Chapter 30

Lyle tried to relax. Seated in a coach aisle seat bound for Boston Logan International Airport, he had no place to go. He’d read the first page of the book in his lap several times. He’d gotten further with cocktails. He was on his second. His dad had been angry at first when Lyle told him he was going to the East Coast for a few days. Later he appeared to withdraw. Lyle made sure that a neighbor would look in on his dad at least once a day. He told Kate and Earl that his dad would be alone and he left Earl’s phone number with Hank, just in case.

Before he’d told his dad he was leaving, he had to persuade Maxwell to let him go. When Lyle walked into Maxwell’s office, he didn’t know how he would explain it. He didn’t have anything to go on. He just knew he had to go to Boston, had to see the headquarters of Federal Patrician Insurance.

At first, Max refused. “Are you trying to antagonize one of the few allies we have?”

“Allies?”

“Yes, FedPat. First, you grill Kevin Waterman, now you want to go there and piss off the whole corporation? And what good would it do? They’re not involved. Anyway, you’re supposed to be looking for suspects with motives.”

Lyle, of course, was forced to explain he knew about the loan. That had not gone well, either.

Although Max seemed resigned to Lyle’s knowing how involved NC was with FedPat, he still defended the corporation. “Hate to admit it, but if it wasn’t for FedPat there might not be a Nostalgia City. They’re still behind us all the way,” he said. “No, we want you here, not stirring up trouble.”

The possibility of quitting or watching NC go down the drain had drifted through Lyle’s mind.

Ultimately, Max gave in but with conditions. “Don’t let anyone know who you are. It’s a touchy situation right now. Looks like we’ll have to ask them for forbearance. You can hang around, play detective, that’s okay. But keep a low profile.”

NC was figuratively on fire and Max didn’t seem to know if Lyle would fan the flames or douse them. Lyle had left Nostalgia City with anything but carte blanche. But he didn’t care.

When the flight attendant offered another drink refill, Lyle declined and focused on the present. A good place to stay. He looked at his rubber band then watched the flight attendant walk down the aisle. She was an attractive, middle-aged woman, but nothing like the slinky stewardesses of the late ’60s and ’70s--who’d sported miniskirts and sultry smiles. Lyle had been a teenager when he’d taken his first flight and had fallen in love with a Hughes Air West stewardess. He only saw her the one time, but the memory lingered. At least his musings were now turning to women instead of his hostility toward Patrician Insurance.

After he landed, retrieved his bag, and rented a car, he headed north, straight for FedPat Corporation’s offices in the Boston suburb of Peabody. Two-story glass and steel buildings spread out in two directions. By the time he arrived, it was past 5 p.m. East Coast time and the offices were closed. He watched as stragglers came out of the buildings and got into their cars. Lyle wondered if any of them were people he’d spoken to on the phone during his many attempts to straighten out his daughter’s claims.

He left the offices to check into a nearby hotel. As he headed back toward Interstate 95, he spun through the car radio dial looking for an oldies station. He stopped when he heard a familiar voice singing about “Suspicious Minds.” Lyle nodded. The King understood.

Lyle had a piece of fish for dinner, called to see that his dad was okay, talked to Samantha, and went to bed early.

***

His first stop the next morning was the Peabody Library. The public library, housed in a 150-year-old brick building, didn’t look promising. But inside Lyle found computers and he quickly logged onto the Internet. He started searching for background on FedPat Corporation and Federal Patrician Insurance. The research could have been done from the comfort of his home before he left. Now it cost him ten cents a page. He printed out a stack of articles on FedPat for later reading. He also discovered that insurance companies in Massachusetts were regulated by the state’s Insurance Division, and he noted the division’s Boston street address.

When he walked out of the library at midmorning, it was already getting warm. Not like Arizona, but humid. He felt surrounded by a hot, invisible fog. By the time he drove the few miles to the FedPat headquarters, the back of his shirt was wet and sticking to the car seat. He had the air conditioner on in the Ford Focus, but he was still sweating.

The FedPat investor relations office was housed with several other departments including Consumer Affairs. That was a laugh. Consumer Affairs existed only so the company could show the government that they really cared about policyholders.

Inside the door, Lyle had to sign in and obtain a visitor’s badge from the receptionist. He asked where he could find an annual report and she directed him around a corner and down a corridor. His other objective was to check out FedPat’s security measures, so when he was done, he pretended to get lost so he could look around. He left the building by another door and kept his visitor’s badge.

Back in his car, he started the engine and ran the air conditioning as he flipped through the annual report, looking for names of mid-level managers. Using a search engine on his phone he quickly found phone numbers and started calling executives, looking for people who were out of the office. It took three calls.

“I’m sorry. Ms. Burgess is out of the office today. May someone else help you?”

Ms. Burgess was one of the corporate attorneys. Lyle thought the legal department would be a good place to hang out and eavesdrop so he tucked his cell phone in his pocket, picked up his small briefcase, and headed back inside. A few clouds took up space in the blue sky, but none blocked the sun. It beat down, reflecting off the mirrored office windows.

The reception area was larger than he imagined. Federal Patrician Insurance must generate lots of lawsuits. The room, with a combination of upholstered couches, chairs, and glossy wooden tables, looked like a furniture showroom, except that several people in suits were sitting and waiting. Lyle asked a receptionist with bleached hair for Ms. Burgess, saying he had an appointment for 11 o’clock.

“I’m sorry. I think she’s out today.”

Lyle looked puzzled. “Not here?”

“I don’t think so. Um, her administrative assistant is on break.”

“Anne--Ms. Burgess--told me she was going to be out of the office this morning but would be back about now. Said I should wait if she wasn’t here.”

“Okay. Can I have your name?”

Lyle gave a phony name, took a seat near the front of the room, and settled in to wait. He wasn’t waiting for anything in particular--certainly not the absent Ms. Burgess--just sitting, watching, and listening.

After lunch, he repeated the process in another department. Then he modified the visitor badge to make it look like he worked there and hung out for a time in two employee lounges, listening and making note of what he heard. Unfortunately, after several hours, he’d not collected any intelligence he thought would be useful. But there were still a couple of hours left in the day.