Dank, smoky air greeted her at the door. The pub’s shotgun layout included a long bar on one side of the aisle and seven vinyl booths on the other. The place was deserted except for the barkeep and another man, slumped at the far end on a bar stool. She shoved her heavy bag into one of the empty booths and slid in beside it. Her back and fingers ached from walking all day, clutching a clipboard in one hand and a pen in the other. No amount of stretching seemed to help, but she tried again, lit a cigarette, and closed her eyes.

“Hard day?” a voice asked next to her. The little old man from behind the counter looked like he’d been living under the bar for fifty years. He was wrinkled and smoke stained from head to toe. His bushy eyebrows were raised in a smile.

“Hard enough.” Iris couldn’t help but grin at him and his rosy, bulbous nose and impossibly large ears. One of Santa’s naughty elves had apparently been banished to Cleveland. She tried not to stare at his earlobes as they hung like mud flaps nearly down to his collar.

“What can I get for you?”

“Guinness. Do you serve food?”

“Ah, I wish we still did. We have some snacks at the bar. Do you like peanuts?”

“Sure, thanks.”

“It’s my pleasure, and please . . . call me Carmichael.” He bowed a little and went to fetch her beer and nuts.

Iris took the key out of her pocket and turned it over again, thinking about the desk where she’d found it. Suzanne was older but not that old in her company photo. She was probably still alive. She’d be at least sixty, but that was hardly dead and buried.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Carmichael coming back with her order and palmed the key. He set down her drink and a bowl of nuts with the flourish of a five-star waiter.

“Thank you, Carmichael.”

“You let me know if you need anything else.” He winked and went back to his perch behind the beer taps. A small black-and-white TV was playing a baseball game in the corner. Carmichael and the guy at the end of the bar stared at it without speaking.

Iris took a gulp of beer and opened her hand to look at the key again. She had technically stolen it. But only to give it back to its rightful owner, she argued. Who was that exactly? There was Suzanne, who may or may not be alive. Then there was the owner of the building, which was some real estate holding company that bought it for a song, from what Brad had told her. They didn’t care about the building; it was just a tax write-off. First Bank of Cleveland shut down twenty years ago and left its files and furniture behind. They weren’t exactly abandoned to vandals, Iris reminded herself. The doors were chained, and the building was guarded. Still, would the owners even care about Suzanne’s desk, or would they just pitch everything into a dumpster when they sold the building? Suzanne, she decided, was the only person who might know who owned the key.

The beer went down too easy as she crunched the peanuts and perused the bar. It was frozen in time, just like the old bank. All of the beer signs and music posters were at least fifteen years out of date.

Carmichael noticed her eyes wandering and waved. She pointed to her beer glass, and he nodded. He poured a second pint and brought it over. He was about to go back to his game when she decided to strike up a conversation.

“This is an interesting place.”

“You like it?” He smiled.

She nodded. “How long have you been here?”

“Oh, I bought the place must have been thirty years ago,” he said, looking up at the tin ceiling. “It was different then. We called it the Theatrical Grille. Ever heard of it?”

Iris shook her head.

“Once upon a time there was a famous jazz club right where you’re sitting. It was the hottest spot in town. Ella Fitzgerald played right over there.” He pointed to a corner in the back. “I was just a kid then, but it was something.”

Iris raised an eyebrow and tried to picture a band packed into the tiny corner. “What happened?”

Carmichael threw up his hands. “Times change. Music changes. Even a city as old and rusty as this one changes. Short Vincent was the hottest strip in town back forty years ago. Shoot, twenty years ago. Now everyone is down in the Flats listening to that god-awful dance music. I can’t stand the stuff. Makes my head hurt. Young girl like you, you probably like it, right?”

“Not so much,” she lied. “Sounds like you’ve seen a lot over the years.”

“You don’t know the half of it.” He chuckled and shook his head.

Iris glanced around at the dated décor and decided to risk a more personal topic. “Do you remember the First Bank of Cleveland?”

He frowned and ran his fingers through his thinning hair. “Of course! It was only a few blocks away. Used to get all sorts coming in here after five o’clock.” He moved to the other side of the booth to sit down. “You don’t mind if I sit, do you? I have a terrible back.”

“No, please.” Iris took a swig from her pint glass. “Do you know why the bank closed?”

“I heard they sold it, but I can’t be sure. It was the strangest thing. One day it was there, and the next day it was gone. Chains on the door, boards on the windows. They even took the sign off the front of the building in the middle of the night.” Carmichael’s forehead creased into a road map as he frowned.

“You’re kidding.”

“It was terrible. All of those people went to work one morning and found out they’d lost their jobs. The way I heard it, most of them didn’t know until they tried to open the door. Some people lost a lot of money in the deal.” Carmichael’s eyes darkened and his shoulders seemed heavy. “Some of those people came in here that day. It was a mess . . .”

Iris nodded. If she’d been fired like that, she’d go to the nearest pub too. Talking about it seemed to deflate Carmichael.

“Ah, well.” He waved his hand at the past and turned his attention to Iris. “What is a young girl like you doing asking about the old bank? That must have been at least fifteen years ago!”

“It was twenty years ago actually.” She took another big drink. “I’m working in the old bank right now, if you can believe that.”

Carmichael’s smile dropped a little. “I don’t believe that. What do you mean?”

Crap. Iris was supposed to keep the work at the bank confidential. That’s what Mr. Wheeler had said. The county didn’t want anyone knowing their plans for the building. “Oh, you know. The owner is doing a . . . routine inspection. I’m working for the architect.” Iris congratulated herself on thinking fast and took another drink. Hell, what would a bartender care about the county plans anyway? “I have to survey the building, and I’m telling you, it’s weird!”

She described the cafeteria with its empty tables and ancient vending machines. She told him about the conference rooms that still had notes scribbled on the chalkboards. She stopped herself from saying more. The personnel files, the safe deposit boxes, the fact that she was working alone in a huge building seemed like information best kept to herself. Besides, Carmichael’s intense stare was starting to weird her out.

“You mean no one has been in there for all these years? Amazing!” He slapped the tabletop, grinning, but his eyes still seemed way too focused. He pointed to her beer. “Let me get you another.”

The two beers on an empty stomach were hitting her hard, and the place was starting to give her the creeps. She shook her head. “No, I should be going, but thanks!”

The old man nodded and tore a handwritten bill for seven dollars off of his notepad. As Iris waited for change, she scanned the sketch on her clipboard. The graph paper read, “Wheeler Reese Elliot Architects, LLC” at the top. Next to the crisp logo, her sloppy writing looked like a third grader’s. She sighed as she scanned her messy drawing. She would have to clean it up before handing it in for review. As she studied the sheet, something else began to bug her. She rifled through her file until she found the plan for the second floor. She compared the sketches of the second and third floors and discovered that they didn’t match. Somehow she’d missed a full column bay on the third. Her drawing was ten feet short. She smacked herself in the head. She examined the two drawings side by side, trying to reconcile the discrepancy. She threw up her hands and stuffed the drawings back in her bag. She would have to go back to the third floor and see what she’d missed. It would only take fifteen minutes, she decided, and tamped out her cigarette. She had to go back to the building to get her car anyway.