“Hmm? Oh, yeah. I think it’s here somewhere.” The sound of drawers being opened and shut filled the now-awkward silence. “I hate meeting here, you know. Why can’t we ever go someplace nice? My desk is as hard as rock.”

Beatrice heard Bill chuckle and the woman squeal, “Bill, you’re insatiable! Stop it!”

“I can’t!”

Papers rustled. “Here they are. I still don’t understand what this is all about.”

“Consider it our retirement plan. I’m putting together a deal, and I can’t use my name. I need a beautiful partner like you. This is going to set us up for life, Susie. In a few years we’re going to leave this godforsaken town. We’ll get a little hideaway somewhere on the beach. Margaritas.” More kisses. “No more hiding.”

“What about your wife?” Susie asked softly.

“She and her daddy can kiss my ass! All these years under his thumb. I swear, if it weren’t for you, I would have blown my brains out months ago. But it’s almost over. Trust me.”

“Okay. But next time, can we go to a hotel like we used to?”

“Sure, baby. Whatever you want.”

Another kiss, and then the fumbling sounds of clothes and feet worked their way across the floor. Wisps of cigarette smoke filtered through the door.

“Do you have to smoke that thing? You know how I hate those.” Bill’s voice was growing fainter, and the door closed.

The sound of footsteps faded away.

Beatrice stood up and shuddered in disgust. She waited for several minutes before daring to turn on the light in the filing room. There was nothing in there but the filing cabinets and a fluorescent light. She pulled open a drawer. It was filled with personnel files arranged alphabetically by last name. Beatrice smacked herself in the forehead. It would be impossible to find a Jim or Teddy in the drawers and drawers of paper. There were two Jameses in that one drawer alone. She didn’t know their last names. That was the whole point. The entire trip was a failure, and worse, she’d had to witness Bill and Susie’s office-desk romance. It was all she could do not to kick a filing cabinet.

Determined to accomplish something, she stomped over to the drawer marked “Da–Dr” to find Doris. It was a long shot but worth a try. Unfortunately, there was no trace of a Doris Davis to be found.

Then Beatrice went looking for Max’s file. At this point, she figured she had a right to know everything. It was exactly where it was supposed to be. Beatrice pulled out the folder and flipped it open. Maxine Rae McDonnell, born on August 22, 1952, started working at the bank in 1971.

She turned to the second page and saw a handwritten note: “Dismissed for Cause, Arrest on sight for trespassing.” A date was stamped next to it—November 28, 1978. That was the day after her friend had stolen Doris’s key. Beatrice tucked the folder under her arm and closed the drawer.

Beatrice cracked open the door to the filing room with one eye shut. To her relief, the desk looked unmolested, despite what she’d just witnessed. She stared at it in the pool of light from the filing room. The nameplate on the corner of the desk read “Suzanne Peplinski.” Bill had called her Susie.

Beatrice shut off the light.

CHAPTER 41

Bill and Susie’s conversation replayed itself all the way up eight flights of stairs and for the rest of the night. Beatrice no longer had any doubt that Bill was stealing money from the safe deposit boxes. What she couldn’t understand was why he needed Susie’s help.

Poor Susie, with her secret jewelry, had no idea the ring on her finger was probably stolen. Had Bill told her aunt the same story about margaritas on the beach? She wondered how many years in the smoky diner Doris had clung to Bill’s empty promises.

Beatrice pulled out her aunt’s key and looked at it again. Safe deposit box number 547 must hold the answers. There had to be a way to open it.

Beatrice tossed and turned on her growing pile of laundry but couldn’t shake the sound of Bill’s piggish grunts from her head. She finally gave up on sleeping altogether and slipped back down the hall to the stairs. Only two flights of steps down, the ninth floor was dark, except for a few scattered security lights. She darted from shadow to shadow past the elevator lobby and through the secretary pool to Mr. Thompson’s office.

The door was open, and the room was black. She felt her way along the wood-paneled wall toward the desk in the center of the room. Her hands wandered over the leather blotter and pen set until she felt the small lamp in the corner. The room lit up in a yellow glow. The small crystal clock on the desk read 2:00 a.m. The blotter was scattered with papers, but nothing of interest.

The top drawer contained pens, a letter opener, a cigarette case, and a lighter. The large file drawer was locked. She tried it twice, but it wouldn’t budge. Her finger circled the keyhole in the side of the desk by her knee. She pulled Max’s key ring from her pocket and tried to find a match. No such luck. Max didn’t have that key.

Beatrice sat back in Mr. Thompson’s enormous chair. The books on the bookcase looked like they’d never been read. The photograph of Mr. Thompson’s wife and two daughters was still on the shelf. Apparently, they made Bill want to blow his brains out. Beatrice smiled at them sadly.

There was a crystal ashtray on the shelf next to his wife. It didn’t look used. It was covered in a thin layer of dust, and a silver label was still stuck to the side. Mr. Thompson didn’t smoke. “Do you have to smoke that thing?” Bill had asked Susie earlier that night. As she stared at the ashtray, she remembered something she’d seen in the desk.

Beatrice pulled open the smaller drawer again. The silver cigarette case was still sitting there. She picked it up, and it rattled in her hand. She pried it open and found a silver key sitting inside. She grinned. It was the desk key. It slipped into the lock and the file drawer slid open easily. Beatrice trained the desk lamp to look inside.

It was filled with rows of hanging files, and each file listed a name—Marilyn Cunningham, Francine Carter, Beatrice Baker. She was startled to see her own name in the drawer and pulled out the folder. It was her performance review file. Her résumé was inside, along with several forms that listed her salary and the date of her next review. There were a few comments scrawled in the margins such as “punctual” and “cooperative.” She paused at a small note that read, “Assisting Randy Halloran. A welcome distraction.” She raised her eyebrows at “distraction.” It was insulting but the only shred of impropriety in the lot.

She stuffed the file back in the drawer and flipped through the others with her fingertips. Then froze. A file labeled “Doris Davis” was stuffed in the back of the cabinet. She yanked it out and flipped it open. Instead of performance records, there was an application for a safe deposit box signed by Doris dated 1962. Box Number 547. Beatrice pulled her aunt’s key from her pocket even though she knew the number matched. Behind the application there were several repossession notices. Beatrice recognized some of the letters from the copies in her aunt’s apartment.

There were more names of women filed away in the back of Bill’s drawer. She grabbed the file for Sheryl Murphy. There was another safe deposit box application behind her name. The file for Diana Brubaker had one too. There were eight women, all with safe deposit boxes. Including Max.

Beatrice swallowed hard before picking up the one that read “Maxine McDonnell.” She cracked it open, hoping to find nothing but a performance review. Maxine’s safe deposit box number was 544. The repossessions listed in the letters behind her name included a diamond necklace, an engagement ring, and over $100,000 in cash.