The Dead Key

by D. M. Pulley

  When she left the bathroom, Nick was standing in the hallway outside as if he’d been waiting for her.

  “I heard,” he said. The sympathy falling from his face made her want to scream.

  “I’ll be fine! I just can’t believe they fired Brad.” If Brad couldn’t hold on to an engineering job in this world, she had no chance.

  Brad’s desk was already collapsed into crisp cardboard boxes. The rest of the office, with its matching desks set in neat little rows, didn’t seem to notice. She had never belonged there in the first place. Her chest tightened until she could barely breathe.

  “I know.” Nick frowned. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think it had something to do with the old bank.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Mr. Wheeler’s been grilling everyone that worked on the bank building. The drafters, the junior architect, even me. It seems like the only people being laid off are the ones that were involved in the project.”

  “But doesn’t that make sense? The project has been shut down.”

  “I’m not sure. They’ve been asking some pretty weird questions. They also confiscated my camera. And that’s not all.” He lowered his voice. “I went looking for the photos of the bank I’d uploaded to the server last week. This morning they were gone.”

  Iris scowled and studied the floor. “Mr. Wheeler threatened to press charges if I don’t return any items I might have taken from the premises. I have no idea what he was talking about.”

  “He said something like that to me too. He said if I didn’t divulge all ‘pertinent information,’ I’d be fired. I’m beginning to wonder if I’m next.”

  “What did he want to know?”

  “He said he knew we were friends and wanted to know if you’d mentioned anything unusual about the bank.”

  Iris glared at Nick. “He knew we were friends?”

  “Yeah. We sometimes go to lunch together. Everyone knows that.”

  “Everyone seems to know a lot more than that.” She stared pointedly at him.

  He scowled, catching her meaning. “What? How?”

  “I have no idea. I figured you must’ve told someone about us. ’Cause I sure as shit didn’t.”

  “Hey.” He held up his hands in self-defense. “I’ve got more to lose than you on this type of thing. I could get nailed with sexual harassment in the workplace. I didn’t say a word.”

  She supposed that might be true. “So, what did you tell him?”

  “Just the stuff you’d told me about how the building was full of strange files and desks full of paper.”

  “Did you tell him anything else?” She clutched her field bag a little tighter.

  “Just that you were really curious about the safe deposit boxes in the basement.” He chuckled, nudging her shoulder. “It was like you were obsessed or something.”

  “What?”

  She almost hit him in the head with her field bag. He’d painted her as a crazed thief. Worse yet, she sort of was a crazed thief.

  She headed for the elevators. “I’ve got to go. Just tell everyone that I had a breakdown and couldn’t stop crying, okay? It’s not like I have work to do anyway.”

  “Are you okay?” His eyebrows were furrowed with concern as she stepped into an elevator cab. “Was it something I said?”

  “No, it’s not you. I just—I just can’t be here right now. I’ll call you later, okay? Thanks for covering for me.”

  The doors slid closed. She paced back and forth in the little steel box until the doors opened to the main lobby. It was only 10:00 a.m. She wasn’t supposed to meet the detective at the bank for four more hours, but she needed answers now. Across Euclid Avenue, the abandoned bank was waiting.

  CHAPTER 64

  Thursday, December 14, 1978

  Beatrice slipped out the back door of the diner and headed down the alley toward the hospital. Up ahead on the edge of Little Italy was the old Catholic church, where the local Italians attended Mass and sent their children to school. As she approached the rear entrance of Church of the Savior, she heard a faint melody. It grew louder as she walked. The back door was cracked open to the sanctuary. Voices of children singing and candlelight softly beckoned her in. She recognized the song; it was a Christmas carol she hadn’t heard since she was a little girl. It pulled her up the stone steps and inside.

  The choir was practicing. The sanctuary was empty, except for the children at the altar, the organist, and the conductor. Their small voices rose to the top of the vaulted ceiling, then fell back down to where she stood as though angels from above had joined in the chorus. Beatrice slid into a pew in the back and rubbed her cold hands together. She gazed up at the enormous wood carving of Christ on the cross hanging over the kids. She warmed her hands, not opening the bag Gladys had given her for as long as she could.

  It was just a plain bag, but it was the last trace of Doris she would ever see again. Beatrice clutched it on her lap. Nothing inside it would be worth risking another visit to the ICU. Max’s warning was still scribbled on a mirror three blocks away. She couldn’t go back. With a heavy sigh, she finally pulled the zipper open.

  There were cigarettes, a lighter, cold medicine, and a small makeup bag. Beatrice let her hands wander over each item as tears filled the corners of her eyes. It all smelled like Doris. The makeup bag was empty except for a worn tube of ChapStick and dental floss. Down at the bottom, under the makeup and cigarettes, there was something else.

  Beatrice squinted at whatever it was, glittering up at her. She grasped it between her fingers and lifted it from the tobacco crumbs in the bottom of the bag. It was a diamond necklace. What? She sucked in a gasp, then pulled the necklace, a diamond ring, and diamond earrings out of the bag one by one in disbelief. They sparkled like Christmas lights in the shadow of the pew. The choir started another hymn as she gaped at the gemstones in her hands.

  Beatrice dug back into the bag, hoping it might contain an explanation, but there was none. Her mind flew to the journal she had found in her aunt’s safe deposit box, and she frantically snatched it out of her purse. Turning to the last page, Beatrice read, “11/22/78, 889, diamond ring, necklace, earrings.”

  She read the words again and dropped the book onto the bench next to her. Beatrice pictured her aunt in her orthopedic shoes and hairnet chatting with Shirley behind the deposits desk week after week. Shirley would have smiled at Doris sympathetically as she complained about the diner. They had been friends. Shirley said so herself. The guard in the vault, the monitoring of the keys, they were all new security measures that Shirley resented. They had once been Shirley’s keys. They had once been Doris’s keys. Beatrice stared at the pile of diamonds in her lap.

  Doris couldn’t have just opened the boxes of strangers. There were procedures. Beatrice remembered them well from the day she’d opened Box 547. Blinking at the jewelry, she also remembered how Shirley had bent the rules once she’d heard her aunt’s name. The diamonds in her lap glimmered with the undeniable truth. Somehow Doris had done it. Week after week she had gone into the vault and opened boxes. It still wasn’t possible. Even if Shirley did look the other way or go on break or just hand Doris the keys, how did Doris unlock them all?

  Oh God. Max’s secret key. Blood drained from her face. She grabbed her purse off the floor and rifled through it until she found the key. Shirley had told her that there had once been a master key, and it had been stolen. And there it was in the palm of her hand.

  The repossession notices stuffed in Doris’s drawer with Bill’s sappy love letters began to make sense. They had been mailed to bank customers who were late with their payments. Max had investigated notices just like them and found out that the state had no records of any of the threatened repossessions. Bill hadn’t turned the contents of delinquent boxes over to the state at all. That left only one conclusion.

  Doris had stolen
it all. She was the inside man.

  The key fell to her lap. Her hands flew to her mouth to stifle a gasp. Diamonds, cash, savings bonds—she didn’t want to believe it, but the records didn’t lie. Doris had spent years stealing the precious belongings of complete strangers. Beatrice’s eyes flooded.

  She grabbed the journal. The first robbery occurred over sixteen years ago. Why Doris? She flipped through the handwritten pages. It all must be Doris’s writing, she realized. Sheet after sheet went by, until Rhonda Whitmore’s name leapt off the page. The woman had come to the bank to protest a repossession. A few days later she was hit by a car.

  No. A sob caught in her throat. Her aunt couldn’t have had anything to do with Rhonda’s death. Doris lived in a gutter apartment in a depressed ghetto. She didn’t have money. Her eyes fell down to the mink from her aunt’s closet, now wrapped around her shoulders, but it hadn’t been worn in years. What had Doris done with the spoils? Was Bill still promising they would run away to the Tropics together? Why hadn’t she spent any of it? Was she hoarding it all for the day when she’d leave town for good? The diamonds were heavy in her lap, and down Mayfield Road, Doris lay withering in her hospital bed. A lot of good they would do her now.

  Her shaking hands gathered the evidence and stuffed it all back into the zippered bag. Beatrice wiped her tears bitterly. Doris had robbed those poor people. Doris was a thief and a liar. Her mother had warned Beatrice not to trust her aunt years ago, but she hadn’t wanted to believe it. She still didn’t want to believe it. Doris had taken her in. She’d given her a place to live. She’d helped her get a job.

  Her thoughts ground to a halt. Doris had sent her to Bill at the bank. Was she hoping that Beatrice would play some sort of role in their sick game? Had Doris sent her to Max as well? Max had the master key. Did that mean Max knew about the robberies all along? Beatrice squeezed her aunt’s bag until her knuckles were white.

  Get out. The words repeated in her head as her heart hung heavily in her chest. She was holding a small fortune in her hands. The diamonds would get her at least a thousand dollars, even if they were stolen. It would be enough to leave town and start over.

  A hand fell gently onto her shoulder. Beatrice let out a yelp. The choir stopped singing.

  “Oh, I’m sorry I startled you, miss.” The old priest behind her chuckled. He waved up to the conductor. The children started over, and then he leaned down and spoke softly. “Are you all right?”

  Beatrice wiped smeared mascara from her cheeks and nodded.

  “The holidays can be a very difficult time of year for many people, I know.” He patted her shoulder. “But the sanctuary is closed for rehearsals. You’re welcome to come back tomorrow evening.”

  Beatrice managed a weak smile. “I’m sorry, Father.”

  She stood up and followed him back to the rear entrance of the church. Shame washed over her. Her aunt had robbed widows and children, and Beatrice had just contemplated doing the same thing. Selling the stolen diamonds would make her no different than Doris.

  She paused at the door and noticed a box marked “Donations” on a large table filled with small red candles. “Excuse me, Father?”

  “Yes, my child?”

  “Why are there so many candles?” She pointed to the red votives.

  “They’re to remember the ones we’ve lost and the ones we still pray for.” He motioned to a small altar tucked in the back of the sanctuary. Three large candle stands were covered in melted wax like dried red tears. “Feel free to make a donation if you’d like to remember someone tonight.”

  He left her alone with the candles and the donation box. An old padlock hung open from the latch of the box, its one arm welcoming the world, trusting all, and refusing none. She touched the open lock. If only this were the way of the world. Beatrice picked up a candle and held it, then gazed back at the altar and the children. A little slip of paper was glued to the bottom. It was a prayer.

  Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.

  She stared at the words. How? she wondered, blinking back her tears. How will the meek ever inherit a thing? The men in charge had the system tied up. No matter what she or Max told the authorities, no one would believe them, and the money men would get away with murder. If Max didn’t disappear, she was going to end up in jail. Beatrice was going to leave town. Doris was going to die. Were they the meek? Would God save them? Her eyes fell to Doris’s zippered bag. Do we deserve to be saved?

  Beatrice opened the bag.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered to a person she’d never met as she pulled the long necklace out and deposited it into the collection box. The earrings were next. Her hand trembled as it lifted the ring from the bag. It was an engagement ring. It had once held someone’s dreams for a bright future.

  Beatrice held the ring over the open mouth of the donation box and tried to let go. “Forgive me.”

  Moments later, Beatrice hurried back out into the night. She headed north toward Euclid Avenue, only stopping once to look back at three candles flickering in the window.

  CHAPTER 65

  The cab dropped Beatrice under a big, blue sign that read “The Lancer Motel.” She pulled open the clouded glass door and slipped inside. The lounge was packed from end to end. The swell of the piano, chattering voices, and thick smoke flooded her ears and lungs. She wanted to drown in the sea of faces, but her pale skin and hair were a beacon in the dim light. Head down, she edged her way along the back wall to the bar.

  “Have you seen Max?” Beatrice shouted over the din to the man behind the beer taps.

  “Who?” he growled, clenching a small cigar between his teeth.

  “Maxine McDonnell. Is she here?”

  “I don’t know what the hell you talkin’ about. You want to stand there, you gotta order something.”

  “Stinger,” she shouted, and took the only empty stool.

  A strange man in a black leather hat turned toward her and grinned. His bleary eyes wandered up and down her body, lingering on her aunt’s mink coat. “You lookin’ for somebody, baby?”

  “Um, yes. Max? Maxine McDonnell?” she squeaked.

  “Heard she left town.” He reached out and stroked the fur. Beatrice shrank against the bar. “How you know Maxie?”

  “She’s a friend.” She stood to leave, but the man held on to her coat.

  “Where you goin’, baby? We ain’t done talkin’ yet.”

  “Leave it alone, Sam, she’s with me,” a gravelly voice said behind her.

  It was Ramone. Beatrice gasped in both surprise and utter relief to see the security guard by her side.

  “Well, well, Ray-Ray. Looks like you’re movin’ up in the world.” The man in the hat motioned to Beatrice. He blew a cloud of cigar smoke in Ramone’s face, then bared a gold tooth.

  Ramone squared his shoulders and offered Beatrice his hand. She grabbed it and slid away from the bar. The man in the hat stared Ramone dead in the eye and let go of her coat.

  Ramone pulled her out of the lounge and into a blind alley. He threw down her hand and grabbed her by the shoulders. “What the hell were you doin’ in there? Do you know who you were talkin’ to? Do you know how close you just came to findin’ yourself in a new profession?”

  She pressed her back against a brick wall in the alley and shook her head slowly. “Ma . . . Max left me a note.”

  “She did?” Ramone let her go. “What did it say? She all right?”

  “I don’t know. I found it at my aunt’s place. It told me to get out and said something about the Lancer . . .” Beatrice’s mind trailed off, still reeling about what might have happened if Ramone hadn’t appeared out of nowhere.

  “The bitch is crazy!” Ramone shouted up at the starless sky. “I don’t know what the hell she’s thinkin’! This shit has gone too far!”

  “What’s gone too far? What h
as she been doing?” she shouted back. “They say she’s been breaking into the building and sleeping there. They must have found my stuff—I don’t know how. They say she’s been stealing. They’ve called the FBI! Her brother says he can’t help, and no one’s going to believe her.”

  Ramone glared at her without saying a word. It only made Beatrice more hysterical.

  “I thought we were friends, but she sent me here to be attacked by what? Pimps? Is that what that man was back there? A pimp? Why did he know Max? Why did he know you? Are you some sort of pimp too?” She didn’t care if he was offended. The fact that he had just showed up out of nowhere suddenly seemed too lucky to be a mere coincidence.

  “Girl, you don’t know shit, do you? It’s probably why she picked you.”

  Beatrice’s jaw dropped; then her mouth clamped shut before a stream of questions could escape. She shoved her freezing hands in her pockets and squeezed the master key to the vault. Max had told Beatrice not to go looking for answers. She said that she’d come for the key when it was all over. But then she sent Beatrice into the Lancer with a frantically scribbled note. Either something must have gone wrong, or Max didn’t think she was stupid.

  “Why are you here?” Beatrice demanded.

  He lit a cigarette and motioned back to the lounge. “This was our meeting place back in the day. Whenever things were going bad, she’d turn up and find me here. Max was always in some kind of trouble. Probably ’cause she came to places like this. I keep thinking she’ll turn up here again.”

  “Has she?”

  “Not yet. But she sent you in there for some reason. Maybe she thinks we ought to talk. You know, you’re more like Max than I ever would’ve thought. You’re the only other white girl I’ve seen walk in that place alone.”

  Beatrice couldn’t tell if it was an insult or a compliment. “What do you think she’d want us to discuss?”