The Dead Key Part 37

Beatrice brushed past a red velvet curtain. The voices moved into the lower lobby as she ducked behind it into a booth.

"Do you have any idea the mess you've gotten us into? City hall is already breathing down my neck, and the feds are pet.i.tioning for warrants. As of three hours ago, the city is bankrupt, and we're public enemy number one. We need to get the deposits out now before the morning papers. .h.i.t the street!"

"Let's not be hasty."

Beatrice shrank into the folds of the curtain and took only the shallowest of breaths as she listened.

"I'm done playing around, Teddy. Give me the keys."

"Don't be absurd! I don't have them."

"What do you mean, you don't have them?"

"What do you think, I walk around with them in my pockets? What do you take me for?"

"I don't care if you keep them up your a.s.s. We need to move the money tonight. We're under investigation, for crying out loud! The vault is going to be on lockdown. What are we supposed to tell the investors? That we've come up with a new ingenious holding strategy? That's not going to fly. Where is the master key?"

"These transfers haven't been authorized."

"You're out of the loop, Ted. The board wants out."

"Out? Out to where? Where are they going to go? Where else are they going to keep their a.s.sets secure and tax-free? Their mattresses?"

"It no longer concerns you."

"Like h.e.l.l it doesn't! You won't even be able to sort the accounts without me. You really think I just deposited tens of millions in Mr. Wackerly's name or yours or mine, where any cop with a warrant might find it? The deposits have been dispersed."

"You mean, you put them under false names? Do you really think that's going to throw the feds for a loop? A bunch of fake names?"

"Who said the names were fake?"

"They belong to active customers? Jesus, you have b.a.l.l.s, Teddy! What's to stop the dummies from making withdrawals, huh? One old lady wants to come admire her coin collection and we're f.u.c.ked!"

"Keep your skirt on! Most of 'em are dead or don't even know they have a box. That meathead Thompson's been feeding me dead boxes for years. It's part of our little arrangement for me ignoring his indiscretions."

"Indiscretions? Is that what you call homicide these days?"

"Don't you read the papers? That was a hit-and-run, and it was four G.o.dd.a.m.ned years ago. Water under the bridge."

Beatrice's eyes widened. Homicide. Rhonda Whitmore was murdered.

There was a loud sigh. "This whole scheme is just like you, Teddy-too risky. You said it would be easy. You sold the finest families in town on a legitimate, high-yield investment. Sure, they turned a blind eye to the fact it was too good to be true, to be legal, but do you really think they're going to let you drag them through the mud now? The money's not worth the risk."

"What money comes without a little risk? It's a dirty business, Jim!"

"Well, it's simply gotten too dirty. Now that bimbo of yours Maxine is causing trouble. Your drunk son was caught red-handed in the vault just last week. The money isn't secure."

"Leave Randy out of this. I'll handle him."

"Like you handled the investments?"

"We needed to protect our interests, d.a.m.n it! When the feds moved in, we had to start making adjustments."

"Who authorized those adjustments?"

"When the gold market opened up, we had to get in. Nixon f.u.c.ked us all when he started printing money, and you know it. Our cash a.s.sets would have dwindled down to kindling with this inflation. We had to get in commodities." Teddy's voice was growing louder and more erratic.

"You really thought you could start stockpiling gold and no one would notice?" Jim asked. "My sources downtown tell me the feds still have someone embedded at the bank."

"They'll never make a case! This thing is so tight, they can't even pull a warrant."

"They're watching Bill. He's going to cut a deal."

"Bill can be dealt with," Teddy said dismissively.

"What, you think the river's got room for one more? You should be the one worrying about that, Ted. I'm losing my patience here. Now you're going to give me the keys I need."

"Or what are you going to do? Beat me to death with your fountain pen? I'm telling you, I don't have them."

"If you don't have them, who does?"

Beatrice swallowed hard, not twenty feet away.

"Yes, please tell us, Teddy. Who has them?" It was a different voice now. It was strangely familiar.

"Carmichael, what took you so long?"

Beatrice sucked in a breath. She recognized the voice from the Theatrical Grille. It was the friendly bartender with a soft spot for Max. She peeked through the curtain in disbelief.

"Don't tell me you dragged the Covellis into this, Jim. We have it under control." Teddy laughed uncomfortably.

Tony had said the Covellis were still connected to Sicily. Max had called them gangsters. Carmichael was a member of the Mob, Beatrice realized, and covered a gasp with her hand.

"They hold one of the largest interests in the bank, Teddy, and you know it," Jim said with a sigh. "You're in over your head. We know you've been talking to the feds. I suggest you cooperate."

Carmichael drew out a gun. Beatrice heard an iron click as he c.o.c.ked it at Teddy.

"Hey, take it easy, Carmichael! Jim, we've been friends for twenty years. You can't be serious! The transfer records are encoded. You wouldn't know where to begin without me!"

"It's out of my hands now. If you cooperate, I'll do my best to protect your family."

"Instead of wasting your time with me," Teddy shouted, "we need to be tracking down that b.i.t.c.h!"

"What does she matter now?"

"She's the only one left that knows how to work the d.a.m.n keys for one thing. There's some sort of system to it."

"And whose fault is that exactly?" Jim demanded. "That desk clerk, Sherry or whatever her name was, would have cooperated if your drunk son hadn't decided to take matters into his own hands."

"You can't prove Randy had anything to do with that," Teddy protested. "Shirley might have just left town. She might be back to work on Monday."

Beatrice's stomach dropped to her feet. Shirley, the safe deposits clerk and Doris's friend, was missing or dead. Randy might have killed her. She stepped back from the curtain and sank to her knees.

"Let me see if I got this straight. Are you telling me you stashed over fifty million dollars in that vault, and you don't even know how to open it?" Carmichael chuckled. "You f.u.c.kin' bankers. Never want to do nothin' yourself. Did it ever occur to you the help might get wise?"

"That's enough, Carmichael," Jim said, and put his hand up toward the bartender. "If some secretary can figure it out, we'll manage. What else can you tell us, Teddy?"

"If I talk, what's to stop you from pulling that trigger, huh? I want to speak to Alistair."

"Who do you think sent us?" Jim sighed. "Carmichael, will you please?"

There was a m.u.f.fled yell and several thumping sounds. Then nothing.

Beatrice stayed crouched behind the curtain, staring into the dark. The bankers were hiding gold in the safe deposit vault for the richest families in town. Teddy said Bill had been feeding him dead boxes for years. Boxes Doris and Bill had raided, no doubt. After Rhonda Whitmore's name showed up in Doris's journal, the withdrawals became more frequent. Bill had looked like he'd seen a ghost the day Rhonda showed up at the bank-that's what Max had said. He was finally caught in the act, but instead of handing him and Doris over to the authorities, Teddy saw an opportunity.

The bizarre codes on the pages she'd sorted for Randy suddenly made sense. They must have been the files that kept track of where the bank had stashed millions of dollars. Jim wanted the money out, and so did the Covellis. The Mob was somehow involved with the bank's dealings, and Carmichael worked for them. Being a bartender was just a facade. Beatrice hadn't known him at all. But Tony and Max had known him, she realized. Tony was a police detective; he was the one who told her about the Covellis in the first place. He must have known. Every word Carmichael might have overheard at the bar replayed in her mind-her conversations with Tony about snooping around the bank, the missing safe deposits, the missing master key. Maybe Tony had wanted Carmichael to hear. The old man pointed the gun at Teddy in her head. Maybe the Covellis would bring down the bank if law enforcement failed.

No one, not even Tony, suspected that she and Max had the power to do anything but run. Max was right. They all underestimated women like them.

Beatrice stepped out from behind the curtain with the keys in her hand and crept toward the vault.

CHAPTER 72.

Friday, August 28, 1998 A black-and-white photograph of two women looked up from Box 547 in the yellow glow of the detective's flashlight. They were smiling. The gla.s.s in the silver picture frame was cracked. Iris picked it up and handed it to Detective McDonnell. Underneath it she found a brown leather book and a candle. That was it.

"What the h.e.l.l is this?" Iris said out loud.

She couldn't believe Beatrice had called Suzanne Peplinski in 1978 over a photograph. She couldn't believe she'd just broken into the bank for one. It wouldn't solve any of her problems.

"What's in the book?" the detective whispered, placing the photograph back in the box.

Iris flipped it open. It was filled with numbers. She flipped and flipped but found nothing but more numbers in blue and black ink, until something red caught her eye.

"Who is Rhonda Whitmore?" She tilted the page toward the detective.

"You've got to be kidding me! She was the woman Max claimed was murdered in 1974." He grabbed the book and began thumbing through the pages. "All these numbers read like transactions."

"Transactions?" Iris picked up the candle. It was just a cheap red votive that had never been burned.

"I think this may be a record of the deposit box robberies. See here, this must be Rhonda's box number, 855, and here's what was inside-fifty thousand dollars." The detective pointed to the line he was reading, but Iris was hardly paying attention.

A piece of paper had fallen from the bottom of the votive. She picked it up and read aloud, "May the souls of the faithful departed, through the mercy of G.o.d, rest in peace. Amen."

The detective looked up from the book and shined the flashlight at Iris. "What?"

"It was on the bottom of the candle." She handed him the little piece of paper.

He studied it, then turned it over. "It's from the Church of the Savior in Little Italy."

"I don't get it."

"It's a prayer candle. My church has them too. You light them for someone that died or needs a prayer."

"But why would someone put it in this box?"

"That's a d.a.m.n good question," a deep voice said from behind them.

Detective McDonnell spun around, reaching inside his coat. A loud blast fired next to Iris's ear, and the detective's flashlight went flying through the air. It smashed onto the floor. The light flickered and then went out.

Iris could smell smoke. She heard a thump as something heavy hit the ground next to her. Her ears were ringing. Her mind went blank. She felt herself begin to fall.

"Oh, no you don't," the voice said, catching Iris and tilting her back upright.

Without the detective's flashlight, it was too dark to see who was talking. Iris didn't want to see anything. All she could hear was her heart pumping blood in and out of her throbbing ears. Her lungs refused to breathe. The world swam out of focus.

The overhead lights switched on abruptly, making her blink. The red candle was still sitting in the deposit box. She kept her eyes on it, refusing to acknowledge the man behind her, until he touched her shoulder. She jerked away, but her foot b.u.mped into something big and still on the ground. It was Detective McDonnell. She felt her stomach heave and vomited into the open box.

The man behind her chuckled. It sounded muted and far away.

"Well, that's fitting, isn't it? That's exactly how I feel about the whole thing."

The calm laughter made her heave again. The voice wasn't completely unfamiliar.

"Turn around, Iris," he commanded.

The sound of her name made the ringing in her ears go quiet. She shook her head. She didn't want to see his face.

"Turn around!" he barked.

A large hand grabbed her shoulder and twisted her until she could see the gunman. She couldn't make out his face, just features. A jutting jaw, hard eyes, and glistening teeth pulsed in and out of focus.

"Sorry to make such a dramatic entrance, but he was reaching for his gun. I really had no choice. It was self-defense. You'll back me up on that, won't you?" He pressed his gun between her eyes. The barrel was still hot.

Iris stopped breathing and nodded.

"You don't have any idea who I am, do you?"

She shook her head, although she was now certain she'd seen him before.

"Well, I know you, Iris. I know all about you-your late mornings, your drinking, your boredom. I've been watching you from my desk for months. Still nothing?" He chuckled again. "My office is three doors down from Charles Wheeler's. A true professional would know that. But you're not a true professional, are you, Iris? You and your little rebellions, your rifling through file drawers, your sneaking around." He paused and brushed her cheek with the back of his hand.