CHAPTER 3

Saturday, August 8, 1998

“What are we doing here exactly?” Iris asked, turning away from the chained doors of the old bank.

“WRE was selected to perform a renovation feasibility study for this place. I hear the county is thinking about buying it.” Brad pulled out his tape measure and clipboard.

“A renovation feasibility study,” Iris repeated as if she knew exactly what that meant.

“Yep. It’s going to take longer than usual. There are no legible blueprints from its original construction because the Building Department had been keeping the archives under some leaking pipes. Everything was water damaged.” Brad shook his head at the ineptitude of government workers. He pulled open the tape measure and handed her the dumb end. “We’re going to have to reconstruct the plans to show the adaptive reuse options for the building.”

Iris stared at him for a moment, debating whether or not she could go on pretending she was following along. She took the loose end of the tape measure and walked with it to the other side of the room. “Okay. I give. What does that mean exactly?”

“We’ve been hired by the current owner, Cleveland Real Estate Holdings Corp., to whip up some floor plans showing the potential here for new offices and retail. I guess they figure they can finally get a better deal than the tax write-off they’ve been taking all these years.” He made a note of the measurement and motioned her and the tape measure end to the opposite wall.

“Tax write-off?”

“Rust Belt cities have been a tax haven for years. You buy a building at a deep discount and let it sit vacant, taking a huge loss. It helps a company’s balance sheet come tax time, especially if they’re making a killing elsewhere.”

Iris studied the tile mosaic on the floor to hide the confusion on her face. “Now they want to sell it? Is that why Mr. Wheeler said something about all this being confidential?”

Brad made a few more notes and snapped the tape measure closed. “The county has been looking to relocate its headquarters downtown, and our design plans are supposed to help sell this place to them. This building owner is competing with several others, and the county hasn’t gone public with their plans.”

Iris nodded and glanced at the graph paper he was marking up. Brad had already sketched a rough outline of the first floor and was neatly filling in the measurements.

“If you want my opinion, they should just tear this place down. With all the asbestos and lead buried in here”—Brad waved his hand at the gorgeous ceiling—“it’ll cost a fortune to do anything else.”

Iris couldn’t argue as he led her from the front lobby through the heavy bronze doors. The banking area on the other side was enormous by modern standards and consisted of two high marble counters in the middle of the cavernous room, flanked on either side by identical rows of teller stations. The bank tellers had stood in little booths behind tight bronze prison bars with only a mail slot–sized opening to pass paper through.

Iris peered inside one of the tiny stalls. There was a small counter and an antiquated adding machine, and barely enough room to turn around. It was utterly claustrophobic, and she felt bad for the woman who used to stand there. Iris turned and tried to imagine the room the teller saw from behind the tight bars.

Mosaic tiles, mahogany, and bronze—everything was shrouded in dust. The ceilings soared up fifteen feet at least, holding nothing but stale air and the faded echoes of hard-soled shoes and clacking keys. The whole place was a lost black-and-white photograph.

Iris was overwhelmed by a strange melancholy, knowing it would all be torn down if Brad had his way. They’d probably turn it into a parking lot, she thought, trying to shake the feeling she was standing in a buried tomb.

“So what’s the plan for today?” she asked, hoping for a larger role than just holding the tape measure at Brad’s command.

“First, we need to lay out the basic column grid and get some overall dimensions. We’ll leave the site survey to the civil engineer. Then we’ll develop the floor plans and typical wall sections.”

It was the closest thing to actual structural engineering she’d been asked to do since she was hired. The building was a fifteen-story tower with a footprint that was easily 100 by 150 feet. It took the better part of the morning just to lay out the first-floor grid. The rest of the first floor contained the loading dock, restrooms, and two sets of stairs. Iris passed by the grand staircase, adorned with long marble slabs and wrought-iron railings that wrapped around the elevator housings, and headed toward the second set of stairs hidden off the loading dock. A burned-out “Exit” sign hung over the door. Inside, the cold concrete treads and cinder-block walls rose up from the glow of the emergency flood lamps. The air was thick with what smelled like sour urine. Iris took quick measurements and slammed the door shut.

The lunch hour came and went. Iris grew light-headed as her blood sugar plummeted. By one o’clock she was certain she was going to faint.

She let the dumb end of the tape measure droop. “I’m getting pretty hungry.”

“Yeah, me too. Let’s stop and take a break.” Brad was so engrossed in his graph paper he’d hardly talked all morning.

“Where do you want to go to grab some lunch?” she asked, stretching her cramped hands.

“Oh, I brought mine.”

Of course he brought his lunch, she thought irritably. A Boy Scout is always prepared.

“Shoot! I guess I didn’t think to do that. I’m going to have to run out. Do you want me to pick anything up for you? Soda?”

“No, I’m good,” Brad said as he pulled out a brown paper bag. “I’ll grab a quick bite and keep at it here. Come find me when you’re done.”

“Sounds good!” Iris said brightly, as though his work habits weren’t completely annoying. It was a Saturday, for sobbing out loud, and he couldn’t be bothered to stop for lunch? She grumbled to herself as she found her way down the front stairs, through the main lobby, through the service corridor, and back to the loading dock.

When she returned thirty minutes later, she pulled her car in front of the blank garage door. She pressed the button on the black speaker box and waited. Nothing happened. She pressed it again and scanned the empty street and sidewalk. A bead of sweat ran down her back. She toyed with the idea of just going home, but the squawk box crackled to life, and the door rolled open.

Inside the filthy loading dock, Ramone was nowhere to be found, but he must have been there somewhere to open the door. Weird. She took one last puff off her cigarette and dragged her butt out of the car. As much as she hated the idea, the back stairs up to the second floor seemed like the fastest way to get back to Brad. She’d already slacked off enough that day.

She scrambled up two flights of emergency egress stairs, trying not to breathe the fetid air. It still reeked like an outhouse. When she got to the door marked “Level 2,” the handle was locked. Shit. She pounded the door. “Brad! Brad, I’m locked out! Hello?”

Now what? The spiral of concrete stairs led in both directions, and she debated whether to go up or down. The treads wound up and up for what seemed like miles. It was so mesmerizing as she leaned over the rail, she almost forgot the smell.

The sound of boots scuffing on concrete came from several flights up.

“Hello? . . . Brad? . . . Ramone?” her voice echoed in the tower.

A door slammed way up near the top, and then there was silence.

“Hey!” she shouted after it. “What the . . . ?”