The phone rang and rang. Iris tapped her foot as she waited. She had to get back in the building Monday morning. She’d put all the keys back and act like none of this happened.

He finally picked up: “Detective McDonnell.”

“Hello, Detective? This is Iris Latch. I’m the engineer who found the body.”

“Iris, how are you?” His voiced warmed on the other end of the line.

“I’m okay. I was just wondering when I could get back to work in the old bank building.”

“It’s still a crime scene, Iris. The coroner and the forensics team are working hard, but it takes time.”

“I don’t understand. Isn’t this just a suicide case? I mean . . .” Hundreds of hungry flies began to circle. She squeezed her eyes shut. “There was a noose, right?”

“Well, it’s a little more complicated than that.”

“It is?”

“Well, for one thing the deceased didn’t shove a bookcase in front of the bathroom door and change the lock. Someone was trying to hide what happened.”

“But hundreds of people worked there, and this happened, like, twenty years ago, right?” She felt herself beginning to whine but couldn’t stop. “Isn’t there a statute of limitations or something?”

“Not for murder.”

Iris felt her stomach tighten. “Now you’re saying the man was murdered?”

“I’m not saying anything.” He cleared his throat. “It’s important to keep the details confidential in an ongoing investigation. We don’t want anything leaking to the press. If this is indeed a homicide, the murderer may still be out there.”

A blue shirt ran through her thoughts. She swallowed hard. “Is there any chance I’ll be able to get back to work by Monday?”

“I’m sorry, but I sincerely doubt it. There are mountains of evidence to collect in that building. The clue to whoever may have done this could still be hiding inside. It might be months before we’re done cataloging it all.”

“You sound thrilled.” Iris sighed heavily into the phone. Fear gripped her stomach. She still had the keys.

“I’ve been wanting to get my hands on this building for years,” he admitted. “We may finally have the political will to complete investigations we began decades ago. You can’t just brush a homicide under the carpet, you know.”

“Well, then it looks like I’m out of a job.” Her voice cracked.

“Iris, I’m sorry to hear that, I really am.”

She had to find a way to put the keys back in the building. Her palms began to sweat. She should tell him. She should tell the detective what she’d found. The headline “Disgruntled Engineer Caught Red-Handed” flashed in her head again. She couldn’t tell him. She’d just admitted she was getting fired. Nothing filled the void in conversation as she debated with herself.

“Iris, is there anything else I can help you with?”

“What? Um . . . no . . . I just,” she stammered. “Maybe I should tell you more about the building. Would that help?”

“Sure. What do you got?”

“Well, let’s see . . .” She stalled for time. She should tell him something. She should let him know she was on his side.

“Check John Smith’s office on the fourth floor. It’s filled with strange files. There’s some weird notes in Joseph Rothstein’s office on the ninth floor. I think he may have called the FBI about some things. The personnel files on the third floor are still full of information. I found this suitcase up in a broom closet on the eleventh floor. It belonged to . . . a woman.” She almost said “Beatrice,” but she didn’t know that for sure. Besides, it would raise other questions. “Oh, and the tunnels. Don’t forget to look into the tunnels and . . .”

The keys. She should tell him about the keys too. This was the moment, but a voice in her head reasoned it away. He was a police officer. He didn’t need keys. He had battering rams and lock picks and drills. The police would find another way into the vault. She should just get rid of them and never speak of them again. She could throw them in the river or something. Beatrice would be found without them. The police would find her. Like the detective said, the building was full of evidence.

“Tunnels?” he said, interrupting her scrambling thoughts.

“Yeah. Old steam tunnels. The entrance is under the stairs in the lower lobby.”

“Iris, this is very helpful. I may call you again to ask a few more questions. Is that all right?”

“Sure.” She still had a chance to confess. “Detective?”

“Yes, Iris.”

Silence vibrated across the line. She wanted to tell him but couldn’t do it. She pictured herself being taken into the station for further questioning. No. She would get rid of the keys on her own. “Um, do you know who I found in that bathroom?”

“According to his wallet, it was a man named William Thompson. Now that’s confidential. I need you to keep that between us.”

The name rang a distant bell in Iris’s head. She strained to hear it for several moments before it came to her. “ ‘Best Dad on Earth’ coffee mug! I’ve seen his office! He was up on the ninth floor. His office was trashed.”

“What do you mean trashed?”

“Like someone had torn it apart.” She breathed out the air she’d been holding in her chest. Maybe she’d helped the detective enough to make up for what she didn’t say.

“Iris, if you can’t find another engineering job, you call me, okay?” he said with a laugh. “I might have work for you.”

CHAPTER 58

Wednesday, December 13, 1978

Get out. Tony’s words repeated in her head as the cab drove Beatrice around the city. She didn’t give the driver a destination when she climbed in after her meeting with the detective. She didn’t know where she was going. The thought of braving the tunnels and the long, dark walk to the eleventh floor was too much to bear. “Get out,” he’d said, but all she had were dead ends. Someone had ransacked her aunt’s apartment, and they could be sitting at the kitchen table at that very moment waiting for her. She couldn’t go back to the hospital. According to Max, the room was being watched.

The cabdriver passed the First Bank of Cleveland as they cruised down the dark, empty street. She gazed up at the tower looming over her head. Lights were glowing in two windows on the top floor. Whoever it was up in those offices didn’t sleep.

Who was it? she wondered. Who turned her aunt’s apartment upside down? Who was watching her aunt’s hospital room? Bill Thompson was a liar, a womanizer, and a robber of widows. He may have even visited Aunt Doris in the hospital, parading as her uncle. But he didn’t work on the top floor. Max had told her the trouble at the bank was bigger than Bill.

Then there was Randy Halloran. He’d been at the hospital—she felt sure of it now. He had signed the visitor’s book. Remembering his wild eyes that morning made her shudder all over again. She could still feel his hand squeezing her wrist.

It didn’t matter. She should just forget the whole sordid business and leave town tonight. Her aunt would never recover; she knew in her heart there was no point in waiting. Beatrice could just disappear. They probably wouldn’t even bother to look for her. She would be just another girl who up and vanished in the night. Max’s haunted eyes and faded smile swam back into focus at the thought. She’d made Max a promise. She needed to find her before she left.

The Gothic terminal building pierced the sky up ahead. The front of the building was a fairy-tale castle, but she’d seen the ugly back of the tower in the loading dock alley, where a blank door led underground. Thinking of the tunnels gave her an idea.

“Stouffer’s Inn,” she called to the cabbie. It was the hotel next to the tower. She counted the cash in her purse and crossed her fingers it would be enough.