“It was in Frank’s bag of personal effects, wrapped in a cloth.”

Arlene pushed her reading glasses up onto her head and leaned in to look at the brass teeth.

She pointed to a small three-digit number stamped near the ring hole.

“Record box seventy-two,” Arlene said.

“That’s no house key, Howard.

That’s a heavy commercial key stamp.”

“It isn’t a bank key either,” Howard said.

His gravelly voice slowed into a lazy Southern drawl.