The bizarre codes on the pages she’d sorted for Randy suddenly made sense. They must have been the files that kept track of where the bank had stashed millions of dollars. Jim wanted the money out, and so did the Covellis. The Mob was somehow involved with the bank’s dealings, and Carmichael worked for them. Being a bartender was just a facade. Beatrice hadn’t known him at all. But Tony and Max had known him, she realized. Tony was a police detective; he was the one who told her about the Covellis in the first place. He must have known. Every word Carmichael might have overheard at the bar replayed in her mind—her conversations with Tony about snooping around the bank, the missing safe deposits, the missing master key. Maybe Tony had wanted Carmichael to hear. The old man pointed the gun at Teddy in her head. Maybe the Covellis would bring down the bank if law enforcement failed.

No one, not even Tony, suspected that she and Max had the power to do anything but run. Max was right. They all underestimated women like them.

Beatrice stepped out from behind the curtain with the keys in her hand and crept toward the vault.

CHAPTER 72

Friday, August 28, 1998

A black-and-white photograph of two women looked up from Box 547 in the yellow glow of the detective’s flashlight. They were smiling. The glass in the silver picture frame was cracked. Iris picked it up and handed it to Detective McDonnell. Underneath it she found a brown leather book and a candle. That was it.

“What the hell is this?” Iris said out loud.

She couldn’t believe Beatrice had called Suzanne Peplinski in 1978 over a photograph. She couldn’t believe she’d just broken into the bank for one. It wouldn’t solve any of her problems.

“What’s in the book?” the detective whispered, placing the photograph back in the box.

Iris flipped it open. It was filled with numbers. She flipped and flipped but found nothing but more numbers in blue and black ink, until something red caught her eye.

“Who is Rhonda Whitmore?” She tilted the page toward the detective.

“You’ve got to be kidding me! She was the woman Max claimed was murdered in 1974.” He grabbed the book and began thumbing through the pages. “All these numbers read like transactions.”

“Transactions?” Iris picked up the candle. It was just a cheap red votive that had never been burned.

“I think this may be a record of the deposit box robberies. See here, this must be Rhonda’s box number, 855, and here’s what was inside—fifty thousand dollars.” The detective pointed to the line he was reading, but Iris was hardly paying attention.

A piece of paper had fallen from the bottom of the votive. She picked it up and read aloud, “May the souls of the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.”

The detective looked up from the book and shined the flashlight at Iris. “What?”

“It was on the bottom of the candle.” She handed him the little piece of paper.

He studied it, then turned it over. “It’s from the Church of the Savior in Little Italy.”

“I don’t get it.”

“It’s a prayer candle. My church has them too. You light them for someone that died or needs a prayer.”

“But why would someone put it in this box?”

“That’s a damn good question,” a deep voice said from behind them.

Detective McDonnell spun around, reaching inside his coat. A loud blast fired next to Iris’s ear, and the detective’s flashlight went flying through the air. It smashed onto the floor. The light flickered and then went out.

Iris could smell smoke. She heard a thump as something heavy hit the ground next to her. Her ears were ringing. Her mind went blank. She felt herself begin to fall.

“Oh, no you don’t,” the voice said, catching Iris and tilting her back upright.

Without the detective’s flashlight, it was too dark to see who was talking. Iris didn’t want to see anything. All she could hear was her heart pumping blood in and out of her throbbing ears. Her lungs refused to breathe. The world swam out of focus.

The overhead lights switched on abruptly, making her blink. The red candle was still sitting in the deposit box. She kept her eyes on it, refusing to acknowledge the man behind her, until he touched her shoulder. She jerked away, but her foot bumped into something big and still on the ground. It was Detective McDonnell. She felt her stomach heave and vomited into the open box.

The man behind her chuckled. It sounded muted and far away.

“Well, that’s fitting, isn’t it? That’s exactly how I feel about the whole thing.”

The calm laughter made her heave again. The voice wasn’t completely unfamiliar.

“Turn around, Iris,” he commanded.

The sound of her name made the ringing in her ears go quiet. She shook her head. She didn’t want to see his face.

“Turn around!” he barked.

A large hand grabbed her shoulder and twisted her until she could see the gunman. She couldn’t make out his face, just features. A jutting jaw, hard eyes, and glistening teeth pulsed in and out of focus.

“Sorry to make such a dramatic entrance, but he was reaching for his gun. I really had no choice. It was self-defense. You’ll back me up on that, won’t you?” He pressed his gun between her eyes. The barrel was still hot.

Iris stopped breathing and nodded.

“You don’t have any idea who I am, do you?”

She shook her head, although she was now certain she’d seen him before.

“Well, I know you, Iris. I know all about you—your late mornings, your drinking, your boredom. I’ve been watching you from my desk for months. Still nothing?” He chuckled again. “My office is three doors down from Charles Wheeler’s. A true professional would know that. But you’re not a true professional, are you, Iris? You and your little rebellions, your rifling through file drawers, your sneaking around.” He paused and brushed her cheek with the back of his hand.

Iris recoiled but was backed against the counter.

He kept talking. “I was once a lot like you. Stuck in a dead-end life, looking for something better. Looking for a way out. Well, you certainly found one, didn’t you?”

She had to say something if only to make him stop touching her. “Ha . . . have you been following me?” she whispered, not daring to look in his eyes.

“I’m not the only one. You’ve managed to piss off a lot of people, Iris. Nobody wanted that dead bastard to ever see the light of day.”

“You knew h-him?”

“You could say that, but the last time I saw Bill he didn’t look so . . . chewed up.” He grinned at her viciously, and her stomach lurched.

“What do you want?” she whimpered.

“What does any man want?” he demanded. “I’m guessing you haven’t the first clue. You probably think it’s money, right?”

She stared into the vault behind him, too scared to speak.

“Wrong, Iris! Wrong!” He slammed his hand on the counter and made the metal box jump.

Iris felt it like a slap.

“Money is just a means to an end. I want something far more valuable than money. Respect. I’ve always wanted respect. And after all these years, I’m finally taking it. I recommend you try it sometime. Getting laid off was no picnic, right?”

Iris shook her head, watching the gun.

“Well, here’s your big chance to stick it to old Wheeler but good. Chuck’ll just love it. Twenty years working across the street from his retirement fund, and then in the blink of an eye it’s gone.” He waved the gun to the side for emphasis, then swung it back into her face.

She held up her hands reflexively. She recognized him now. He was the creepy gray-haired guy who’d winked at her getting fired earlier that day. He’d stopped her in the hall a few weeks back when she was running late. Something about the odd look in his eye had made her uncomfortable. With the gun in his hand, it was suddenly clear. He was crazy.