Iris rushed across the street toward the First Bank of Cleveland, cursing under her breath. Nick had blabbed at work that she was obsessed with the safe deposit boxes. She hadn’t told a soul about the keys, but somehow her former boss and a police officer seemed to know she had them. The only person she had showed them to was a locksmith in Garfield Heights, who didn’t even know her name, but somehow they found out anyway.

Withholding evidence from a cop was a felony, but if she didn’t give Mr. Wheeler what he wanted, he would press charges and ruin her career. Not that a recommendation would even matter if she had a felony on her record. At the moment, getting another engineering job she would probably hate was the least of her worries. She had to find her way back inside the bank and throw the keys into a dark corner for someone else to find. They belonged there.

She ran to the rear entrance behind the building and pressed the call button on the squawk box. Nothing happened. She tried again and waited. Damn it. She raced around to the front of the building to see if she could spot Ramone through the windows.

The main lobby was empty. She rested her forehead against the glass. Maybe she could just slide the keys under the door. As she debated what to do next, her empty stare fell on the black velvet sign in the lobby that listed the names of the important men who used to work there. Slowly the letters came into focus. “C. Wheeler, Board Liaison” was at the bottom of the list. Pressing her nose to the glass, she read the name again. Mr. Charles Wheeler had worked at First Bank of Cleveland.

Iris spun to face the building across the street, where WRE’s offices sat on the ninth floor. Mr. Wheeler had worked at the bank twenty years ago and now worked a mere two hundred feet away. He could be looking down at her from his corner office windows at that very moment.

“Oh, shit!”

Iris ran from Euclid Avenue. If Mr. Wheeler worked at the bank, he might have known the man who died. He may know who killed him. He may know everything. She rounded the corner. A large, black truck was pulling out of the bank’s loading dock. She lurched to a stop and ducked back behind the side of the building. After three harried breaths, she peeked around the corner again and watched the truck pull away. It was unmarked—not even a license plate. It headed east, and the garage door rolled closed.

It made no sense. Where were the police? Where was the crime scene tape? Where was Ramone?

A hand grabbed Iris by the arm. She shrieked.

Detective McDonnell slapped his palm over her mouth. “Come with me,” he ordered, and pulled her to his unmarked police car at the curb.

Shit. Iris limply dragged her purse and field bag full of evidence behind her. It was a small relief when he opened the front passenger door and not the back, but she’d never been in a police car in her life. The door slammed shut. The detective slid into the driver’s seat and threw the gearshift into drive. Iris wasn’t sure if he’d just arrested her but was too terrified to ask.

Without a word, the detective drove across Euclid Avenue and turned down Superior toward the Terminal Tower. Iris forced herself to breathe. She studied the dashboard to keep from descending into hysterics. A photograph of a young woman was taped to the console. Iris had seen her picture before. She focused on the photo as the detective made a few more turns and finally parked in an alley. He turned to look at her for the first time since he’d shoved her into his car.

“That’s my sister.” He motioned to the faded image. “She was a real beauty.”

Iris nodded, not taking her eyes off the photo. “I’ve seen her before.”

“You have?”

Iris scowled, trying to remember where. The colors had been brighter. The photo had been someplace where the sun couldn’t reach it. Ramone.

“Ramone had her picture in his room next to one of his mom.”

“The security guard? . . . I guess that wouldn’t surprise me. Max made friends wherever she went.” He seemed to brush it off, but Iris could tell by the way he crinkled his brow at the picture that there was more to the story. “Why aren’t you at work, Iris?”

“I was fired today. Well, laid off. Things were pretty weird, so I left.”

“Weird how?” He studied her intently.

“I don’t know. I guess they were asking a lot of questions. I got your message this morning and . . . I got nervous. What’s going on? Why aren’t the police still in the building?” She couldn’t bring herself to directly ask if he was charging her with a felony.

“They’ve shut the investigation down. The coroner ruled it an open-and-closed suicide.”

“What about the bookcase and the lock?” she asked. Mr. Wheeler’s name was spelled out in white letters on a kiosk in the back of her mind. It just felt wrong.

“Circumstantial evidence. It wasn’t enough to get warrants.”

“Oh.” Iris frowned and tried not to look at her field bag. “What does this all have to do with me?”

He studied her a moment and said, “You told me some things about the building. I went and looked for the files where you told me to look, and they were gone.”

Her mouth fell open. “Gone?”

“Well, at first I thought you might have been pulling my chain, but I could see shadows of what could have been filing cabinets in the carpet. There were also wheel tracks in the dust on the floors. Someone moved them. Recently.”

“I saw a black truck.”

“I’ve seen them too. Someone is clearing out the building. I can’t get a straight answer from the county, and the building owner isn’t taking calls. My boss told me to drop it. They think I’m obsessed with the old bank and finding my sister.” He rubbed his eyes. “Shit, I’m surprised they even let me take the call in the first place.”

Something was really wrong. None of his words explained why he’d called her, why he’d threatened her about withholding evidence, or why she was in his car. What was worse, he’d just admitted no one was listening to him. “I still don’t understand what this has to do with me.”

“Someone’s been watching your house. I think someone’s been following you.”

Her blood stopped cold. “What?”

“I’m not sure who it is. I started tailing you last week because you were my only lead, and I’m sorry, but something about your story just didn’t seem right.”

“My story?” Her voice cracked.

“I don’t think you’re telling me everything,” he said simply. “Now I think you may be in danger. Someone down at the county doesn’t want this investigation to move forward. Someone is moving evidence out of the building. Someone is following you. Now, you can either tell me why, or I can drop you off at your house and you can take your chances.”

She opened her mouth, but no sound could escape through the knot in her throat. He watched her carefully as she processed what he’d said. Mr. Wheeler knew about her affair with Nick, her drinking habits, and her late mornings. Mr. Wheeler seemed to know about the keys. She could still feel the squeeze of his hand, but this time it was around her neck.

Iris slowly reached down to the floorboards and grabbed her field bag and her purse. She fumbled with trembling hands and lit a cigarette. The detective patiently waited and unrolled her window. She blew a shaky stream of smoke out the window and then pulled out the keys.

CHAPTER 68

Detective McDonnell took notes as Iris told him the whole story. He nodded while she confessed to stealing keys from Suzanne’s drawer, the vault, and finally the bathroom floor just inches from the rotting corpse. The last confession made the detective stop writing. His eyes filled with disbelief and then rage.