by D. M. Pulley
Beatrice repeated Ramone’s words out loud: “They’ve got the system tied up.”
Tony agreed with a glance. “Max went to the bureau with some new evidence but got laughed out of the building from the way I heard it. No one wants to take the word of a secretary. Besides, one quick background check, and she was discredited as a witness.”
Beatrice stiffened at this revelation. “I don’t understand. Max worked at the bank for years, in the Auditing Department no less. If anyone would know, it would be her!”
“Well, juries don’t look too kindly at unwed mothers with a criminal record.”
Beatrice sucked in air. “Criminal record?”
“It’s not what you think. There were race riots in Hough. She was on the wrong side as far as the police were concerned. My father was so angry, he let them bring charges. She pleaded them down, but she still has a misdemeanor for criminal mischief on her record.” He waved his hands. “The family went to war over it for a couple of years. It’s in the past now.”
“What happened to the baby?” she whispered.
Tony frowned, as if the story pained him. “She was just a kid when it happened. Us being poor and Catholic, there was really only one choice. She put it up for adoption.”
Beatrice nodded, assuming that was the end of the sad story.
“When the baby came out the wrong color, well, that fell through. My parents made her give it up to an orphanage. I don’t think she ever forgave them for that.”
Beatrice was stunned. “But, but everyone seemed so happy at Thanksgiving!” Nothing in Max’s mother’s kind smile even hinted of such a horrible betrayal.
“Max ran away. She was gone for over a year. When she came back, she refused to talk about it. My parents took her back into the house and pretended like nothing happened. That was almost eight years ago. And now she’s gone again.” Tony kept talking, as if it were confession. “She asked me once to track her baby down, you know, a couple years ago. She made me swear to keep it a secret from the folks.”
“Did you find anything?”
“It was a baby girl. I told her she’d been adopted a couple years before. The records were sealed. That’s all I could do. It broke my heart to tell her. She was always so sure of herself. She had real spunk, you know.”
There was water in his eyes. The easygoing ladies’ man she’d met a few weeks earlier was gone. She couldn’t bear to see him so pained.
“I . . . I saw her.”
“What?” His face went slack.
“She came to see me at the hospital a few days ago. She made me swear not to tell you, but I don’t want you to worry.”
“Why the hell would she tell you not to tell me? I’m over here busting my ass trying to find her!” He raised his voice to a roar, and Beatrice shrank into the booth.
“She said she didn’t think you could help,” Beatrice said in a tiny voice, regretting every word. “She’s okay. I think she’s hiding.”
“Did she say where?”
“No.” Beatrice stared at her hands, defeated. At least she hadn’t broken her word about the key. The key Max gave her was still a secret. She hadn’t betrayed everything. The image of its blank face spun slowly in her head.
“If you see her again, tell her to call me, all right?” He stood up and muttered to himself, “I can’t believe this shit is happening.”
“Okay.”
He stopped and looked her hard in the eye. “If things at the bank are as bad as I think they are, you need to get out, Beatrice. You need to get out now. You know too much . . . and no one is going to believe you either.”
CHAPTER 55
Wednesday, August 26, 1998
Iris pulled to the side of the road and pried her white knuckles from the steering wheel. She hadn’t left her name with the locksmith. There was no way the key lady could report her to the police for what she’d taken from the old bank. Iris rubbed her eyes with stiff fingers. It wasn’t just any key. She opened her lids, and there it was, dangling from the ignition.
Out her windshield, she saw that in her blind flight from the key shop she had made it all the way down to Akron. She must have gone the wrong way on I-77. Jesus. She had to stop driving and think. Iris pulled off the highway at Route 59 and managed to navigate her way to an open parking meter somewhere downtown.
The tallest building as far as the eye could see was an art deco, brick-and-stone high-rise not unlike the abandoned bank that was driving her to the brink of insanity. The letters at the top of the tower read “Capital Bank.” The sign gave her an idea. Iris got out of the car.
The bronze-and-glass revolving doors were almost identical to the First Bank of Cleveland’s. She pushed through them into a small lobby. There was a security desk in the corner.
“Um, excuse me?” she asked a rotund guard sitting on an absurdly tiny stool. “Who do I see about opening a safe deposit box?”
“Down the stairs, to your right.” The guard pointed to a narrow set of stairs off the lobby.
At the bottom of the stairs on the right was a door marked “Deposits.” Inside she found a small room and a large woman stuffed behind a crowded desk. The clerk looked a bit like Iris’s mother, with her ruddy cheeks and tight-permed hair.
“Can I help you, dear?” The woman smiled up at her.
“I’m thinking about renting a safe deposit box.” Iris took the seat in front of the woman’s cramped workstation.
“Wonderful. You’ll need to fill out this form.”
She handed Iris a clipboard and went back to typing something onto her huge computer monitor. Iris skimmed the sheet. It wanted to know her name, address, social security number, and other typical information.
“Could I ask a few questions first?”
“Sure, honey.” The woman pulled her reading glasses off of her nose and let them dangle from a neon-pink cord around her neck.
“Where are the boxes kept?”
“In the vault. It’s through that door.” She pointed to a solid wood door opposite the one Iris had walked through.
“How do I know that my things will be safe?”
“Would you like to see inside the vault, dear?”
Iris nodded eagerly.
The woman sighed ever so faintly and hoisted her girth off her ergonomic chair. She selected a key from the stretched spiral band on her plump wrist, then led Iris down a narrow hallway, through a round steel opening, and into a room full of locked cubbies.
“This is where the boxes are kept.” She pointed to the rows and rows of steel doors. “The vault is locked all hours except business hours. It’s monitored twenty-four hours a day with security cameras. Your valuables will be more than safe here.”
Iris searched the corners for the security cameras until she saw three little red lights blinking along the ceiling.
“How are the boxes opened?”
“The bank will issue you two keys. You put one here.” She pointed to one of two keyholes in a door. “And then I put the bank’s key here. The two keys must be turned at the same time to open the box.”
Iris stared at the two keyholes. “What happens if someone steals my key?”
“Don’t worry. No one is allowed in the vault without presenting identification and signing a log. The thief would have to look exactly like you, have your photo ID, and forge your signature. It hasn’t happened once in the twenty-five years I’ve worked here,” she said with a reassuring smile. She led Iris back to her office and slid behind her computer screen.
Iris picked up the clipboard again and sat down. “What happens if I lose my keys?”
“If you lose both keys, the bank will have to drill the box open at your expense.”
“How much does that cost?”
“Oh, several hundred dollars.”
Iris nodded, then at the risk of soundi
ng morbid asked, “What if I die?”
“You’ll find a section on the form where you can authorize next of kin to open the box with proper documentation. I suggest you keep a copy of your will outside the box to avoid a loss.”
“What if I forget to pay the rent on the box?”
Annoyance began to register on the woman’s face. “By law, we are required to retain the box for five years. At that time, your possessions will be transferred to the State of Ohio. Valuable objects will be auctioned, and the proceeds will be kept in the state treasury under your name.”
Still Iris pressed on. “What if someone at the bank wanted to steal something in my box. Can the box be opened by someone here without me knowing?”
The woman gaped at Iris like she’d just suggested the bank was molesting small children. “The keys are kept secure by bank employees.”
“Right. But how many bank keys are there?” Iris eyed the elastic key ring strangling the woman’s wrist.
“Every vault has a slightly different system. At our bank, we have fifteen keys that open the safe deposit boxes. I assure you that only the people with the proper training and security clearance have access to the keys.” The woman announced her irritation as she straightened a stack of forms by loudly pounding them on the desktop.
“Well, what if a janitor or someone found your keys, like, in the bathroom? Wouldn’t he be able to open the boxes?”
“Miss, the keys are encoded to only open certain boxes. A janitor wouldn’t know which to use. Besides, no one can open your box without your key.” She sighed. “Obviously, you have some serious reservations about banking with us. I suggest you do some more research on your own before opening an account.”
“Perhaps you’re right.” Iris pulled the form off the clipboard and placed it into her purse, then stood to leave. “I’ll give it some more thought and come back another day.”
The clerk nodded and began clicking her keyboard loudly.
Iris paused before finally asking the question that led her down to the Safe Deposits Office in the first place. “Isn’t there like a master key somewhere? I heard sometimes the banks keep a master key.”
“Where on earth did you hear that?” the woman asked, dropping her hand onto the desk with a thud. “We don’t keep dead keys anymore. They’re a violation of FDIC policy.”
“Dead keys?”
“I’m sorry, but this is really not appropriate.” The woman shook her head.
“Why do they call them dead keys?” Iris pressed.
“When a box goes dormant for many years, we say it died. When a box dies it needs to be cleaned out and repurposed for someone else. We used to open it with a dead key and then switch out the lock. Now we have to drill the casing open and replace the entire thing. It’s a huge waste of money if you ask me.”
“Do boxes die often?”
“You’d be shocked.”
CHAPTER 56
The boxes are dead. Iris repeated the phrase in her head, driving home from Akron. It had been twenty years since the First Bank of Cleveland closed. Anyone desperate for their belongings would have filed the paperwork and had their boxes drilled open by now. It had happened several times. She’d seen ten boxes that had been drilled open her first time in the vault. Ramone had said the last one was over ten years ago. The keys were lost. The vault was nothing but a tomb.
According to the Capital Bank clerk, people’s deposits were held for five years, but after that they were up for auction. Iris drove up I-77 and wondered whatever would possess someone to put their valuables in a strange vault in the first place. Whatever was deposited would have to be something someone needed to hide, she decided. She pulled off the highway and turned into her neighborhood. Maybe people wanted to leave their secrets buried. Maybe that was why so many boxes died.
But someone wanted back in. Perhaps the county’s plan to buy the building had leaked out, and someone figured this was their last chance. In the back of her mind, a dark figure in a blue shirt rushed away from the vault. Someone had been there that day. She pulled to the curb in front of her duplex. She reached into her purse and felt for the ring of keys she had found hanging from a safe deposit box door. There were twelve. These must be the bank keys to the deposit boxes, she figured, as she flipped through them one by one. The woman in Akron said there was a code to them—a trick to make it difficult. Each was marked with a letter that must mean something—”N,” “D,” “E,” “O.” They went in no discernible order, but a thief could just try each one until he found a match. There were only twelve. It would still take some time—maybe enough time to get caught. There were over a thousand boxes to open.
Iris shut off the engine and slid the keys from the ignition to examine the one she had found in a room full of dead flies. In her nightmares it had been covered in blood. Marked for death. Its blank face swung from her key ring. Then everything she’d learned that day hit her. The keys dropped from her hands.
She had taken the dead key.
She covered her mouth and stared down at the keys in her lap as if they were murder weapons. There, in broad daylight, were the bank keys and the dead key. Together they would open every safe deposit box in the vault.
Her hands frantically gathered them up and threw them back into her bag. She’d taken evidence from a crime scene. She had even been stupid enough to flash the master key at a locksmith in Garfield Heights. The police knew where she lived. She could just see the headlines—“Disgruntled Engineer Caught Red-Handed.” TV psychologists would speculate that the pressures of working alone for weeks in the abandoned bank had bent her already-unstable mind. Ramone would tell them she’d been hearing voices. Ellie would reluctantly testify to her binge-drinking habits. Nick would be called as a character witness to prove she was without morals and emotionally deranged. Her father’s recent layoff would be the icing on the cake.
Her chest tightened. She would be the scapegoat if the police discovered anything missing. A media storm might be brewing over the dead body she’d found. Camera flashbulbs would shine light into every dusty corner of the building and the dead vault. People might come looking for forgotten heirlooms. She was breathing much too fast. She’d broken things in the building. She’d tooled around town investigating safe deposit boxes. The keys lay in her purse, beating like the Tell-Tale Heart. She had to get rid of them.
A hard knock on the window next to her sent a thousand volts through her chest. She screamed at the top of her lungs as her head hit the roof. It was Nick. He was standing outside her car door, smiling through the window.
“Shit. Sorry I scared you!” His eyes crinkled.
She collapsed against the backrest and willed her heart to keep pumping. When she could breathe again, she choked out the words “Can I help you?”
“I’ve been looking for you all afternoon.”
“What?” She clutched her purse to her chest and climbed out of the car. “Why aren’t you at work?”
“I took a vacation day to help with the workload shortage—a lot of us did.” Nick shrugged.
Iris blinked at him, confused. “What workload shortage?”
“A couple of projects fell through. Things are kinda slow. Hey, I heard what happened, by the way. Are you okay?” The tender look in his eye was almost convincing. Almost. If he really gave a shit, he would have called.
“I’ll live. What do you want?”
He raised an eyebrow at her.
“Are you fucking kidding me? Forget it!” She pushed past him and climbed the steps to her apartment. After everything she’d been through, he just wanted to screw her again.
“Iris. Iris, I was just messing with you. It’s not like that. I want to talk.”
“Sure you do.”
He climbed the stairs after her and grabbed her by the elbow. “Hey, what’s your problem these days? We can’t talk?”
“If you were so interested in talking, you would call me.” She dropped the keys onto the doormat and slapped her hand against the door in frustration.
“I came over. Isn’t that better?” He bent down and retrieved her keys. He handed them to her and lifted her chin with his finger. His brown eyes were tender and sympathetic and disappointed all at once. “Iris, I thought . . . I thought we were having fun.”
“Fun,” she repeated. The word hung in the air. She dropped her eyes and pushed her door open. He wasn’t looking for love or a relationship. He just wanted to have fun with her. It was her worst fear spoken out loud, but somehow she was the one who felt like a liar. She gazed at his rumpled hair and slightly crooked teeth. He had never made promises or proclaimed true love. Shit, he’d never even called. She was the one who’d led him on by falling into bed.
“Sure, Nick. It was fun. I just . . . I really can’t talk right now.”
He held the door she was trying to close. “Okay. Sure. I just wanted to let you know that things at the office haven’t been the same—”
“Well, that’s sweet,” she interrupted, and tried to shut the door again.
“No, I mean they haven’t been the same since you found the body. They’ve been worse. They’ve let a few people go. Mr. Wheeler has been asking strange questions about the bank. I guess I’m just worried about you.”
The expression in his eyes left no doubt. She was in trouble. She was getting fired or worse. The fact that he actually gave a crap about her, at least enough to come over and tell her to her face, hardly mattered.
Her eyes dropped to the ground, and she squeezed the strap of her purse. “Uh, thanks. I’m kinda worried about me too.”
CHAPTER 57
Iris closed the door in Nick’s face and pressed her back to it, still gripping her bag and all the keys inside it.