trained on his mug. He put up a stony facade, but Iris could tell it still pained him.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  He waved his hand at her apology. “It was a long time ago. I just always thought she would turn up by now, you know? Max was like that.”

  The name Max hit Iris like a lightning bolt. She’d seen the name before in a book, in Beatrice’s book. There were still stacks of scribbled shorthand somewhere in her apartment in folders she’d stolen from the file room. And there was the mysterious suitcase. The suitcase had belonged to a woman.

  Iris buried her face in her hands. “I think I need to go home.”

  CHAPTER 50

  “Iris, this is Charles Wheeler. We’ve heard about what happened. Take the next week off to do whatever you need to do to recover from this shock . . .”

  Iris walked to the kitchen as the message played and downed three shots of vodka. Apparently a week off from work was the going rate for discovering a dead body at the job site. She wasn’t sure how her boss had found out so fast, and she really didn’t care.

  “. . . the project has been put on hold temporarily. WRE intends to cooperate with the police and their investigation; however, all drawings and notes regarding the building and all of its contents remain the sole property of the owner. We expect you to keep the details of your survey work confidential. We’ll touch base when you get back.”

  Liquor warmed her stomach as she staggered to her bedroom. She peeled off her clothes and threw them into an overflowing trash can. Sitting on the floor of her bathtub, she let the hot water run down her face until it ran cold. Every time she closed her eyes, all she could see were flies.

  Three hours later, Iris still couldn’t relax, even after three more shots, fifte
en cigarettes, and four sitcom reruns. Her hands twitched. Her thoughts swayed unsteadily from the flies to the detective’s voice to the stolen keys in her field bag. Detective McDonnell had said his sister had gone missing. His sister was Max.

  She set the bottle of vodka down and stumbled out of her kitchen. Unpacked boxes still littered her living room floor. The cupboards and drawers and closets of her new apartment were empty. All she’d managed to unpack so far was a coffee mug, a spoon, and a shot glass. Pathetic.

  She plopped herself down in front of the closest box and tore off the tape. Plates, glasses, silverware, cleaning supplies, and books spilled out as she opened box after box. She couldn’t see the floor between the piles of this and that, but there was no sign of it anywhere. Beatrice’s folder was gone. She tried to remember packing it, but her thoughts spun out of her reach. The mess around her seemed to spin too. She had to get away from it. She hauled herself up from the floor and held on to the wall all the way back to her bedroom.

  TV reruns, couch, vodka, crackers, sleep, and nightmares. The next few days were a blur. The only calls were from her mother, and Iris didn’t pick up the phone. She knew if she did she would cry, and her mother would come running. Ellie didn’t call, but Ellie never did. She wasn’t a phone-call kind of friend. Nick didn’t call—not even after Monday morning came and went and he’d no doubt heard about what happened. Iris didn’t leave the house. She stayed in her pajamas and only got up to use the bathroom. Her guts coiled in knots as nagging thoughts kept clawing through her drunken haze. She still had the keys. Someone might still be looking for her. She’d lied by omission to a police detective. The only way she was able to sleep at night was by passing out cold.

  Tuesday morning she opened her eyes to an overflowing ashtray and an empty bottle. A rustling sound had woken her. She heard it again—scratching and crinkling papers. She sat up from the couch with a start. The room wobbled, and she grabbed the armrest to make it stop. The sound was coming from the kitchen. She swallowed the acid in her throat and picked her way toward the noise.