“You took something from the crime scene? Are you fucking nuts?” He studied her face as if he were actually trying to measure her sanity. “Do you realize that’s a felony? You’ve just destroyed your credibility as a witness. I can’t use any evidence you give me! Even if they did let me reopen the case, I got nothing. Goddammit!”

He slammed his hand against the dashboard and turned to the window. Her eyes watered and her cigarette dropped from her shaking lips.

“I was in shock,” she protested as she fumbled for the burning ember in her lap. “Can’t I plead temporary insanity or something? I’d never seen a dead body before. I walked into the room and picked up this key. Then I found the flies and the bones and I threw up. The next thing I knew, the room was filled with cops. I didn’t realize I even had the key in my hand until I was down by my car and it was . . . too late. I was scared. I thought I was going crazy. I’ve been hearing voices. Isn’t there anything I can do to make this right?”

The detective stared at her hard, and she felt the prison bars slam down around her. She clamped her lips together to keep from wailing.

His glare softened. “So you found some keys. Why would someone be following you, Iris?”

She swallowed hard. “They’re not just any keys. I did some checking around. These are the bank’s keys to the vault, and this”—she grabbed the blank key with shaky fingers—“this is the master key. They call it a dead key. Together these can open any safe deposit box in the vault.”

“You did some checking around?” He rolled his eyes at the ceiling of his car and raised his voice to a roar. “What the hell is it with people wanting to play detective? You sound like my goddamn sister with this crap! Do you know what happened to her when she went poking around that vault? She vanished! For all I know, she’s dead and buried somewhere under the city. Is that what you want?”

Iris shrunk into the corner of her seat. He noticed her cowering and ran his fingers through his hair. The toll the bank had taken was written in the creases of his forehead.

He took a deep breath and said calmly, “I’m sorry, Iris. This thing is bigger than you, okay?”

She gave him a small nod.

“So, someone is following you because of these keys. Do you have any idea who it is?”

She took a moment to consider it rationally, though it was hard to think straight with the hysterical shrieking in her head. “Well, I think someone was trying to open a safe deposit box when I surprised him. He left these keys hanging from a lock.”

“And you took them?” he asked as though she might just be the dumbest woman on earth.

“I don’t know, I thought it was Ramone. I was going to give them back to him. I was hoping he would explain how he got them. They were supposedly lost twenty years ago, and I’ve sort of been trying to find them myself. But it wasn’t him. I was going to put them back. I never meant to keep them . . . It sounds crazy, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” he said flatly. “I don’t think you realize the kind of people you’re dealing with.”

“You mean people like Mr. Wheeler?” She searched the detective’s face. “I think he threatened me today. Did you know he used to work at the First Bank of Cleveland?”

“Mr. Wheeler?”

“Charles Wheeler is a lead partner at WRE. He used to be a board member or something at the bank. He told me I’d better give back everything I might have taken from the building or he’d press charges, and then he nearly broke my fingers with a handshake.”

“Wheeler,” the detective repeated, and began flipping through his worn notepad. “He was on the board of the real estate investment company that had bought the property at auction when the building was sold in 1979—Cleveland Real Estate Holdings Corp.”

Iris nodded, trying to piece it together. Mr. Wheeler worked for the same company that bought the building at auction. He also worked for the bank. “Do you think he’s following me?”

“Wheeler? I doubt it’s actually him, but it may be someone who works for him. He’s just one of the players in this. The most powerful men in Cleveland have ties to the old bank. Another former bank officer, James Stone, was elected county commissioner a few years back. Now he’s running for Congress. Too many important people want to keep the truth buried. If they think you’ve uncovered something, they’ll want to bury you too.”

“But I don’t know anything!” she protested. Her brain was reeling. Someone working for Mr. Wheeler had been following her. Somehow Amanda and Mr. Wheeler knew about her affair with Nick. Nick. Nick was always popping up out of nowhere in the old bank and outside her car window. He had been in her apartment. A chill coursed through her body. Nick was just a guy looking for a good time, she argued. He wouldn’t be wrapped up in some weird conspiracy. The detective was studying her as she fought back the panic. She didn’t want to have to explain Nick.

“You must know something, Iris.”

“What do I know? I’ve seen strange files and cryptic notes. I found some keys. I found a pile of dead flies, and I’m still having nightmares. It doesn’t mean I understand any of it. I even tried. I stayed up late deciphering some weird language, and I couldn’t make sense of any of it. All I know is that a secretary disappeared because she knew something about the safe deposits. She left behind these notes for someone to find.”

“Notes?”

Her eyes watered as her voice raised an octave. “Yes! Then there was this suitcase I found full of her clothes. She probably died in there, and no one even cared. Now you’re telling me someone’s following me . . . Am I next?”

“Wait. You found women’s clothes? Where?” he asked.

“In a closet. Here I think I’m going crazy. I think I’m being haunted. Someone’s been following me around the building messing with me, dusting things, taking things, whispering my name. I don’t know shit all right. I wish I did, but I don’t.”

The detective was staring at the photograph of his sister as if he’d forgotten Iris was there.

“Do you?” She angrily wiped the tears from her eyes. “What really happened when the bank closed?”

“All I can tell you is that when the city defaulted, they were eager to blame somebody. City council opened a full investigation of the First Bank of Cleveland, talking about how the rich had defrauded the public. At first the bank cooperated. They gave us access to files and corrupted accounts. We indicted one big fish.”

He read the name from his notepad: “Theodore Halloran, vice president of Finance. He was as dirty as they come. We had him for embezzlement and racketeering. He was on this advisory committee to the city back in the early 1970s to develop an urban planning initiative. They petitioned the government for funds to buy up blighted real estate for redevelopment. ‘Urban renewal’ they called it. ‘Eminent domain.’ Millions of dollars disappeared overnight. Technically, I guess you could say they didn’t disappear. They were ‘mismanaged.’ ”

“What do you mean?”

“The whole thing was a scam. Halloran and his buddies already owned most of the properties they were buying. They had bought up half of Cleveland through bullshit front operations, like nonprofits, and real estate investment firms, like the New Cleveland League. So Halloran was acting on behalf of the city, buying acres of blighted housing from himself, negotiating with himself, and fixing the prices. He sold properties to the city at an outrageous profit. What did he care? It was federal money. The money went right into the bank’s coffers and was never seen again.”

A freight truck rolled past the loading dock. Iris thought of the black truck she’d seen leaving the old bank. Cleveland Real Estate Holdings Corp. was a front organization owned and operated by former bank officers. Mr. Wheeler was one of them. They owned the building and were removing evidence. Suzanne had said, “You’d be surprised how many of those fat-cat bankers is still around.” She was right.