She drew in a deep breath. He was right that Max had been up to something. She had lots of keys. She had been in the vault. Beatrice walked her shaking legs back to her desk. She tried to reassure herself that he didn’t know any more about what Max was up to than she did. He was just acting like a bully. Randy had been in the vault the other night. Maybe he was angry he couldn’t find the keys.

She pulled out her writing pad and began making more notes in shorthand. Randy liked to drink. He took long lunches. He yelled at people on the phone. He was in the vault. He was born rich and got a job where his father worked. His father was Teddy. He and his father were big money men, and making money was a dirty business. The argument she’d overheard between Randy and the older man was replaying in her head when the phone rang.

“Hello. First Bank of Cleveland, Auditing Department.”

“Beatrice? Is that you?” It was Tony.

“Yes. Can I help you?” she replied as if he were a bank customer. The feeling she was being watched crept up her back, and she quickly slid her notes down into her desk drawer.

“I need to see you. Tonight.”

“Tonight?” she whispered. Francine or someone else might be listening. She cleared her throat and spoke up. “Um, of course.”

“I’ll see you at six. Theatrical Grille.” Then he hung up.

“Have a nice day,” she sang into the phone, and set it down. She swallowed hard, thinking of the tunnels that ran under the city. Checking her pocketbook, she found her wallet was empty. She needed money for a cab ride from the pub to the alley behind the Stouffer’s Inn.

When the lunch hour came, Beatrice headed down to the banking floor to make a withdrawal. She walked through the towering lobby to the long room where pretty ladies waited behind the bars for customers. She scanned the booths until she found a familiar face.

“Hi, Pam!” Beatrice smiled at the woman who had helped her open an employee checking account when Max had insisted on taking Beatrice shopping.

“Hiya!” she said, looking bewildered for a moment. “Oh, you’re Max’s friend, right?”

“That’s right.” She forced a smile.

“How is old Maxie? I haven’t seen her around lately.”

“I think she’s on vacation in Mexico.” It was the lie Max had designed.

“Vacation? How’d she finagle that?” Pam laughed and then lowered her voice. “I heard she was advanced on her pay for months.”

Beatrice tried to keep her surprise from registering on her face.

“That’s Max for ya!” Pam waved her hand. “She’s always been a wild one. I could tell you stories that would curl your eyelashes . . . So how can I help ya?”

“I need to make a withdrawal. Fifty dollars.” Beatrice slid a piece of paper with her account number under the bars. Pam scratched a few notes on the slip and pulled cash from a drawer. As she pulled out her wallet, Beatrice eyed the ring of keys at the bottom of her purse.

“Say, Pam? Do you know anything about the safe deposit boxes here?”

“They’re downstairs. Go out past the elevators and down the steps.” She slid the cash under the barred windows. “You tell Max she still owes me a favor next time you see her, okay?”

“Okay. Thanks.”

Max had money troubles. The thought raised lines on her forehead as Beatrice made her way back to the lobby. She found the staircase that led to the lower level. Down the marble steps, she began to recognize the room from her trip to the hidden door that led down into the tunnels. In the light of day, it was a grand hall almost as nice as the lobby above. There was a large reception desk and a row of red velvet curtains. Crystal and brass chandeliers hung overhead, and the red carpet swirled with flowers and ribbons.

A woman with jet-black hair pulled into a severe bun sat at the reception desk. Cat-eyed glasses perched at the end of her prim nose. She didn’t notice Beatrice standing there until she cleared her throat.

“Can I help you, miss?” She studied Beatrice through her thick lenses the way a scientist might examine a germ.

“I’m not sure. My aunt is very ill. She’s in the hospital, and she asked me to get something for her.”

Beatrice reached into her purse and pulled out Doris’s safe deposit box key. She handed it to the woman.

“Are you an authorized agent?” The woman slid the glasses down her slender nose.

“Excuse me?”

“An authorized agent. Did your aunt sign a release allowing you access to the box in the presence of a bank employee?”

“Uh. No.” Beatrice lowered her voice. “She had a stroke and I’m . . . I’m the only family she’s got.”

It was the sad truth, but the woman behind the desk didn’t appear moved.

“Unless you have a police warrant or a death certificate with the power of attorney, I cannot legally grant you access to the box.”

She set the key on the counter with a firm click.

“I don’t understand.” Beatrice sniffed. “Aunt Doris just wanted me to get her . . . rosary for her.”

It was a small white lie, but she had nothing left. The tears began to pool without prompting, and the key blurred on the counter.

“The best I can do is check the records. What’s your aunt’s name?”

The woman examined the number on the key and pulled out a file drawer below the counter.

“Doris. Doris Davis,” Beatrice answered flatly.

It was a dead end and she knew it; she didn’t have power of attorney or whatever it was she needed. The prolonged silence on the other side of the counter made her look up. The woman was staring at her.

“You’re Doris’s niece?”

“I’m sorry?” Beatrice felt anxiety grip her skin.

“Doris Davis used to work here.”

“Yes, I know.” Beatrice quickly picked up the key. Investigating the box was a huge mistake.

“No, she used to work here.” The woman pointed to the counter. The woman’s stony face began to soften. “She trained me years ago. Did you say she had a stroke?”

“Yes, on Thanksgiving . . . You two were friends?”

“Yes, we were.” The woman gave a small nod. Her eyes were pained. “I’m so sorry to hear she’s not well. Which hospital is she at?”

“University. She’s in the intensive care unit.”

“I knew something was wrong. I should have called her. She came in every week.” The woman pressed a thin hand over her mouth. She shook her head and then regained her composure. “I shouldn’t be doing this, but come with me.”

The deposits clerk walked around the desk and led Beatrice through the round doorway back to the vaults. An armed guard stood at attention.

“Hello, Charles. The S₁ key please.”

The armed guard unlocked a drawer in a wood stand and poked around for a few minutes before pulling out the correct key.

“Thank you.” She motioned for Beatrice to follow her and muttered under her breath, “These new security measures are driving me crazy!”

Deep in the metal room, the woman searched the rows and rows of little doors for the right one. Hundreds of metal rectangles lined the walls floor to ceiling. Each one had a number.

“What do you mean?”

The woman found the right box and slid the key the security guard gave her into a hole.

“The security guard . . . They gave him the keys—my keys. I’ve had the key ring for ten years, and last week they took them and said they needed to be more secure. It’s ridiculous.” She turned to Beatrice. “You need to insert your key, dear.”

Beatrice slid Doris’s key next to the first key where the woman was pointing and gaped in amazement as the door swung open. The clerk removed her key, and Beatrice did the same; then she pulled what looked like a long metal shoe box out of the cubbyhole behind the door.

“Follow me.” The woman carried the box out of the vault and back into the lower lobby.

“Uh, Shirley, I think you’re forgetting something,” the guard said.

“Of course,” Shirley responded curtly, and handed the guard the key.