The Dead Key Part 39

CHAPTER 74.

Thursday, December 14, 1978 Beatrice lowered Box 544 onto the floor of the vault with a soft thunk. It was the box in Max's name, and it contained all the d.a.m.ning evidence against her-diamonds and thousands of dollars in cash. Money for Mary, Beatrice thought as she emptied her large handbag to make room. All of the keys Max had stolen, her files, a leather book, a cracked photograph, and three red candles tumbled out onto the bronze floor. She'd taken the candles from the church as a reminder that above all else, she had to do the right thing.

As she stuffed the stolen jewels and money into her bag, her heart filled with doubt. With the box empty, no one would be able to blame Max for the robberies. Max would get her daughter back. But taking the fortune made her a thief, just like Doris. Beatrice picked up a red candle and set it in the box before locking it back in the vault. Please, G.o.d, forgive me if this isn't right.

She moved on to Box 547. If the police raided the vault, surely they would check Doris's box. Tony knew her aunt was involved in the robberies and had given Key 547 back to Beatrice when they'd met at the diner. He would lead them there. Lifting the lid, she found the same rolls of dollar bills and bags of quarters she'd discovered days earlier. The waitressing tips were her aunt's excuse for going into the vault week after week while her buddy s.h.i.+rley looked the other way. The money wasn't stolen, and Beatrice would need it to buy a bus ticket out of town. Doris would understand, she told herself. She took the cash and then placed the brown leather book, the written record of all of her aunt's sins, inside the box for the detective to find.

"I'm sorry, Doris," she whispered.

She laid the picture of her aunt and mother smiling into the box. It would be the last time she saw any trace of Doris. Beatrice said a silent prayer and set a candle inside with the photograph, then snapped the door shut.

Box 256 was the one in Beatrice's name. She opened it last, not knowing what might lie inside and not sure she wanted to know. Her heart sank when she saw that the box was filled to the top with stolen jewelry. Beatrice would surely go to prison if Tony or anyone else found it. d.a.m.n it, Doris, she thought, lifting handful after handful out of the box and into her bag. How am I ever going to make this right?

A yellow piece of paper emerged from under the pile. Beatrice picked it up and stopped breathing when she saw the name typed at the top-"Beatrice Marie Davis. Born: June 12, 1962. Mother: Doris Estelle Davis. Father: Unknown."

She sat there stunned as precious minutes ticked by. According to the parchment in her shaking hands, everything she knew about her life was a lie. Ilene wasn't her mother. Her father hadn't run off when she was three. Doris was not her estranged aunt who'd sent her birthday cards but had never bothered to visit. Doris was something worse.

At the bottom of the deposit box lay a picture of a baby. Pink cheeks, blue eyes, and a little yellow bow-a tiny face looked out from the cold, gray metal. Is this . . . me? Beatrice had never seen a baby picture of herself-not in Ilene's house, not in Doris's apartment. She picked the photo up and turned it over. "Beatrice" was scrawled on the back along with some other writing that blurred together through her tears. Doris had left the picture in the vault. She'd left her alone.

Hatred for Doris, Bill, and the bank boiled over. Beatrice ripped the birth certificate in half and threw it back into the box. She didn't want any part of Doris Davis. Not her name, nothing. Better to be locked away forever, she thought. Her whole life was a mistake. A lie.

There wasn't time for tears. The money men would be back. She gathered all of the vault keys Max had stolen and threw them in on top of the torn paper. The b.a.s.t.a.r.ds would have to drill every box. She grabbed the last candle off the ground and squeezed it until her palm hurt.

"G.o.d help me," she whispered, holding the baby picture to her chest. There was no way to make any of it right. It doesn't matter anymore, she thought, and let the candle drop onto the piles of keys. Beatrice Baker was dead. She'd never existed in the first place. She slammed the lid shut and shoved the box back into its hole.

As she pulled two keys from the door to Box 256, she heard footsteps in the corridor. She dropped the last ring of keys into her purse, grabbed her files, and hurried out of the vault.

"Bethany? What are you doing in here?" It was Bill. He stopped her in the doorway.

"Oh! Mr. Thompson!" Beatrice tucked her heavy purse under her arm and quickly wiped her face with her s.h.i.+rt sleeve. She could barely stand to look at him and dropped her eyes to the floor. "You frightened me."

"You shouldn't be in here. Who put you up to this? Randy?" His eyes darted around nervously as if Randy might be there too.

"Um, yes. Mr. Halloran thought I might be able to help with the key problem."

"Key problem?" He narrowed his eyes at her.

"I guess he thought I might . . . be able to interpret s.h.i.+rley's notes on the key system. I understand that she recently quit."

Beatrice crossed her fingers and prayed her knowledge about s.h.i.+rley's disappearance would convince him. She motioned to her files so he might not notice her overstuffed handbag. "I . . . I stayed late trying to read her shorthand, but it's really . . . messy."

"But what the h.e.l.l are you doing in here?" He grabbed her by the arm and dragged her out of the vault and into the corridor.

She struggled to keep talking. "It was foolish really."

"It was. I don't think you have any idea what you've done."

"I . . . I guess I just wanted to try. I didn't want to tell Mr. Halloran I couldn't do it . . . It was silly."

"Silly? Bethany, you have just committed a crime! You're not authorized to be in here. I'll hand you over to the police if you don't give me those keys and tell me everything."

Beatrice let her jaw drop and her eyes bulge fearfully as her mind raced. He didn't even know her name-after everything he'd done to Doris, after everything he'd done to her. The words "Father: Unknown" were still burning in the back of her eyes. She could picture Doris pregnant, getting fired from her job. How the rest of the story fell into place, Beatrice couldn't be sure, but she knew Bill was largely to blame. With his lies and schemes, he'd tricked Doris into doing his dirty work for him.

She squeezed the master key, still hidden in the palm of her hand, and thought about Carmichael and Jim somewhere in the building. Whoever had the key surely had a death warrant on their head. It was worthless without the others, and they were all locked in Box 256-all but the last set in her purse. She gazed into Bill's beady eyes. He didn't even know her name.

With a bewildered frown, she held out the key in her hand. "Keys? All I have is this one. Mr. Halloran said it would open every box in the vault, but as far as I can tell it doesn't do a thing."

Bill's eyes grew wide, and he s.n.a.t.c.hed the key from her hand. "Randy gave this to you?"

Beatrice nodded meekly.

"That son of a b.i.t.c.h," he muttered under his breath. "Bethany, you're coming with me."

He began pulling her through the lower lobby toward the elevators. She glanced at the tunnel door but realized she wouldn't make it. She had to do something.

"Oh, Mr. Thompson, my other file! I really shouldn't leave it." She pulled her arm free and spun back toward the vault, trying to keep her bag from jingling.

"What file?" Mr. Thompson was thrown off balance but quickly recovered and began following her. "Bethany! Get back here."

"It will just take a second," Beatrice called over her shoulder, and began running. She dashed through the dark vault corridor to the service stairs, with Bill lumbering far behind her.

"Bethany! Stop!"

Beatrice raced up the stairs in her stocking feet. The border of the door behind her lit up as the lights in the vault switched on. She burst into the loading dock. Her eyes circled the concrete walls, and the sound of the dock entrance rumbling open sent her sprinting to a blank door five feet away. She closed it behind her and pressed her back to the metal. Her heavy bag swung and hit it with a silvery clank. She was in the emergency stair tower.

The stairwell wound up into the high-rise. She began to run. Her scrambling thoughts searched for an exit as she climbed. In a few hours, workers would file in to the lobby. It would be Friday morning. If she could just hide until dawn, she'd be safe.

The door at the bottom of the stair tower slammed open three flights below her. Beatrice squeaked and hit the wall. She inched up the last three steps to the third-floor entrance. The hinges whined in protest as she cracked the door open and slipped out. The door clicked shut behind her. Her heart fluttered in her chest. She stood frozen, listening. The third floor was silent.

Beatrice turned and fled down the hall, trying doork.n.o.bs. They were all locked. She rounded the corner, and panic swelled inside her as she dug through her bag for Max's door keys. She couldn't hide in the hallway, not for long. She turned another corner and finally managed to pull the keys from her purse. The door to the personnel office was straight ahead. The light was out. There were no footsteps or voices. Beatrice fumbled for the right key, glancing down the empty corridor. The correct one slid home, and she slipped inside, locking the door behind her. Out of breath, she crumpled to her knees.

CHAPTER 75.

Friday, August 28, 1998 "G.o.ddammit, Iris!" The man's voice echoed from the doorway to the back of the banking room. "I wasn't going to kill you."

His wing-tip shoes thundered down the aisle between teller stalls. Iris silently crawled along the service side of the counter back toward the entrance. His feet clacked all the way to the end of the room, and for a fleeting moment Iris dared hope that they might just keep going out the service exit and give her a chance to escape. But instead they turned. She slipped into a stall and underneath the narrow counter.

"I was going to make a deal an easy b.i.t.c.h like you couldn't resist-fifty grand to go back home to Mom and forget all this. No one would have believed you anyway, Iris-a disgruntled employee, a thief, an alcoholic. But now . . . now I'm going to kill you."

The sound of teller doors being slammed open one after the other thundered off the walls. He was on the service side of the teller booths and was getting closer to where she hid. The door of the stall next to hers slammed open. She was trapped. Pressing her back into the narrow corner, she squeezed her eyes shut.

"That's enough, Randy," a familiar voice commanded from the entrance.

Iris's eyes snapped open. It was Mr. Wheeler.

"Charles! What? What are you doing here?" Randy stopped just outside the booth where Iris hid. She could see the shadow of his wing-tip shoes under the stall door.

"I'd like to ask you the same thing."

Randy cleared his throat. "It seems that one of our junior engineers has been grossly misusing company time. I caught her red-handed down in the vault helping herself to a little severance pay. I was just about to call you."

"Of course you were."

Through the gap of the teller door, Iris could see Randy gripping his gun. His footsteps fell softer than before as he made his way back to the open floor where Mr. Wheeler stood.

"You doubt my company loyalty, Charles. After all these years?"

"You've never been part of the company, Randy. We've tolerated you all these years out of respect for your father. That debt is now paid in full. You're finished."

"Like h.e.l.l I am! The Halloran family still holds a majority share in the First Bank of Cleveland. Paid for in blood. d.a.m.n it!"

Iris had to move. This might be her only chance. On numb hands and knees, she crept out of the teller booth and began inching her way toward the back exit.

"Your stock's been bought up," Mr. Wheeler said flatly.

"What do you mean, bought? By who?"

"When the vault was compromised, the board had to exercise options, leverage its a.s.sets. You know how it goes."

"What the h.e.l.l are you talking about?"

Iris was nearly at the rear exit when the door cracked opened. She scrambled into the last teller booth as a set of black orthopedic shoes stepped into the room.

"Our a.s.sets were too locked up, if you know what I mean," Mr. Wheeler said with a cold laugh. "Between the feds monitoring the gold market and our commitment to the privacy of our valued customers, we couldn't just drill open boxes. Not for at least ten years. We had to get out of commodities, Randy. Fortunately, we found an investor with a long-term holding strategy we could live with."

"h.e.l.lo, Randy," said a voice in a thick Italian accent.

"Carmichael. What the h.e.l.l are you doing here?"

"I own this place as of today. Me and the family have been investing in the old bank for years. How could we refuse? No taxes. No questions. We're getting gold for pennies on the dollar."

Iris peeked around the corner. It was the bartender from Ella's Pub who'd been so friendly to her. He was holding a large gun in his hand. It was pointed at Randy.

"What?" Randy laughed uncomfortably. His gun fell to the ground with a metal thunk. He took a step backward with his hands up. "Carmichael, I had no idea . . ."

"You know, I told Jim we should have taken care of you years ago, but he thought you might be useful. Who was right, huh?" The old man chuckled like an uncle. "Ah, I remember when you were just a chubby teenager lagging after your papa on the golf course. At least you had some manners back then. I think you had more brains back then."

"Carmichael, I . . . I meant no disrespect."

"Disrespect? Oh no. Certainly not."

"It's not what it looks like," Randy protested. "That girl. She stole the keys. She led that pig cop right in here."

"That was unfortunate," Carmichael said. Then a thunderclap shook the walls as he fired the gun into Randy's chest.

Iris recoiled and smothered a scream in her hands.

Randy's body hit the ground with a thump.

"You see, Randy, the brave detective stopped you in the middle of a robbery with his gun here, but not before you fired a fatal shot." Mr. Wheeler spoke from across the room as though he were at a board meeting.

Randy responded with a wet gurgling sound as he choked on his own blood.

Mr. Wheeler's footsteps came closer. "The City of Cleveland will finally recover some of those mismanaged funds the Halloran family h.o.a.rded all those years ago. Detective McDonnell will get a Medal of Honor for his tireless work to uncover the truth. He'll be a hero. So will our dear commissioner, Jim Stone, just in time for the election cycle. You see, Randy, it will all work out for the best."

Iris curled into a trembling ball as Randy released his last breath. The booth was shrinking around her. She couldn't breathe.

The leather clack of expensive shoes came closer, until it stopped just on the other side of the part.i.tion where she hid. "You got this under control?" Mr. Wheeler asked Carmichael.

"Not a problem. Bruno is on his way. We'll clean this up and make it right. Give us fifteen minutes before the sirens."

Iris clamped a hand over her mouth to keep from whimpering aloud. The sweet old man was going to shoot her next.

"Be sure to leave a few million on the cart. We'll sort the rest later. What are you going to do with her?" Mr. Wheeler tapped the wood part.i.tion next to Iris's head.

A small sob choked out of her throat.

"There's too much blood on the scene," Carmichael said. "We don't want anything to tarnish Detective McDonnell's act of heroism, do we? It will only lead to more questions. She'll disappear, okay? I make sure."

"Just be sure to finish the job. She's not as dumb as she looks," Mr. Wheeler said, then strode out of the room.

Less than a minute after the door slammed closed, the back entrance opened. Two sets of heavy shoes walked into the room. Iris squeezed her eyes shut and shrunk into a corner. They were there to drag her away.

"Bruno, we need to clean the scene. Get our thief here back down to the vault so our detective can shoot him," Carmichael instructed. "Ramone, did you get what I requested?"

A gravelly voice answered, "I got the bag, but I'm not sure what you want me to do with it."

"Do what you like with it." Carmichael paused and there was the sound of a back being patted. "Consider it payment for twenty years of service and you being my eyes and ears in this place."

"I didn't stay here for you," Ramone muttered.

"I know. You stayed here for my Maxie. This is for her too. It's for all the girls that brought those G.o.dd.a.m.ned bankers down. Even Iris here. If she hadn't found that body, those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds would have sold the building off to their friends at the county and found some way to cheat us out of what was owed. She kept 'em honest, and I always pay my debts."