“Uck!” She grimaced and dumped the milk in the sink. She grabbed a beer from the fridge and gulped it down until the taste of thick, sweet milk had rinsed away.

Head now buzzing, she turned back and faced the keys scattered around the counter. The dead man’s key sat next to Suzanne’s safe deposit box key. Iris narrowed her eyes. She picked them both up and sandwiched them together. They were exactly the same shape and size, and the teeth almost matched. It wasn’t a door key that had been left in the room with the body. It was a key to the vault. A nagging feeling crept back into her gut . . . It shouldn’t be blank. She paced the kitchen, trying to shake the feeling that the key was somehow the reason the man was dead. She never should have taken it.

Iris finally fell back to sleep around five in the morning with the two keys lying on the table in front of her next to her open phone book.

First thing the next morning, Iris staggered to her car. She had spent an hour the night before searching the yellow pages for a locksmith or key shop. A pimple-faced teenager working the key station at the hardware store wouldn’t be much help. She needed an expert.

She had settled on the Lock and Key in Garfield Heights. Its yellow pages ad featured old-timey lettering and a cartoon of an old man carving a key. He was the one she needed to see.

On Turney Road she found the hole-in-the-wall shop. She pushed through the door into a tiny room where the walls were covered in doorknobs—old-fashioned ones, high-tech ones, fancy long-handled ones. She walked straight back to the service counter, where a worn stool sat empty by the cash register. An open door led to a storage room in the back. Iris hit the little silver bell on the counter and waited. There was a hand-painted sign on the back wall that read, “Lost Your Key? We Pick Locks.”

She waited for a full minute and was about to ring the bell again when a pretty young woman popped through the doorway. Iris’s face fell in disappointment. She couldn’t have been more than thirty years old. The little old man who carved keys was nowhere to be found.

“Can I help you?”

Iris doubted it. But she decided she’d driven all this way so she might as well ask.

“I’m not sure . . . I found these keys, and I don’t know what they’re for.” She placed Suzanne’s key and the dead man’s key on the counter.

“Huh,” the woman grunted, and picked each one up. She turned them over in her hands and asked, “Where’d you find them?”

“In my grandpa’s old desk,” she lied. To make it seem less like she stole them, she added, “He died last year.”

The woman nodded, seeming to buy the story. She pointed to Suzanne’s key. “Well, this one is for a safe deposit box.”

“Really? How can you tell?”

“The name of the bank is here, and this would be the box number.”

Thanks for nothing, Iris thought wryly, straightening herself up to leave.

Then the woman scowled. “Did your grandfather work at the bank?”

“Uh, I don’t know.” Iris suddenly felt nervous. “He was retired for years. Why do you ask?”

“Well, this key would only belong to someone at the bank.” She eyed Iris carefully.

“Really? Why?”

“It’s a master key.” The woman set it back on the counter. “It matches the lock pins for this key and any others like it.”

“I don’t understand.” Iris swore she could feel a fly crawling up her neck. She swatted it away.

“Well, they’re illegal now, but years ago banks kept master keys for safe deposit boxes so they wouldn’t have to ruin the housings by drilling them open—you know, if the other keys were lost. They were obviously very tightly guarded. I’m shocked you found one in your grandpa’s old desk.”

“How do you know that this is that kind of key?” Iris asked defensively. The pretty woman behind the counter couldn’t have been more than ten years old when the bank closed.

“Keys are my business. I might not look like I know much, but I was trained by the best.” She pointed to a small photograph of an old man by the register. “What was your grandfather’s name, hon?”

Iris felt her stomach tighten. This was a key shop. They probably got odd requests all of the time, maybe even illegal requests. Cleveland was no stranger to larceny. The lady behind the counter might even have a legal obligation to report her to the police.

“I . . . I’m sorry. This is all so confusing, I just . . . need to go.” She quickly grabbed the keys and stuffed them back into her pocket. “Thank you,” she muttered, and nearly ran out the door.

CHAPTER 52

Wednesday, December 13, 1978

“Coffee, black!” Randy Halloran slammed his coat and scarf onto Beatrice’s desk.

Not a minute later, she could hear him yelling into the phone through his closed door as she scrambled to hang up his things in the executive coatroom. She fetched the coffee and then stood outside the frosted glass, watching his shadow pace back and forth as he ranted, afraid to knock.

“Jesus! I don’t care what you have to do, call a goddamn locksmith! I don’t give a damn what Stone says. We have a business to run!”

She heard him slam the phone onto its cradle.

Beatrice lifted her small fist to knock, but an older man in a tweed suit thundered down the aisle to Randy’s door. He opened it without knocking and slammed it behind him. Muffled voices argued behind the frosted glass. She scurried back to her desk, knowing better than to interrupt.

“I don’t give a good goddamn what you think it is your duty to do,” a voice bellowed. “You will stick to your job description, or you’re fired!”

The door opened, and the old man stormed out. His steel-gray hair framed his blazing face. Beatrice glanced back at Mr. Halloran’s office. The door was closed.

She waited a full five minutes and freshened the coffee before gently rapping on the door. “Excuse me, Mr. Halloran.”

She heard footsteps thundering toward her and took a step back. The door swung open. He glowered down at her. “I would very much like not to be disturbed this morning.”

She lifted the coffee mug in his direction without a word. He yanked it from her hand, spilling coffee on his shoe and pant leg.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, sir!”

“Goddammit, Beatrice!” he thundered, making her jump. “Get my coat.”

He shoved the mug back to her, splashing her wrist with scalding coffee.

She scurried away, eyes watering, certain the entire office was staring after her. She dumped the offending coffee in the sink and rinsed her red skin with cold water. She ran back to his office carrying a mountain of cashmere and leather. Her feet halted at the threshold, and she peeked over the top of the pile for Randy.

“Mr. Halloran? I have your coat.”

“Bring it here.” His voice came from the private washroom behind his desk.

She hesitated and then cautiously walked toward it. She wouldn’t set foot inside the bathroom. She remembered too well what had happened the last time.

He straightened himself in front of the gold mirror, running a hand through his thick, coiffed hair. He turned to her with a tight-lipped smile. Something erratic behind his eyes made her shrink from the door. He pulled the coat from her hands.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to.”

“Sir?”

He grabbed her by the wrist. “Don’t play dumb with me. You and that friend of yours, Maxine. You two are up to something. Keys don’t just go missing. I’m going to find out what it is, and when I do . . .” He squeezed her wrist until she winced. She cowered under him, not daring to even whimper. He dropped her arm and stormed out of the room, leaving her trembling in the doorway.