The Dead Key Part 25

Stay away from the money men. Beatrice thought about it the rest of the night and all the next day of typing and filing. That meant leaving Teddy and Jim alone. The next night, she stared at the door from her bed in the dark office, wondering what the money men were up to and what it all had to do with Bill and Aunt Doris.

There was a soft knocking on the other side. Beatrice scrambled into a corner as the bra.s.s k.n.o.b turned and the door slowly swung open. It was Ramone. He couldn't help smiling at her petrified expression, and motioned her into the hall. She followed him to the service elevator and down to the lowest level of the building.

He led her through a large corridor with two huge, round steel doors. "These are the vault doors. They're always locked, and they're rigged with alarms, so don't get any crazy ideas. There's TV cameras too." He pointed to a large gray box with a round, black lens near the ceiling.

"What do you mean cameras?" She'd never noticed cameras in the building before.

"Closed-circuit monitoring. They just installed it in the vault last year. They still workin' the bugs out. If the little red light is on, watch out. Someone might be watching."

Beatrice froze, staring at the camera. "Who?"

"Well, that's one of the bugs. During the day, the guard watches the monitors from out in the lower lobby." He led her through a huge round doorway into a lobby area and pointed to the desk. There was a small TV sitting on the corner of it. "At night they usually turn this s.h.i.+t off."

"What's the bug then?"

"People upstairs can't make up their minds when they want it turned off and when they want people watching."

He was walking too fast to answer any more questions. She ran to catch up around the corner toward a large marble stairway that led up to what must be the main lobby. Ramone stopped at the side of the stairs and pushed on the wall. To Beatrice's amazement, the wall swung open, and she found herself in a room no bigger than a closet, staring at a metal door.

"This door leads to the steam tunnels," he explained, pulling out a key and unlocking it.

The door opened to a dark stairwell. Stale, dank air wafted up to where she was standing.

"The best way in and out is through the Stouffer's Inn. The tunnel will spit you out in the loading dock. Security is pretty lax over there. If anyone sees you, just look lost. They'll pat you on the head and send you down the road."

"You don't think they'll suspect something?" She stared down into the dark well, her stomach crawling up inside her rib cage.

"Little white girl like you?" He laughed and slapped her on the back. He handed her a small flashlight and looked over his shoulder at the room behind them. "Now go down and see if you can find your way there and back. I'll be around even if you don't see me."

Beatrice nodded and gripped the flashlight with white knuckles. Down the steep stairs she went. One shaking step at a time, she sank into the darkness below. Ramone closed the door above her and the light vanished, except for the tiny stream of the flashlight. The beam only stretched a few feet ahead down the tunnel before being devoured by the shadows. Her heart hammered loudly against her ribs. It was the only sound except for the occasional drip from the ceiling. It was like being trapped in a cave or coffin.

She crept along the narrow hall with one hand stretched out in front of her. She whacked her head with a howl on a low-hanging pipe but kept going. The walls got tighter and the ceiling got lower as she went. The urge to run, kicking and screaming, swelled in her brain stem. Beatrice sucked in a breath and began to hum the words she knew so well.

"Hush-a-bye, don't you cry. Go to sleep my little baby. When you wake, you shall have . . . All the pretty little horses . . . Way down yonder, in the meadow . . . lies a poor little baby . . ."

The humming helped, and she began to walk a bit faster. She would no longer be a prisoner in the bank, trapped without food all weekend. She might even be able to visit her aunt one last time.

As if the tunnel shared her renewed optimism, it opened into a large cavern. She could stand up straight and stretch. She looked around with her flashlight at the many tunnels that emptied into the room. One would take her to the loading dock of the hotel. One of the placards said "Terminal." That had to be the one. The Stouffer's Inn was next to the old Terminal Tower building. She took another deep breath and began barreling down the tunnel.

The narrow pa.s.sage went on for what seemed like miles. There were a few turns and bends, but for the most part it was a long straight line. Every once in a while, the tunnel would split. There would be a small plaque that read something like "May Company," or sometimes nothing at all. The smell of rotting leaves grew stronger as she went. The air was thick with it, until it felt like wet sludge moving in and out of her lungs. Beatrice kept humming.

A faint rustling echoed in the dark. Startled, she dropped the flashlight with a gasp. The rustling sounded louder. She fumbled for the light. The beam bounced off the tunnel walls as she scrambled past the rustling noise coming from somewhere low to the ground. She slowed her feet. It was a rat chewing on some paper. She never thought in her life she'd be relieved to see a rat. She let out the air behind the shriek she'd been holding and kept moving. Her feet sloshed through shallow puddles, and cool water seeped through the seams of her shoes.

Finally, there was a bend in the tunnel with a placard that read "Hotel Cleveland." She decided that it must be the right path and turned. After another city block, the pa.s.sage came to an end at a steel ladder. It stretched up over fifteen feet. Beatrice tucked the flashlight in her belt and began to climb. The higher she went, the more her hands trembled.

"Don't look down, don't look down . . ." She went one cold, slippery rung at a time until she hit a metal plate hovering above her. It was a hatch door. She pushed up on it, and it gave just a little. She tried again, and it moved a little more. Shoving with all her might, she forced the hatch open with a loud clank. Her head popped up into a room the size of an outhouse. Freezing-cold air hit her in the face, and she could hear the wind whistling around the thin walls of the shed. She scrambled up the ladder and looked around. There was nothing but the faint outline of a door. The handle turned easily and she pushed it open, not knowing what she'd find on the other side.

Beatrice was in an alley between two tall buildings. She didn't recognize either one. The plain brick backsides of the towers hovered over her head. Metal fire escapes and garage doors surrounded her. She stepped out, staring up at them without thinking, and the door swung closed. She ran back but was too late. It was locked. She tried the handle, and it wouldn't budge. She felt her pocket and rea.s.sured herself that she still had Max's heavy ring of keys. She was certain one would open the door. In the meantime, she had to find out where she was. She made her way down the narrow driveway between the two buildings and onto the street.

A limestone building stood across the road with the words "United States Post Office" etched across the top in ten-foot letters. She rounded the corner and saw a street sign that read "Superior Avenue." Then she recognized where she was standing. She was in the back of the hotel. The wind whipped through her sweater, and she realized she wasn't wearing a coat. She'd followed Ramone not knowing where they were headed. Her eyes darted around the empty sidewalks. It was quite late. All of the windows were dark.

A half a block away up ahead on the sidewalk, the shadow of a large person caught her eye. Whether they were walking toward her or not, Beatrice couldn't quite tell, but she started running back to the door in the alley. She pulled the keys from her pocket. Glancing over her shoulder, she could still see the shadow. At the door, she fumbled to find the right key and willed her fingers to move faster.

A key slid home on the third try. She yanked the door open and leapt inside. The shadow had moved farther down the street. Beatrice let out a breath and backed into the open hatch and nearly fell fifteen feet down the hole. She caught herself just in time, then scrambled down the ladder.

Her nerves were shot from all of the sleepless nights. She told herself to relax as she scurried back down the tunnels. She pa.s.sed through the cavernous junction and was nearly back to the stairs to the bank when she slammed right into Ramone's ribs.

She screamed, and Ramone clapped his hand over her mouth. "Shh! It's me. You can't come back up yet."

When she could speak without shrieking, Beatrice whispered, "What do you mean?"

"Someone's in the vault."

He led her back to the large cavern, where they could both stand.

"What do you mean, someone's in the vault?" It was after 10:00 p.m.

"One of the bigwigs. He told me it was official bank business and asked me to leave."

Ramone lit a cigarette.

"Is that normal?"

"It's getting more normal these days. But hey, they're the ones with the keys, right?"

"Did you get his name?"

"It's a younger guy. Reggie or somethin'."

"Randy? Randy Halloran?"

"Yeah, maybe." He exhaled smoke. "Only authorized personnel have the combination to the vaults. The combination changes every week. If he can open it, he's authorized."

Beatrice scowled, then asked, "Who changes the combinations?"

"A tall guy. He comes down every Monday morning. Vice president of something or another."

"What's his name?"

"That's 'Mr. James Stone to you, boy,'" he said in the condescending voice of an old white man.

Beatrice's eyes widened. Maybe James Stone was the Jim she'd heard talking in the middle of the night about bribing officials. Ramone tossed his cigarette onto the cement floor. "So how did your trip down the tunnels go?"

"Okay, I guess."

"Like I told Max, this s.h.i.+t is for emergencies only, got it? These tunnels ain't exactly safe."

Beatrice nodded in agreement and waited for Ramone to give her the all-clear signal before climbing back up the stairs out of the dark.

CHAPTER 49.

Sat.u.r.day, August 22, 1998 A team of five officers in uniform flooded the room, carrying duffel bags of equipment. Iris would have put up her hands if she wasn't so petrified. She sat on the floor next to the bathroom door in a daze as they turned on every light they could find. None of them spoke to her. They filed into the bathroom one by one. She could see the flashes of a camera bouncing off the walls in quick succession as if the pile of dead flies in the shower stall were movie stars on a red carpet.

A man in his midforties wearing a sports jacket and jeans stepped into the room. He had on a Cleveland Indians baseball cap. He could have been a middle-aged dad on his way to a Little League game. He looked right at her.

"You must be Iris."

He walked over and smiled warmly at her. She tried to smile back, but her face was frozen.

"I'm Detective McDonnell. I understand that you were the one that found the remains."

She nodded blankly.

"Let's get you out of here." He held out his hand to help her stand up.

Iris recoiled from his hand as though it might strike her. She shook it off and pushed herself up from the floor. Her arm hoisted her field bag onto her shoulder. The sudden weight s.h.i.+ft nearly sent her toppling over. The detective caught her shoulder as she staggered back on her heel.

She followed him out of the room, down the hall, and into the freight elevator without looking back. She never wanted to see the place again. When the elevator door finally closed, she sucked in what felt like her first breath in hours.

Her eyes began to refocus. "Where's Ramone?"

"He's being questioned by Detective Mendoza. Would you like to go get a cup of coffee?"

"I could really use a drink."

After everything she'd seen, she could use about a gallon of vodka. The bones buried under the flies rattled in her mind. She grabbed the wall of the elevator to steady herself. Suzanne had told her several people had disappeared when the bank closed. Beatrice's abandoned suitcase still sat in a closet up on the eleventh floor. But the body she found belonged to a man. The young girl's body might be buried somewhere else in the building. She could still see the metal grate to the cold-air return. It had been loose.

"How about a beer? I know a good place."

Iris raised her eyebrows. She gave a small nod and wondered what kind of cop would take her to a bar for questioning. A good one, she decided.

They stepped out of the elevator into the loading dock, where Iris caught sight of Ramone and a large Latina woman talking. He was smoking a cigarette. Iris stared at the gray plumes hanging in the air. Cigarette. Her purse and cigarettes were waiting inside her parked car.

"Tony, you want me to call the coroner?" the plump woman asked.

"Yeah," Detective McDonnell said. "We're going to need forensics too. I'll be back in an hour."

"Um, excuse me?" Iris pleaded with the detective, not taking her eyes off the cigarette dangling from Ramone's lips. "Do you mind if I drop off this bag? It's kind of heavy."

"Absolutely." The detective nodded, then walked over to Detective Mendoza and Ramone.

Iris ran down the steps from the loading dock to her rusted Mazda and dropped her bag inside. It was then she realized the dead man's key was still in her hand. Iris glanced back at the loading dock, where the detective was standing, and opened her mouth to say something. No words came out. She couldn't explain the key. Why didn't she give it to him right away? He would ask questions. She chewed her lip. He might check her bag. She glanced down at the ring of keys and stolen files sitting at the bottom of it. Guilt washed over her. Then panic. She shook it off. It doesn't matter, she told herself. You are not a suspect. A key didn't kill whoever was buried under the flies. It was just lying on the floor. She dropped it into her field bag, then grabbed her purse and lighter and joined the detective on the loading dock.

"Okay, Rita. I'll be back. No one else gets in that room until forensics arrives," the detective commanded as he led Iris out of the loading dock and onto the street.

The road behind the bank was clogged with police cruisers and flas.h.i.+ng lights. Iris wondered when on earth she'd be able to go home. She expected the detective to lead her to a car, but instead he began walking down the sidewalk.

"Come on," he said. "It's not far."

Iris stopped and lit a cigarette. She sucked in enough smoke to overwhelm the taste of rotting insects and vomit in the back of her throat at least for the moment, then kept walking.

"Some f.u.c.kin' day, huh?" he said, watching her drag on the cigarette again.

She startled at the sound of an older man, a policeman no less, cursing. She blew out a lungful. "You have no f.u.c.king idea."

They walked three blocks and turned into a door. Iris remembered the bar. It was Ella's Pub. Tony shoved the door open and called out, "Carmichael! We have an alcohol emergency!"

A wrinkled old elf popped up from behind the bar. The sight of him almost made Iris smile.

"Ah, Tony! To what do I owe this pleasure?" He rushed out from behind the bar and shook the detective's hand. He smiled a grandfather's smile, and then his eyes fell on Iris. "Ah, bella! I remember you. You are working in the old bank! It has been too long. Please come in. Come and sit. What can I get you?"

Iris ordered a Guinness, and the officer ordered a black coffee. He was still officially on duty, she reminded herself, tamping out her cigarette. Once she'd had a large swig of beer and lit another smoke, the detective took out his notebook. Iris glanced over at Carmichael, perched on a bar stool, watching the game. He looked up and gave her a resigned smile that seemed to say, I warned you not to disturb the ghosts.

"Now, Iris. Tell me everything that happened today."

Iris downed half her beer in one swig and began to talk. She told him about her job, about working on a Sat.u.r.day, about being frustrated and kicking in the door. She left out the details of her pathetic romance with Nick and her anxiety over the ring of keys she'd taken from the vault. She'd have to explain how she got them and so much more-the intruder in the building, her conversation with Suzanne, the files she'd stolen. The voices she'd been hearing. He would think she was crazy, she rationalized. Besides, the detective wouldn't care about missing items in an abandoned building. When her car was broken into the year before, the police officer informed her that there was no way the cops were going to waste time trying to find her missing ca.s.sette tapes and radar detector. What would this cop care about missing stuff from twenty years ago? It all sounded good in her head, and she repeated the excuses to herself over again as a cold fear gripped her stomach. She had stolen things from the building. If she told the detective, she'd be caught. She might get fired. A fly crawled up her arm. Iris recoiled violently, swatting at her skin.

"You all right?" The detective looked up from his notepad.

Iris shook her head. There was no fly.

She downed her beer. She itched to order another one, but she had to drive home in front of half of the Cleveland Police Department. She asked Carmichael for water instead and waited patiently for the detective to finish scribbling his notes. When he finally did, he looked troubled. The knots in her stomach tightened, and beer rose up in her throat. Were the lies written all over her face?

"You know, I never thought I'd have to go back into that building again." His temples and beard stubble were gray, but his light blue eyes looked surprisingly young, almost boyish, but sad.

"You've been in there before?" she managed.

"Not since around the time it closed. I was just starting out. They gave me the lead on an investigation . . ." His voice trailed off. He pressed a hand over his mouth and shook his head.

"What sort of investigation?" She avoided his eyes. He obviously didn't want to talk about it, but she was desperate to know. "I'm sorry. I just find the building to be so . . . strange."

"Strange in what way?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, I don't know. Things are still sitting on the desks. The filing cabinets are still filled with files." Talking was like loosening a pressure-relief valve. She wanted to tell him everything, to confess it all-Beatrice's suitcase, her notes, the stealing. She bit her lip hard. "It's like the whole building is a time capsule, like a bomb went off in 1978 and vaporized all the people but left everything else behind."

"Oh, a bomb went off all right. When the bank let the city default, the people down at city hall got angry enough to finally let us open an investigation into the board of directors. Within two weeks the place was shut down, and the bank was gone."