The Dead Key Part 1

The Dead Key.

Pulley, D. M.

Thank you, Irv, for holding my hand every step of the way. You said it best:.

Our love is an endless course.

And I am the runner, euphoric.

PROLOGUE.

Midnight fell at the First Bank of Cleveland with the lonely clang of the great clock in the lobby. Its dull ring wandered past the heavy doors and empty chairs of the banking floor, down the hallway to the dark room where she hid. It was the first sound she'd heard in an hour besides the whisper of her own breath. It was her cue.

She eased the door to the ladies' room open and peered out into the darkness. Down the gloomy corridor and into the banking room, long shadows slashed across the floor, making familiar daytime objects sinister. Someone was watching-the night guard, her boss, someone-she was sure of it. There was always someone watching at the bank. She stood frozen in the doorway, knowing what would happen if she was caught. She would be arrested. She would be fired. She would lose everything. But then again she didn't have much to lose. That's probably how he talked me into this mess, she thought, shaking her head. She couldn't believe she'd agreed to go through with it. But she had. After a full minute, she stepped out of her hiding place and let the door swing shut behind her.

Her tiny footsteps clacked on the stone slabs of the banking floor, rippling through the silence. Wincing, she tiptoed past the teller booths and into the lobby. The large clock ticked out the seconds as she crept by the revolving doors and floor-to-ceiling windows that separated her from the dark night outside. The headlights of a large sedan caught her through the gla.s.s as it turned down Euclid Avenue from East Ninth Street. Frozen, she didn't breathe until the car had pa.s.sed. When it finally did, a low whimper escaped her throat. She wanted to run back to the bathroom and hide there until morning, but she kept going. He was waiting for her.

The watchful portrait of the bank president, old Alistair Mercer, glared at her as she slipped under him and down the corridor to the left. There was no sign of the security guard at the elevator desk. It was just as he promised.

The street lights streaming through the lobby windows faded as she made her way around the corner and down the winding stairs into the darkness below. Somewhere down there he was waiting. With each step, she gripped the bra.s.s key tighter, until it felt lodged in her fist. She had stolen it from the safe the day before, hoping no one would notice. No one did.

No one had noticed when she hadn't left with the others at five o'clock. The guard had snapped off the light in the ladies' room without even checking the stalls. He had been right about everything so far.

The still air seemed thicker when she reached the bottom of the stairs. The red carpet had disappeared in the blackness, but she could tell by the cus.h.i.+on beneath her feet it was still there. She pictured the door to the vault and made her way silently across the floor. Her heart pounded in her ears as she strained to hear the sound of a flashlight clicking on, a ring of keys rattling, or the dull thud of heavy footsteps. There was nothing. Slowly adjusting to the dark, she could just make out the clerk's desk in the corner. It was a black barricade guarding the entrance to the vault. She hurried over to it, crouched down behind the counter, and waited.

When nothing happened, she slipped open the drawer to the left of the chair and blindly felt the objects inside until she found the one she wanted. It was another key. As she straightened up, a hulking shadow loomed over her. She opened her mouth to scream. A large hand clamped down.

"Shh!"

The leathery palm crushed her lips, smothering her voice. Her flailing arms and fists were bound up in the shadow's grip. She was caught.

"Hey, it's me! It's all right. It's all right. Sorry I scared you. You okay?"

Her straining muscles went limp at the sound of his voice. She nodded and nearly crumpled to the ground. His hand was still over her mouth.

"Did you get it?" he asked.

She nodded again.

"Good." He released his hand so she could breathe. "Come with me."

He grabbed her wrist and led her through the round doorway and into the vault. She couldn't see a thing, but she could tell by the sound of their footsteps on hard metal exactly where they were.

"Okay." He flipped on a small flashlight and scanned hundreds of tiny metal doors lining the steel walls. "We're looking for Box 545."

The wall of boxes was a dim blur. Her heart still racing, she stepped toward them with a key in each hand. Gothic script labeled the metal doors with rising and falling numbers in an overwhelming array, until the one that read "545" finally emerged. She slipped each key into the door and waited a beat. Any minute she expected to see a security guard or police officer appear with gun drawn.

He pressed his barrel chest against her back, circling an arm around her waist. She closed her eyes and leaned against him, wis.h.i.+ng they were back at her place or the hotel or anywhere but the vault. His breath was hot against her neck.

"Come on, baby. Let's see what we got."

The little door swung open, revealing the long metal box inside.

Bile rose up in her throat. This was breaking and entering, grand larceny, fifteen to twenty years at least. In her whole life, she'd never even stolen a pack of gum. Breaking into the vault had always been the plan. He had explained it to her many times. But now that she was actually doing it . . . Oh Lord, she was going to throw up.

He pushed past her, oblivious to the stricken look on her face, and pulled the safe deposit box out of its vault and set it onto the floor with a loud clunk.

She flinched.

"Relax, babe. Charlie's taking a break. He won't be back for at least an hour. Got him a date with a friend of mine."

He chuckled under his breath as he flipped open the lid. Stacks of hundred-dollar bills lined the top of the box. Beneath the cash lay a large diamond necklace. He reached up and smacked her on the a.s.s triumphantly.

"Ha! Didn't I tell ya? Jackpot!"

Her eyes widened at the sight of the enormous stones. It doesn't belong to anybody anymore; she silently repeated the words he had said many times. No one will ever miss it. No one even knows it's here. Kneeling down, she reached out a shaking hand to touch a diamond.

He s.n.a.t.c.hed the necklace away and pulled a velvet bag from his coat pocket. "Grab that box," he ordered. "I bet it's a ring, but don't get any ideas, eh?"

"Ideas?" she whispered, only understanding his meaning after the word left her lips and she had opened the tiny box. Inside it lay an enormous diamond engagement ring.

"Hey, that's nothing compared to the one I'll get you someday, gorgeous." He brushed the side of her face and winked. The metal of his wedding band left a cold trail down her cheek.

He grabbed the box from her and stuffed it into the bag and began counting the cash. The laugh lines around his eyes deepened as the total grew higher and higher. They had never discussed how much was enough.

She tore her eyes back to the molested box on the floor. An old black-and-white photograph was hidden beneath the cash and jewelry. It glowed yellow in the faint light. It was a tintype of a beautiful young woman in a floor-length dress wearing the diamond necklace. It could have been a wedding picture, she realized, and then she noticed the other items-a lace handkerchief, a few folded letters. Love letters, she mused, and wondered for the first time about the person who had placed them there. From the look of the parchment and the photo, it might have been fifty years ago. She reached in to pick one up.

"Hey! Are you daydreaming over there? We don't have all day." With that, he snapped the lid to the box closed and hauled it back up and into its place.

The sound of the metal door closing brought her back to her feet. She obediently turned each key, relocking Box 545. Pausing at the door, she felt she should say a prayer or something. It was like a burial. Would anyone ever find the photo of the woman again? Or her love letters? According to the records, the box hadn't been opened in years. The number stared back at her.

"Okay! On to Box 547."

"Right. 547." Her voice sounded far away. It was all a strange and terrible dream. This wasn't a vault, it was a mausoleum. And they were grave robbers.

The keys found and unlocked 547 as if they had a mind of their own. He deposited the looted treasure into the empty box and closed up the hole in the steel wall that now hid their terrible secret. She removed the keys. They were heavy in her hand.

He grabbed her by her narrow shoulders and planted a huge kiss on her lips. "Just you wait, baby! We're going to be set for life. A few more months of this, and we'll never have another care in the world." He kissed her again and squeezed her a.s.s, before pus.h.i.+ng it gently out the door.

He didn't notice her staring down at the swell in her belly as he led her out of the vault. It would be impossible to hide it much longer. But in a few more months they would be together, she told herself. Set for life. Just like he promised.

She paused at the entrance. Box 545 was still somewhere back there in the dark. She whispered to no one, not even herself, "I'm sorry."

Then the heavy round door swung shut.

CHAPTER 1.

Sat.u.r.day, August 8, 1998.

Iris Latch sat up with a jolt. The clock was beeping frantically. It was 8:45 a.m., and she was supposed to be downtown in fifteen minutes. s.h.i.+t. The alarm had been sounding off for a half hour straight. It was practically rattling the rickety walls of her apartment, but somehow she'd managed to sleep through it. She untangled herself from the sheets and rushed to the bathroom.

No time for a shower. Instead, she splashed cold water on her face and sc.r.a.ped the taste of dirty ashtray out of her mouth with a toothbrush. Her stringy brown hair didn't even get brushed before being yanked through a rubber band. She threw on a T-s.h.i.+rt and jeans and ran out the door. On a good day, Iris looked fair to attractive, with her lanky, tall frame and long hair, especially if she remembered not to slouch, but this was not a good day.

The morning sun s.h.i.+ned in her eyes like an interrogation light. Yes, she'd been drinking last night, Officer. Yes, her head hurt. No, she was not the most responsible twenty-three-year-old under the blinding sun. In her defense, it was completely messed up to have to work on a Sat.u.r.day. No one should be out of bed at this hour on a weekend. Unfortunately, she had volunteered for this s.h.i.+t.

Earlier that week, Mr. Wheeler had called her into his office. He was the head of her department, a lead partner in the firm, and could fire her on the spot. It was like being sent to the princ.i.p.al.

"Iris, how are you liking your work so far here at WRE?"

"Um, it's okay," she'd said, trying not to sound as ill at ease as she felt. "I've been learning a lot," she'd added in her job interview voice.

She hated her job at Wheeler Reese Elliot Architects but couldn't very well say that to him. All she did day after day was mark up blueprints with a red pen. Hundreds of sheets of paper showing each little piece of rebar in every concrete beam, and she had to check them all. It was mind-numbing, soul-crus.h.i.+ng work, especially since she was qualified to do so much more. She had graduated summa c.u.m laude from Case Western Reserve University. She'd been promised "cutting-edge" structural design projects, but three months into her big engineering career, she'd been reduced to a paper-marking monkey. She'd said as much to her a.s.signed mentor, Brad, that Monday in a fit of desperation. A day later she was sitting in the hot seat across from Mr. Wheeler. Brad had ratted her out. Was she going to get fired? Hysterical b.u.t.terflies swarmed her stomach.

"Well, Brad thinks you have a good head on your shoulders. Perhaps you're ready for a little change of pace." Mr. Wheeler smiled a corporate smile.

"Uh, what do you mean?"

"We've just landed a very unusual project. The partners think you might be a good fit for it. It involves fieldwork."

Fieldwork would mean leaving her dreaded cubicle. "Really? That sounds interesting."

"Wonderful. Brad will bring you up to speed on the details. This project is of a rather sensitive nature. Our client is relying on us to keep it confidential. I really appreciate the two of you being willing to put in the overtime. It won't go unnoticed."

Mr. Wheeler had clapped her on the back and shut the door to his corner office. Her smile had dropped at the corners. There was a catch. Brad later explained they would be working over the weekend. For free.

It was total bulls.h.i.+t, Iris thought, gritting her teeth as she threw herself behind the wheel and gunned her rusted-out beige Mazda down the street. At the stoplight she fished a half-empty bottle of Diet c.o.ke from the littered floorboards and lit a cigarette. But what was she supposed to do? Say no?

As the car neared downtown, Iris realized she had no idea where the heck she was actually going. She rifled through her purse to find the address she had scribbled down. Cigarettes, lighter, lipstick, receipts-she tossed the contents of her bag onto the pa.s.senger seat with one eye on the road.

A horn blasted. She looked up just in time to swerve and avoid hitting an oncoming garbage truck. Slamming the brakes, she squealed to a stop.

"s.h.i.+t!"

The pile of garbage on the pa.s.senger seat flew to the floor. The missing sc.r.a.p of paper landed on top. s.n.a.t.c.hing it up, she read: 1010 Euclid Avenue First Bank of Cleveland Park in the back At East Twelfth Street and Euclid, the clock on the dash blinked 9:15 a.m. Brad would be standing at the door, tapping his foot, checking his Seiko and wis.h.i.+ng he hadn't recommended the flaky new girl for this field a.s.signment. She stuffed everything back into her purse while the red light took an eternity to change.

The building at 1010 Euclid Avenue flashed by her window in a blur of stone and gla.s.s. s.h.i.+t. Her car sped through a really yellow light left onto East Ninth Street and then hooked around onto Huron Street. It should have been the back of the building, but the only signs read "No Parking." Iris began to panic. Huron would take her all the way back to East Fourteenth Street before she could turn around. There was no time for that. She was already way late for her first a.s.signment out of the office.

She pulled into a narrow driveway that dead-ended into a closed garage door. It was identical to the other blank receiving doors lining the street. Both sides of the sidewalk were empty, and the street was dead quiet. Most of Cleveland was a ghost town on weekends. Overhead, a fifteen-story, soot-stained office tower stretched into the sky. Rotted boards covered half the windows, and the endless rows of brick blurred together. Was this the building? Craning her head up made it feel like it might slide off her neck. Hangovers sometimes take a while to really set in. She squeezed her eyes shut and blew out a slow breath. She had to stop drinking like every night was a frat party. College was over.

Images of the night before flipped by like a broken filmstrip. She had gone to a work happy hour down at some new bar in the Flats. With each tequila shot, the evening had gotten blurrier. Nick had been there. He was the cute interior designer she'd been flirting with at work for weeks. He liked to swing by her desk and chat. For Iris, it was a welcome break from marking up shop drawings with a red pen like a glorified secretary. Who knew what it was for him. She would laugh at his jokes and blush a lot-that was the extent of her skills in the "come-hither" department.

Nick had bought some of the shots. His arm draped over her shoulder, he'd whispered something in her ear she couldn't quite understand over the throbbing music. Next thing she knew, he was driving her car back to her place. He'd kissed her, and the whole world had spun out of control. All she remembered after that was him dragging her up the stairs to bed and telling her to get some rest. She supposed she should be grateful he acted like a gentleman by not taking advantage of her. But, Jesus. Was she that bad of a kisser?

Something creaked loudly. Iris's eyes popped open at the sound, and her car lurched. She stomped on the brake to keep from slamming into the receiving door in front of her as it rolled open. Brad stepped out and waved.

"Good morning, Iris!"

"Brad! Hi." Her voice was m.u.f.fled by the window. Idiot. She rolled it down and said again, "Hi! How'd you get in there?"

"I have my ways," he said, arching an eyebrow. "Nah! The security guard showed me where to go."

Brad was a model engineer, in his crisp J. C. Penney s.h.i.+rt and freshly ironed slacks. He looked like he'd already gone to the gym, had a shower, and eaten a four-course breakfast. Iris, by comparison, looked like she'd been pulled out of a shower drain.

"Can we park here?"

"Yep, come on in."

Iris's car followed Brad into a dungeon-like room, which turned out to be a loading dock. There were two grimy truck bays and a broken concrete slab big enough for three parking stalls. Iris pulled her sputtering car next to an immaculate Honda that could only be Brad's. A sign posted on the wall said "Short-Term Parking, Deliveries Only." The loading dock grew dark as the small garage door rolled closed behind her. A horrible smell like rotting meat and vomit crawled up her nose and nearly sent her running to a corner to puke. There was a large rusted-out dumpster in the corner.

"Smells great, huh?" Brad joked. He pointed to a red b.u.t.ton on the wall by an abandoned security office. "Make sure you close the garage door when you come in."

"Sure. But how do I get in without you?" she asked, covering her mouth and nose.

"There's a squawk box next to the garage door outside. Ramone will let you in."

Iris nodded and glanced around for this Ramone, but he was nowhere to be found.

"Okay. Let's get started." Brad pulled a huge field bag out of the spotless trunk of his Accord.

It occurred to her that she hadn't remembered to bring a field bag or so much as a clipboard with her. That figured. She grabbed her oversized handbag out of her car and threw it over her shoulder, making as if it had more than lipstick and cigarettes inside it. "Okay."

Brad led Iris through a long service corridor and into a dark hallway. They followed the faint glow of daylight ahead past bronze elevator doors until they reached the main lobby of the First Bank of Cleveland.

Iris gawked at the coffered ceiling soaring fifteen feet overhead. Everything from the inlaid wood panels to the bronze window cas.e.m.e.nts to the giant old clock over the entrance looked handcrafted. The tiles on the floor were tiny and hand laid to form an art deco mosaic with a round rosette set in the center. Two antique, bronze revolving doors faced Euclid Avenue. They seemed insulted by the rusted chains and padlocks hanging from them. Gleaming letters spelled out "First Bank of Cleveland Est. 1903" on the wall over two solid metal doors with swirling cast-bronze handles that led to some other room. The doors were closed.

"What year was all this built?" Iris studied the gilded clock over her head. Its scrolled hands had ground to a halt years ago.

"Sometime before the Great Depression. You never see this type of craftsmans.h.i.+p in postwar buildings."

"When did it become vacant?" Iris asked.

"I'm not too sure. I think the county ledger said something." Brad rifled through a file he pulled from his workbag and read aloud, "First Bank of Cleveland closed December 29, 1978."

"I wonder why," Iris thought out loud.