The Dead Key Part 29

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 rea.s.suring 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 sounding 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 doc.u.mentation. 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 a.s.sure 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.

"s.h.i.t. 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 s.h.i.t, he would have called.

"I'll live. What do you want?"

He raised an eyebrow at her.

"Are you f.u.c.king 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. s.h.i.t, 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 c.r.a.p 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.

"Iris?" he called from the other side. "Ah, what the h.e.l.l. You know where to find me if you want to talk."

She dropped her purse and put her head in her hands until she was sure he was gone. Mr. Wheeler was asking questions. There had been layoffs. She hadn't spoken to anyone else from the office since last week. She rushed to the phone and called Brad.

"Hi, Brad? It's Iris."

"Iris, hi! How are you holding up, sport?" There was an audible note of concern, which reminded her that she hadn't talked to him since she'd found the body.

"Oh, I'm still a little shaken up, but I'll live." She tried to sound casual. "I'm getting sort of anxious to get back to work. What's happening with the project?"

"Not much, unfortunately. The police have it barricaded. I'm hearing the county is getting cold feet on the deal, and the renovation plans have been put on hold. If the media gets wind of the story, this thing could drag on for months." He lowered his voice. "Things are getting pretty tense around here. Mr. Wheeler wants you to come in Friday to talk about some things."

It could only mean one thing. "I'm getting laid off."

"I can't say for certain, but they've already let two people go." He hesitated and added, "I put in a good word for you."

"Thanks. If the police release the building soon, is there a chance I can get back to work?"

"If we can get the building back on Monday, yeah. I'd say there's a good chance they'll put you back to finish the job, but Iris, I wouldn't count on it. If this ends up on the evening news, the county will probably wash their hands of the whole thing."

Her fresh Berber carpeting, new appliances, and track lighting mocked her as she listened. She wondered how long she could hold on to her new place once she was fired. She had $2,000 in the bank and a big fat student loan.

"Thanks for the heads-up. I'll see you Friday."

Iris hung up the phone with a stifled sob choking her throat. She was getting fired. The fact that she hated the job didn't really matter as she contemplated what it all meant. She wasn't exceptional, or smart, or special, or invaluable. She was expendable. Five years of engineering school and four months of endless grunt work had amounted to exactly nothing. Fired. Failed. Failure. She could already hear her mother's cloying voice trying to make the best of it. Her father wouldn't say anything, but she knew he'd be disappointed. She'd once shown so much promise.

She sank onto her filthy couch and lit a cigarette. All those late hours, all those shop drawings-she sucked on the filter until it burned her lips. Her life wasn't supposed to turn out this way. She'd graduated summa c.u.m laude. She'd perfected her resume. She'd worn ugly, ill-fitting business casual clothes. She'd learned to give the perfect strong-but-not-b.i.t.c.hy woman handshake. She was supposed to be this "successful engineer," even though she wasn't even sure what that meant anymore. Money? Security? Responsibility? Prestige? All she'd wanted was to make a difference in the world. Now she'd be lucky to stay out of jail. A twenty-year-old pile of dead bugs was going to ruin her life. She stubbed out her cigarette and stormed over to her purse. She dumped its contents onto the counter and searched until she found what she was looking for-Detective Anthony McDonnell's card.

The phone rang and rang. Iris tapped her foot as she waited. She had to get back in the building Monday morning. She'd put all the keys back and act like none of this happened.

He finally picked up: "Detective McDonnell."

"h.e.l.lo, Detective? This is Iris Latch. I'm the engineer who found the body."

"Iris, how are you?" His voiced warmed on the other end of the line.

"I'm okay. I was just wondering when I could get back to work in the old bank building."

"It's still a crime scene, Iris. The coroner and the forensics team are working hard, but it takes time."

"I don't understand. Isn't this just a suicide case? I mean . . ." Hundreds of hungry flies began to circle. She squeezed her eyes shut. "There was a noose, right?"

"Well, it's a little more complicated than that."

"It is?"

"Well, for one thing the deceased didn't shove a bookcase in front of the bathroom door and change the lock. Someone was trying to hide what happened."

"But hundreds of people worked there, and this happened, like, twenty years ago, right?" She felt herself beginning to whine but couldn't stop. "Isn't there a statute of limitations or something?"

"Not for murder."

Iris felt her stomach tighten. "Now you're saying the man was murdered?"

"I'm not saying anything." He cleared his throat. "It's important to keep the details confidential in an ongoing investigation. We don't want anything leaking to the press. If this is indeed a homicide, the murderer may still be out there."

A blue shirt ran through her thoughts. She swallowed hard. "Is there any chance I'll be able to get back to work by Monday?"

"I'm sorry, but I sincerely doubt it. There are mountains of evidence to collect in that building. The clue to whoever may have done this could still be hiding inside. It might be months before we're done cataloging it all."

"You sound thrilled." Iris sighed heavily into the phone. Fear gripped her stomach. She still had the keys.

"I've been wanting to get my hands on this building for years," he admitted. "We may finally have the political will to complete investigations we began decades ago. You can't just brush a homicide under the carpet, you know."