by D. M. Pulley
When the lunch hour came, Beatrice headed down to the banking floor to make a withdrawal. She walked through the towering lobby to the long room where pretty ladies waited behind the bars for customers. She scanned the booths until she found a familiar face.
“Hi, Pam!” Beatrice smiled at the woman who had helped her open an employee checking account when Max had insisted on taking Beatrice shopping.
“Hiya!” she said, looking bewildered for a moment. “Oh, you’re Max’s friend, right?”
“That’s right.” She forced a smile.
“How is old Maxie? I haven’t seen her around lately.”
“I think she’s on vacation in Mexico.” It was the lie Max had designed.
“Vacation? How’d she finagle that?” Pam laughed and then lowered her voice. “I heard she was advanced on her pay for months.”
Beatrice tried to keep her surprise from registering on her face.
“That’s Max for ya!” Pam waved her hand. “She’s always been a wild one. I could tell you stories that would curl your eyelashes . . . So how can I help ya?”
“I need to make a withdrawal. Fifty dollars.” Beatrice slid a piece of paper with her account number under the bars. Pam scratched a few notes on the slip and pulled cash from a drawer. As she pulled out her wallet, Beatrice eyed the ring of keys at the bottom of her purse.
“Say, Pam? Do you know anything about the safe deposit boxes here?”
“They’re downstairs. Go out past the elevators and down the steps.” She slid the cash under the barred windows. “You tell Max she still owes me a favor next time you see her, okay?”
“Okay. Thanks.”
Max had money troubles. The thought raised lines on her forehead as Beatrice made her way back to the lobby. She found the staircase that led to the lower level. Down the marble steps, she began to recognize the room from her trip to the hidden door that led down into the tunnels. In the light of day, it was a grand hall almost as nice as the lobby above. There was a large reception desk and a row of red velvet curtains. Crystal and brass chandeliers hung overhead, and the red carpet swirled with flowers and ribbons.
A woman with jet-black hair pulled into a severe bun sat at the reception desk. Cat-eyed glasses perched at the end of her prim nose. She didn’t notice Beatrice standing there until she cleared her throat.
“Can I help you, miss?” She studied Beatrice through her thick lenses the way a scientist might examine a germ.
“I’m not sure. My aunt is very ill. She’s in the hospital, and she asked me to get something for her.”
Beatrice reached into her purse and pulled out Doris’s safe deposit box key. She handed it to the woman.
“Are you an authorized agent?” The woman slid the glasses down her slender nose.
“Excuse me?”
“An authorized agent. Did your aunt sign a release allowing you access to the box in the presence of a bank employee?”
“Uh. No.” Beatrice lowered her voice. “She had a stroke and I’m . . . I’m the only family she’s got.”
It was the sad truth, but the woman behind the desk didn’t appear moved.
“Unless you have a police warrant or a death certificate with the power of attorney, I cannot legally grant you access to the box.”
She set the key on the counter with a firm click.
“I don’t understand.” Beatrice sniffed. “Aunt Doris just wanted me to get her . . . rosary for her.”
It was a small white lie, but she had nothing left. The tears began to pool without prompting, and the key blurred on the counter.
“The best I can do is check the records. What’s your aunt’s name?”
The woman examined the number on the key and pulled out a file drawer below the counter.
“Doris. Doris Davis,” Beatrice answered flatly.
It was a dead end and she knew it; she didn’t have power of attorney or whatever it was she needed. The prolonged silence on the other side of the counter made her look up. The woman was staring at her.
“You’re Doris’s niece?”
“I’m sorry?” Beatrice felt anxiety grip her skin.
“Doris Davis used to work here.”
“Yes, I know.” Beatrice quickly picked up the key. Investigating the box was a huge mistake.
“No, she used to work here.” The woman pointed to the counter. The woman’s stony face began to soften. “She trained me years ago. Did you say she had a stroke?”
“Yes, on Thanksgiving . . . You two were friends?”
“Yes, we were.” The woman gave a small nod. Her eyes were pained. “I’m so sorry to hear she’s not well. Which hospital is she at?”
“University. She’s in the intensive care unit.”
“I knew something was wrong. I should have called her. She came in every week.” The woman pressed a thin hand over her mouth. She shook her head and then regained her composure. “I shouldn’t be doing this, but come with me.”
The deposits clerk walked around the desk and led Beatrice through the round doorway back to the vaults. An armed guard stood at attention.
“Hello, Charles. The S1 key please.”
The armed guard unlocked a drawer in a wood stand and poked around for a few minutes before pulling out the correct key.
“Thank you.” She motioned for Beatrice to follow her and muttered under her breath, “These new security measures are driving me crazy!”
Deep in the metal room, the woman searched the rows and rows of little doors for the right one. Hundreds of metal rectangles lined the walls floor to ceiling. Each one had a number.
“What do you mean?”
The woman found the right box and slid the key the security guard gave her into a hole.
“The security guard . . . They gave him the keys—my keys. I’ve had the key ring for ten years, and last week they took them and said they needed to be more secure. It’s ridiculous.” She turned to Beatrice. “You need to insert your key, dear.”
Beatrice slid Doris’s key next to the first key where the woman was pointing and gaped in amazement as the door swung open. The clerk removed her key, and Beatrice did the same; then she pulled what looked like a long metal shoe box out of the cubbyhole behind the door.
“Follow me.” The woman carried the box out of the vault and back into the lower lobby.
“Uh, Shirley, I think you’re forgetting something,” the guard said.
“Of course,” Shirley responded curtly, and handed the guard the key.
Beatrice followed her through the round doorway to a red curtain. Shirley pulled it aside, and Beatrice could see it hid a tiny room. The booth contained nothing but a table, a chair, and a small desk lamp. She placed the box on the table.
“I’ll give you some privacy.” With that, she pulled the curtain closed.
Alone with the metal box, Beatrice sat staring at the lid.
CHAPTER 53
Beatrice returned to the reception desk with the closed box in her hands. It was heavy. She placed it on the counter, and Shirley looked up.
“Did you find what you needed, dear?”
Beatrice nodded, afraid to trust her voice. She hadn’t known what to expect and didn’t know what to make of what she’d found. There were more questions than answers, and the weight of them bore down on her shoulders. Shirley must have noticed.
“I hope your aunt feels better soon.” Then she leaned in and lowered her voice. “Whatever you do, don’t lose that key.”
“Pardon me?”
“The key—don’t lose it. There’s no other way into the box without a police warrant and escort. We used to have ways to open the box discreetly with the right paperwork, but not anymore.” Shirley began sorting through papers on the counter as if she was trying to look busy.
“Discreetly,” Beatrice r
epeated, not quite sure what Shirley was getting at.
“Privately. With a master key. Sometimes things get lost, especially when people die . . .”
Beatrice lowered her eyes out of respect for Doris.
Shirley cleared her throat. “Sometimes boxes contain sensitive materials.”
“Money,” Beatrice said flatly. She’d seen the rolls and rolls of quarters and bundled dollar bills in the back of her aunt’s box.
“Sometimes.” Shirley leaned in closer. “Your aunt worked her fingers to the bone. I’d hate to see the IRS get ahold of what she worked so hard to save.”
The IRS, police, money—Beatrice began to understand. Her aunt came in every week; that’s what Shirley had said. Her aunt came in every week with her tips and deposited them into a box for safekeeping. Beatrice had no idea why she didn’t just use a coffee can or a cookie jar like everybody else. Either way, Aunt Doris was hiding her tips from the IRS. But that was the least of her concerns.
Shirley seemed content to leave it at that. She lifted the box and carried it from behind the counter and toward the vault entrance. Beatrice followed her and watched her slide the steel container through the open door in the vault. The door snapped closed, and the clerk locked it with Doris’s key. Shirley’s leather pumps padded swiftly back to her counter.
“You and Doris will be in my prayers.”
Beatrice knew this was her cue to leave, but she paused and studied Shirley. “What happened to the master key?”
Shirley looked up and pressed her lips together. “I heard it disappeared.” She glanced toward the security guard in the corner and then back to her papers.
“When?”
“Oh, before I started. I’m not sure. Doris is the one who told me about it. Please send her my best. I’ll be praying for her. I’ve got to get back to my work now, dear.”
Beatrice nodded apologetically. “Thank you for your help.”
Doris and Shirley occupied her thoughts all the way back to her desk. Shirley had broken the rules to help her—well, to help Doris. She may have even broken the law by giving her access to the box. Doris must have been a dear friend indeed.
The master key went missing years ago. Mr. Thompson was raiding safe deposit boxes, but he couldn’t possibly have the keys to boxes owned by complete strangers. He must have it. It was the only logical explanation. But a nagging voice in her head told her there was more to the story. There was Jim and Teddy and their late-night conferences about bribing officials. There was Randy in the vault last night. Then there was what she found in Box 547. She rubbed her forehead.
“Headache?” a voice next to her asked. It was Francine.
Beatrice blinked in surprise and turned to look at the neighboring desk for the first time in days. Francine was like a piece of office equipment the way she kept her head down hour after hour. Then she remembered Francine and the rest of the secretarial pool had heard Randy’s outburst that morning. Her face reddened.
“It’s been a rough day,” she admitted.
“Don’t mind Mr. Halloran. No one pays any attention to him.”
Beatrice smiled weakly, surprised at her candor. She opened her mouth to respond, but Francine had already returned to her typewriter. The moment had passed, but they were the first kind words Beatrice had heard at work in days.
CHAPTER 54
At 5:00 p.m. Beatrice filed out of the building like everyone else. She headed straight to the Theatrical Grille for her meeting with Tony. The bar was nearly full with the happy-hour crowd when she ducked through the door. She scanned the room anxiously for familiar faces. Seeing none, she found the only empty booth and sat down.
A four-piece band was setting up its instruments at the far end of the bar. Beatrice welcomed the distraction and watched the young men polish their brass horns and tune a humungous bass. She didn’t notice Carmichael until he was at her side.
“Bella! How are you today?” He was carrying a tray of drinks for another table. “I’ll be right back.”
He returned shortly with a glass of water for Beatrice. “You hungry tonight?”
She nodded eagerly.
“Excellent! I recommend the meatloaf. You need something to stick to those ribs! You are wasting away!”
She blushed in embarrassment but couldn’t argue with him. Her clothes were hanging off of her after weeks of inconsistent meals. “Okay.”
“Say, how’s my Maxie? Haven’t seen her in such a long time!”
“I think she’s still on vacation. I’ll tell her to come by next time I see her.” The story seemed to satisfy him for the time being, and he disappeared with her order.
Beatrice went back to watching the musicians and tried to clear her head before Detective McDonnell arrived. There was so much to tell, and she had to sort the secrets and lies from the truth. She was reaching into her bag of notes when she heard a woman muttering in the booth behind her.
“Figures he’s lookin’. That Carmichael always was a sucker for Maxie.”
Beatrice was too startled to turn around. Some strange woman had been listening to her conversation with the bartender.
“Used to get on my nerves.” The voice coughed, then lowered to a near whisper. “Don’t be fooled by his jive. If she’s really on vacation, she better stay there. Lots of people lookin’. You tell her that!”
Beatrice scowled and snapped her head toward the voice, but the seat behind hers was empty. There was a finished drink and two dollars on the table. She stood up and searched the room for a woman with a husky voice. A crush of people were laughing at the bar while the ice in their glasses tinkled merrily. But there was no sign of a woman who wasn’t already wrapped up in conversation. She surveyed the room again and caught a flash of gold lamé, bronze skin, and a puff of black hair slipping out the door.
Not two minutes later, Carmichael came, grinning, with the meatloaf and mashed potatoes. “Anything else? Wine?”
Still speechless, Beatrice nodded.
He was back with the wine before she’d even considered what she’d ordered. She sipped the red liquid anyway, hoping it might settle her nerves. The food calmed her stomach, and once she’d finished both, her brain began to catch up. The voice of the dark woman replayed in her mind. People were looking for Max, and complete strangers seemed to know more about it than she did.
Tony finally swung through the door, looking haggard. He had grown a full beard since she’d seen him, and heavy bags hung under his eyes. He sank into the red vinyl booth and waved at Carmichael. The barkeep brought him a cup of coffee and didn’t stop to chat. One look at Tony was enough to know he wasn’t interested in small talk.
Tony turned to Beatrice. “So, did you find anything?”
“I think so,” she said in a low voice. The bar was crowded, and even though the band was playing, she wasn’t sure who else was listening. “Jim may be James Stone. He’s a vice president and apparently changes the combinations to the vaults every Monday morning.”
Tony nodded and pulled out a small wire-bound pad.
“Theodore Halloran might be Teddy. He’s also a vice president of something.”
“What else?”
She paused, still unsure what to divulge. Max had told her to keep their meeting at the hospital a secret. “There used to be a master key to the safe deposit boxes that the bank would use if the owner lost their key or died. The key officially went missing over ten years ago.”
Tony looked up at this. “So that’s how someone is accessing the boxes.”
Beatrice nodded.
“Safe deposit boxes are tough for law enforcement. You need a bench warrant and probable cause to drill one open. People can stash all kinds of stuff in there—stolen goods, incriminating evidence, cash.” The detective paused and sipped his coffee.
Beatrice felt a twinge of guilt. Her aunt had been hiding
her tips.
The detective kept talking. “If someone had a master key, they could even move these items around to boxes that couldn’t be traced back to them.”
“Boxes in someone else’s name,” Beatrice thought out loud.
“It’s risky. If the mark checks the box, the jig is up. But I doubt people open them very often. So if the perp does it right, they could safely hide a fortune for years. No taxes. No questions. The world’s safest piggy bank.”
Beatrice remained silent. Suzanne, Max, Doris, and five other women in Bill’s filing drawer all had boxes in their names filled with God knows what. A nagging voice reminded her Doris was different. Doris had her key. It was Max’s voice.
Tony looked up at her worried face. “Max is wrapped up in this thing, isn’t she?”
Beatrice nodded, not wanting to betray more. “Did you find out anything?”
“I made a few calls. It was weird. The mere mention of the bank, and people had to get off the phone. I had to resort to some desperate measures, but I finally found someone who’d talk over at the bureau. Turns out the feds have been quietly investigating the bank for five years but keep running into roadblocks.”
“Investigating it for what?”
“Fraud, racketeering, embezzlement, money laundering, you name it.” Tony flipped open his notepad and skimmed through his notes, then snapped it closed again. “Money has been disappearing in Cleveland for decades. Urban renewal funds, planning initiatives, school programs. The county, state, and even the federal government have been throwing money at the city’s problems for years, and millions are unaccounted for.”
“And the feds think the bank is involved?” She strained to recall all the conversations she’d overheard—the lost inside man, missing keys, accounts needing to be moved, police needing to be bribed.
“The board of the bank is made up of every old money man in town. No project gets built in Cleveland without someone from the bank being involved. Every project that lost money had a board member of First Bank of Cleveland at the helm, but the feds can’t put a case together. City council won’t provide corroborating witnesses. Judges won’t grant search warrants.” He shook his head, exasperated.