The Dead Key Part 14

"What sorts of things?"

"Files were disappearing from the Deposits Office. And keys . . ."

"Keys for what?"

"The safe deposit boxes, among others," Suzanne said through a cloud of smoke. "You see, the story to the customers was the keys got lost when the bank was sold to Columbus Trust and they chained the doors, but they were lost a couple weeks before that. It was a witch hunt through all the departments right up until the day they chained the doors."

"Did your friend tell that to the police?" Iris leaned forward on the couch and stared into Suzanne's leathery face. The woman's pale blue eyes were trained on her cigarette.

"Well, no. She didn't."

"Why not?"

"There were threats." Suzanne said it flatly, as if it were common knowledge.

Iris waited for more information, but Suzanne seemed lost in thought. She tapped a two-inch ash into the crystal tray balanced on her knee. Thick blue veins ran the length of her skinny calves. Iris couldn't help but wonder if the old bat was just making it all up. She seemed to like the attention.

Finally Iris had to ask, "What sort of threats?"

"I got a call in the middle of the night the week before the bank closed." Suzanne gazed out the ratty screen at the brown gra.s.s dotting the front lawn. "The man said I would do well not to mention any odd goings-on at the bank. Said I should cooperate with police but keep my mouth shut."

"Or what would happen?"

"Didn't say really, but I had a good idea. A few people disappeared around that time."

"Disappeared? Who?"

"That girl, Beatrice, for one thing. I got that phone call from her late one night about some safe deposit box. I didn't think much of it at the time. But you know it kinda got to me. I couldn't stop thinking about it. So I went to see her. I went all the way up to the ninth floor to find her a few days later. She wasn't there. No one knew where she was, and the way I heard it, she never came back."

"What do you think happened to her?"

"I couldn't say." Suzanne stamped out her cigarette.

"Why did you say she was a liar?"

"Some girl I never met called me up thinking I had some deposit box at the bank. That was a lie! Lord knows who else she blabbed that nonsense to. You can't be too careful. At least, I can't."

Suzanne had been scared. Iris supposed she would be too if some man called in the middle of the night with threats. None of this had anything to do with why she'd driven all the way to Lakewood. She pulled the key out of her pocket and showed it to the old woman.

"Is this yours?"

Suzanne's eyes narrowed. She lit another cigarette and blew out an angry stream of smoke. "I told you. I ain't never had a safe deposit box."

"Do you know who it might belong to?" Iris pressed, not wanting to admit she'd taken it directly from Suzanne's desk. "Maybe this Beatrice person."

"I really couldn't say."

d.a.m.n it. Iris shoved the key back in her pocket. "So . . . whatever happened with the police investigation?"

"Nothin'. That was the thing. One day they were calling everybody, and the next day nothin'."

"So, then, what did you mean when you said the other day that some people got what was coming?" Iris asked.

"A couple rich families went bankrupt. It was all over the news. The Hallorans. The Wackerlys. Old Man Mercer died. They said it was a car crash." Suzanne shrugged. "Maybe it was."

The name Halloran was familiar for some reason. Iris puzzled over it until she remembered Linda up on the third floor. Her last name was Halloran. Iris shook her head, trying to knock loose the connections between Linda, Suzanne, Beatrice, and the bank. Suzanne's story didn't add up. Then again, she probably had a screw loose.

"You better be careful who you go asking about the First Bank of Cleveland," Suzanne said, pointing a bony, brown finger at Iris. "There's a reason that building hasn't been bothered all these years."

"Is that why you called me? To tell me to be careful?"

"Well, I wasn't going to say nothin', but you seemed like a nice enough girl on the phone. I didn't want to have you on my conscience." She lit another cigarette.

"Thanks, I guess, but what do you think is going to happen exactly? I mean, who really cares about the old bank at this point?" Iris eyed the smoke and debated lighting one herself.

"You'd be surprised how many of those fat-cat bankers is still around." Suzanne looked Iris dead in the eye. "The last person that called me at home asking about safe deposit boxes disappeared. I just thought you should know that."

Something on Suzanne's wrist flashed in the sun. It sparkled like diamonds. Iris squinted at the hint of a bracelet. She opened her mouth to ask about it, but the roar of a station wagon pulling into the driveway stopped her. A pretty young woman got out of the car and retrieved a little girl from the backseat.

"Sheryl!" Suzanne waved the young woman over. "Come meet Irma. She's telling me all about these neat encyclopedias we could buy."

"What?" Iris glared at Suzanne in protest.

"Christ." Sheryl sighed under her breath. "Miss, don't pay any attention to my aunt. She doesn't really want what you're selling. She just likes to talk. You should really be going now." She set her daughter down inside the front door and motioned Iris to the driveway.

"But . . ." Iris still had questions, but it seemed her time was up. She stood and played along. "Thank you for your time, Ms. Peplinski. You know how to reach me if you change your mind about the books."

Iris headed down the driveway to her car. She scanned the street, lined with rusted American cars, trying to make sense of what Suzanne had told her. The crazy old woman claimed she didn't know the owner of the key. Beatrice Baker had called Suzanne about a safe deposit box, and then she disappeared. The old lady was worried it would happen again.

"What a nutcase," Iris whispered, but an uneasy feeling settled into her gut. Someone had hired Ramone to guard the building with its abandoned files and whatever was still locked in the vault.

Back on the porch, Suzanne was still in her rocker, smoking. She waved as Iris pulled away.

CHAPTER 28.

Friday, December 1, 1978 The late bus dropped Beatrice at the end of Doris's street. Her bag was heavy with Max's files and keys. Who's the thief now? It was a small comfort to know she had something to trade for her aunt's key. That is, if she ever saw Max again.

Beatrice climbed the crooked stairs toward her aunt's door with her eyes at her feet. It wasn't until she reached the top steps that she realized the door wasn't shut. A sliver of light was gleaming at her. She froze. She knew she hadn't forgotten to lock it, and she always turned out the light. She dropped to her knees with a hand over her mouth. The walls were paper thin, and the apartment was tiny. She held her breath and listened. Her heart pounded out the seconds as she watched the doorway for moving shadows.

After several minutes had pa.s.sed, she crawled up the last three steps on her hands and knees and pushed the door open wider. Inside, the room where she slept had been torn apart. The cus.h.i.+ons of the couch were flung onto the floor. The three drawers in the kitchenette were pulled out and dumped on the ground. The refrigerator door was standing open. Paper, pots, pans, and silverware covered the ground.

She shot up in alarm. All of her clothes had been violently ripped from the hangers and were piled on the ground next to the radiator. The bed in Doris's room was thrown up against a wall, and the worn quilt and sheets had been torn from the mattress. Dresser drawers were smashed around the room. Doris's trampled underwear covered the floor. The closet door had been thrown open and all of its contents tossed out. The mink, the tweed suits, the hatboxes, the go-go boots all were in a knee-deep pile next to the bed.

Beatrice s.n.a.t.c.hed up the fur coat protectively. A burglar would have taken the mink. It didn't make sense. She picked up the photograph of young Doris and Ilene off the floor. The gla.s.s was cracked. She cradled the picture frame and fur coat, sinking to her knees.

An empty dresser drawer lay smashed on the ground next to her. Beatrice stared at it until she couldn't see anything but her own tears. Who would do this? Why? Then something occurred to her. Her aunt's letters and bank files were gone. She looked behind the mattress leaning against the wall and around the floor. They were nowhere to be found, and yet she had left them all on the bed in plain sight.

Beatrice backed out of her aunt's room. The kitchen drawers, the cus.h.i.+ons, the medicine cabinet in the bathroom-they'd all been emptied and tossed on the ground. Someone had been looking for something. Her aunt's purse was splayed out on the couch frame. The lining had been ripped out; the seams had been cut. Even her cigarette pack had been pulled apart. Then Beatrice realized her aunt's key ring was gone. An image of the safe deposit key, the key Max had stolen, flashed in the back of her mind.

She couldn't stay there. Someone had Doris's keys. They might be back. They might have noticed that Doris didn't live alone. Beatrice grabbed her old suitcase off the floor. She stuffed all of the clothes and toiletries she could fit in the bag. She fought it closed and dragged it to the open door. The frigid air outside had begun to fill the room, but Beatrice couldn't feel a thing. She yanked the full suitcase thumping down the stairs and into the snow. She ran back up to the open door and scanned the ruined insides of the apartment once more before slamming it shut.

The bag left a trail in the snow behind her, until she reached the end of the street. Calabria's Diner, where her aunt had worked, was still open. There was nowhere else she could think to go. She picked up the heavy suitcase and tried to walk with some composure the half a block to the restaurant.

Beatrice pushed the door to the diner open and was greeted by a warm blast of air and the sizzle of the fryer in the back. The restaurant was half-full. Beatrice dragged herself over to a booth and shoved her overstuffed luggage under the table. She collapsed onto the vinyl seat and put her head down on the coffee-stained Formica.

A few minutes later, a pair of orthopedic shoes walked up beside her. It was Gladys.

"Beatrice, honey. How are you doing? How's your aunt holding up?"

Beatrice lifted her head and forced a weak smile.

The old woman nodded and put a hand on her shoulder. "Can I get you something, hon? It's on the house."

"Soup?"

"Coming right up." Gladys squeezed her shoulder and walked away.

The room around her was distorted with overwhelming smells and sounds and buzzing yellow light. She might throw up, she realized, and buried her head in her hands. She couldn't call the police. What would she tell them? She'd been robbed, but the burglar only took some old love letters and keys. She didn't even have proof she lived there-she wasn't on the lease. Worse yet, it wasn't legal for her to be living on her own at all. She was still technically a minor. The police might drag her away to a foster home or worse. She dug the palms of her hands into her eyes to plug the tears.

The smell of food forced them back open. Gladys had brought a bowl of soup, a plate of fried chicken, a salad, and a c.o.ke. It was a feast.

"You just let us know if we can do anything to help, okay, honey?" The sweet old woman patted her hand.

Beatrice nodded, afraid to speak.

As she ate, the wheels slowly began to turn in her mind. She had to do something. She couldn't call her mother. She wouldn't call Max. Then a light clicked on in between her dark thoughts. She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a business card. It read "Detective Anthony McDonnell." Tony had written a second phone number on the back. The clock that hung over the lunch counter read 8:16 p.m.

"Do you need anything else, honey?" Gladys asked, waddling toward her.

"Do you have a pay phone?"

CHAPTER 29.

Max's brother Tony answered the phone after six rings. "h.e.l.lo?"

"Detective McDonnell? This is Beatrice . . . Max's friend."

"Right. Beatrice." She could hear him smiling. "Is everything all right?"

"Well, no." Her voice cracked a little. "Can you meet me at Calabria's Diner?"

"I'll be there in twenty minutes. Can you wait?"

"Yes. I'll be here." She was relieved that he didn't ask questions. She wasn't quite sure what to tell him.

Beatrice returned to her chicken and soup and ate until she couldn't stomach any more. She picked at the salad and tried to figure out what to tell Tony. She needed help. She didn't have anyone else to call, but she wasn't sure she should trust Max's brother. Max had stolen her aunt's key.

Beatrice glanced down at her handbag, still heavy with the things she'd taken from Max that evening. The huge ring of keys lay at the bottom. Then there was the file of notes hidden in shorthand, and another file she'd pulled out of Max's desk at the last minute while the security guard tapped his foot.

She pulled the mystery folder out and examined the label. It read, "Box 447." Inside she found a typed form on First Bank of Cleveland letterhead. It was addressed to the State of Ohio. The t.i.tle read "Custody Transfer." The form listed the box owner as "Beverly Lerner." It gave her last known address and social security number. The date of repossession was listed as June 16, 1973. A catalog of contents was provided. Beatrice scanned the list and saw that Box 447 contained birth certificates, a will, and fourteen diamonds. Her eyes locked on the word "diamonds." The karat size was given for all fourteen, and each diamond was bigger than the last, with the largest being estimated at six karats. Box 447 had once contained a fortune.

She pulled out the folder of Max's handwritten notes and searched until she found it. Box 447. Max had tried to reach Beverly on June 1 and couldn't find her. The phone had been disconnected. Max's note at the bottom of the page read in shorthand, "State has no record of repossession."

She turned her eyes back to the bank form letter. In smaller print there was a paragraph full of lawyerly words turning over custody of the box contents to the state for "holding or auction." The letter was signed by "William S. Thompson, Auditing Department." She traced the signature with her finger and realized it had been stamped onto the form letter as was done with so much other standard correspondence. She searched the bottom of the sheet for the processor's initials and found them in the lower left corner. They read "DED." Doris?

Behind the custody form, Beatrice found a single sheet of paper labeled "Note to File." It was a typed record of Max's phone call to Beverly. The final note read, "Customer nonresponsive." The initials at the bottom of the page read "MRM." Max had typed the record.

Beatrice sat back in her booth and chewed on her straw. Max had been given the a.s.signment to audit the safe deposit boxes by Mr. Thompson after an irate customer claimed that her box had been repossessed unfairly. Max proceeded to call customers, presumably ones who were no longer paying their fees or whose boxes had been reclaimed, to verify their whereabouts and the validity of a repossession. Max had a drawer full of organized files doc.u.menting repossessions. After an irate customer came forward demanding her possessions, Max had been convinced something was not right at the bank. She had even asked Tony to open an investigation. Max followed up on the notices herself and found out that the state had no record of any transfers. Fortunes had vanished. Now Max was gone. Max had taken her aunt's key while Beatrice was sleeping and then up and quit her job the next day.

"You look deep in thought," a husky voice said from across the table. Tony slid into the seat across from her.

"Oh. Hi." Beatrice hadn't realized how much time had pa.s.sed. She'd planned to put everything away before he arrived.

"What is all this?" he asked, looking at the piles of papers.

"Oh, it's just work stuff." She shook her head and gathered up the papers as if they were of little interest. "I sort of fell behind at the office. My aunt's been ill."

She hated using Aunt Doris as an excuse. Sympathy wouldn't help. She didn't check to see whether his eyes softened on her behalf. She just shoved the papers back into her bag as quickly as she could manage. When she looked up, he was waving Gladys and her coffeepot over.

"I'm sorry to hear about your aunt."

"Thanks. She's over at University Hospitals. I don't think she's going to make it." Beatrice bit the inside of her lip. It was the first time she'd said it out loud. Tears pooled at the corners of her eyes.

Tony slid his hand across the table to hers and gave it a gentle pat. "I'm so sorry."

An uncomfortable silence settled over the table. His hand was nearly twice the size of hers. He pulled it away when the coffee arrived and went to work doctoring his mug with cream and sugar-three heaping spoons of sugar. Beatrice cracked a small smile.

"What can I say? I guess I like things sweet." He winked at her. "So, what can I do for you, Beatrice?"

She knew the question was coming. She still didn't know what to say about the missing key or the bank letters, so she began slowly. "Someone broke into my aunt's house."

The good humor drained from his face. "Are you all right? Were you home?"