Death in Nostalgia City

by Mark S. Bacon

  Next stop was the nondescript stone and glass FedPat building on Franklin Street in the financial district. From the street, Lyle looked up and saw the FedPat logo. It would forever be as familiar to him as Coke’s or Nike’s.

  FedPat took up the top six floors. The main reception area was on the twenty-third. When he got out of the elevator, he saw marble floors and wood paneling--a quieter, more refined atmosphere than at the Peabody center. To the right, double glass doors opened into a lobby area with a reception counter. He wanted to walk in and ask to speak to the CEO then grill him for all he was worth. Shaw was going to retire anyway. What did he care? He probably had his hand on the ripcord of his golden parachute. But he had promised Max he wouldn’t alert anyone to their problems or suspicions and, after yesterday, Lyle needed to be Mr. Cool.

  He rode the elevators and scoped out all the floors. They were filled with corridors and doors with executive names on them. He tried his loitering and listening technique, but the secretaries and receptionists downtown were sharper than those in Peabody. That was executive efficiency. By the time he traveled back to the ground floor, the elevators were crowded. It was almost lunchtime. The small restaurant on the street level was packed and noisy so Lyle squeezed his way in to get a coffee and listen. He was just starting to feel normal again. Anything over two drinks and he felt it for hours the next day.

  He sipped coffee and eavesdropped. Even though the word FedPat came up every once in a while, as did executives’ names he recognized, all Lyle heard was useless gossip. The coffee didn’t help his head, nor did the noise level in the tiny restaurant. He was ready to quit. He should not have come to Boston until he had more to go on. He’d accomplished almost nothing, except likely getting his face on FedPat security’s Scary Customer of the Month Show.

  On his way out, Lyle eased through the clutch of people waiting to get into elevators. As he passed by, a large man in a brown suit spoke to the person next to him. “Not as hot as it is in Phoenix.”

  The word got Lyle’s attention. He looked at the man as he moved past. He recognized him--he thought. Lyle turned and followed the man into the elevator. Four other people were in the car. The man Lyle thought he recognized was standing behind him. Did the guy recognize Lyle? Lyle took a chance and moved to the side, pushing an elevator button that was lit already. He glanced at the guy and the man looked directly at him. No recognition.

  Lyle glimpsed the man with him, but was more interested in the guy who had mentioned Phoenix. He stood about six-three with broad shoulders, long, dirty blond hair, and a thick neck. He looked out of place in a suit. Lyle decided he knew him from somewhere--jail, court, the PD? After so many years of suspects and perps, it was difficult to keep them all straight. But this guy was no insurance man. As the two men got off the elevator, Lyle noted the floor number and saw one of them glance at his watch. They must have an appointment.

  Back in the lobby, Lyle shoved his hands in his pockets and walked toward the door. He wanted to follow them when they came out, but how could he? His car was in the garage and the men might have come by cab or even the subway. Heading back to the garage, he realized he would need to move his car to the lowest level possible. Luckily, Lyle found a parking space near the ramp and backed in. Next, he walked outside. When he reached the sidewalk, he’d decided: If the two guys came out and headed his way, he’d gamble they were going into the garage. If they crossed the street, or headed the other direction, he’d improvise.

  Lyle didn’t have to wait long. The muscular blond and his companion, also athletically built, came out of the FedPat building and walked toward the garage.

  Lyle reached his car and waited. Soon he saw the two heads and shoulders go past him in a black Chrysler. Traffic in the garage wasn’t heavy. Lyle fell in behind them.

  The black car turned left out of the garage and Lyle followed, letting one car get between him and his quarry. The Chrysler headed northwest, leaving the downtown area. Lyle followed them as they skirted Boston Common. He was confident that a green Ford Focus was not going to stand out in anyone’s rearview mirror, but he didn’t want to push his luck. In a minute, however, he had dropped almost a block behind the Chrysler and he started to get antsy.

  He pressed the accelerator to close the gap. Just as he was catching up, a giant ship on wheels suddenly lurched in front of him. He slammed on his brakes as the ungainly vehicle lumbered out from a side street. It looked like a Navy landing craft turned into a carnival bus. Was Bozo the Clown driving?

  In reality, it was a military amphibious duck fitted out for city tours. Lyle swerved around it. Now, where was the Chrysler?

  He found it in the next block and hoped it would not make too many more turns before it got to its destination. The black Chrysler crossed the Charles River and headed through Cambridge. After a few miles, it made two quick turns and stopped in front of a two-story office building. Lyle passed the building, made a left turn, and parked where he could see the car. The men got out and went inside.

  Lyle sat with his car running and the A/C turned on low. He was hoping his suspects might be coming out soon. But ten minutes passed and the Chrysler sat unattended. Lyle switched off the ignition and rolled down the window. Warm, humid air rushed in. He took off his coat and loosened his already loose tie. Now he wished he hadn’t had so much coffee. Solo stakeouts were murder on the bladder.

  After a while, he decided either the two guys were not coming out soon, or they went out the rear. Before he drove off, Lyle got out and walked up to the front of the building. He saw no name on the outside, but when he got close enough he could see through the building’s glass doors. On a wall inside was the corporate name in stylized letters: Topaz Investigations.

  He got back in his car and had just started the engine, when he saw the two men come out of the building and head for the Chrysler. The driver had taken off his coat and tie and rolled up his sleeves. He swaggered rather than walked, swinging powerful arms. His hair was cut military short, in contrast to the dirty blond who had a small pony tail. They headed back toward downtown, almost reversing the route they’d taken out of the financial district. They stopped at a downtown hotel. Lyle saw them shake hands and then the dirty blond went inside.

  If he was staying in a hotel, he could be from Arizona. Lyle broke off the tail and headed for a restaurant and a men’s room.

  Chapter 34

  Kate flinched when the whistle blew. The train jerked forward, stopped, then started to inch ahead. The NC railroad operations manager sat opposite her in the first car. The gray-haired man with the bushy moustache and red cheeks gave her a knowing smile when she started at the train’s shrill call. Tufted leather seats, polished wood floors, and iron luggage racks gave the full-size, steam-powered train the feeling of a bygone era closer to the 1870s than the 1970s. Seated next to her was Stu Goff, marketing director for Wrangler Resorts, operators of NC’s dude ranch.

  “The casino train is all ready,” she said. “After some roadbed tests, we’re finished.”

  “How long’ll the trip take?”

  “Thirty-two minutes,” said Herb Herndon, the railroad manager. “Saves lots of time over driving.”

  Kate shifted in her seat and pulled a chart out of a folder. “Along with the other additions we talked about, we expect the train to increase overall visitors to NC by as much as twenty percent the first year. Here’s what our projections look like.”

  As Goff looked at the tables, Kate silently cursed Max and Brent Pelham. Brent promised her that he or Max would accompany them on the train trip, but they were “unavoidably detained.”

  This left the task of impressing Goff to Kate. A few days before, the president of Wrangler Resorts had told Max they wanted to pull out--unless they could renegotiate their contract. Bad publicity had affected dude-ranch bookings. Kate could see that if one discouraged commercial partner left, others might jump ship. It was up to her to keep Wrangler Resorts in the fold. Goff’s severe expression wa
s not encouraging.

  “How often is the train going to run?” he asked.

  “About every forty five minutes during peak times--” Before she could finish, the train’s whistle signaled that it was approaching a crossing at the border of NC. “We’ll have two trains, one running in each direction. We’re going to announce this stuff at the big media preview.”

  Was Goff impressed? She glanced at Herndon, who took her cue. “Would you like to see the rest of the train?”

  Herndon started his spiel and led Goff toward the rear of the car. Kate sat back in her seat, feeling the quickening rhythmic motion as the train increased its speed, rolling across the arid plain. She glanced out the window at the distant hill then forced her attention to the file of press reports in her lap. Bloggers and columnists continued to savage the park for a sloppy safety record, reviewing the number of people killed and injured in recent “accidents,” and liberally quoting attorney Gibbons, who thought the park should be shut down. A local newspaper reporter’s story recalled the railroad bridge collapse and questioned the safety of the casino train. A state legislator had called for an investigation.

  The waves of publicity caused thousands of visitors to stay away. That led to the NC downturn itself becoming the story. Kate detested how exaggerated media coverage perpetuated the situation, scared people away, then focused on the lack of visitors. Positive publicity tended to feed off itself, but so did the negative.

  She needed a big break--and lots of luck--to turn things around.

  She jumped again when her cell phone rang. Was she letting the pressure get to her? “Bruce? I’m surprised you could get through. I’m on the casino train.”

  “I just wanted to know if you’re going to come back for the weekend.”

  “I’d like to, but there’s too much to do.” What she didn’t say was that she wanted to be in NC when Lyle got back from Boston. Max had talked to Lyle briefly and had ordered him to come home.

  “I understand how that’s important,” Bruce said, “but I’m lonely.”

  Kate wanted to be sympathetic, but Bruce sounded selfish. He was just about to quit his job in preparation for moving, but they had no concrete plans and he had paid scant attention as they toured homes in Flagstaff.

  “It won’t be too much longer and we’ll be together, but we have to find a house,” she said. “Has anyone looked at our condo yet?”

  “I dunno. Maybe while I was out.”

  “Didn’t the agent tell you?”

  “I can manage this, Kate, all right? C’mon, can’t you get away for just a day or two?”

  ***

  Seventy-five minutes after he saw his suspect go into the hotel, Lyle was back. At lunch, he’d considered several ways he might approach a desk clerk. When he walked in and saw a middle-aged woman standing alone at the desk, he decided on Option B. He described the dirty blond and said he was a deadbeat dad who had stolen money from his ex-wife, Lyle’s sister. It worked. The sympathetic clerk told Lyle the guy’s name was Jones--probably a phony name Lyle told the clerk--and that he was from Mesa, Arizona.

  After Lyle thanked her for the information, she told him that Jones had just checked out and that he’d mentioned something about going to the airport.

  Lyle went back to his car and headed toward his hotel. No point in trying to locate his man at the airport. Was the guy going back to Phoenix?

  On the way to the hotel, Lyle stopped at the Peabody Library. It didn’t take him long to discover that Topaz was a private investigation firm, started by a Joseph Renke. It had been operating in Boston for about nine years and had twice come under investigation itself. In the first incident, a Topaz operative was accused of strong-arm tactics when tracking down a suspect in an insurance fraud case. In the second, Topaz personnel were questioned during a federal investigation regarding illegal weapons. It wasn’t clear whether the Topaz people were implicated, or simply witnesses. One of the articles carried a grainy mug shot of Renke. It was the same man Lyle had seen with the guy from Arizona.

  ***

  After a restless night, Lyle wanted to be sure that Topaz worked for FedPat. He called the FedPat accounts payable department and asked to speak to the person who handled invoices from Topaz Investigations. Yes, they had an account there.

  What next? He decided to spend his last hours in Boston doing more surveillance. He hung out at Topaz until lunch. Several people came and went, but the athletic dirty blond was not among them. Discouraged, and with just a few hours left before he had to get to the airport, he spent time on Franklin Street and in the elevator lobby of the FedPat building. The day was a tiring dud--like so much police work. His feet were sore and his shoulders drooped as he turned in his rental car and boarded the plane. The only positive from the whole trip was the face of someone he knew from Phoenix. When he got home he’d call Marko and look at mug shots.

  Just as the plane touched down at Phoenix Sky Harbor Airport, something jogged Lyle’s memory. He realized the guy’s name was Jones. Art Jones. He’d phone Marko and maybe they could find out what Jones was up to. At least he had something to report.

  The corridor of the Phoenix terminal was a river of people, even at night, and Lyle drifted with the flow toward the parking garages. He turned on his cell phone and called his dad. No answer. Probably asleep. Lyle rescued his Mustang from the long-term lot and hurried up Interstate 17 toward home. It was late when he arrived. Driving past his condo he saw a figure near his front door. It wasn’t his father. Lyle parked and got out. He crept around the outside to the front door. When he saw Earl Williams, he knew something was wrong.

  “Earl?”

  Lyle’s friend took a few, slow steps toward him. “I got bad news, man.”

  “What is it? Are you--”

  “It’s your father. He was shot. There was nothing they could do.”

  Chapter 35

  Kate sat in her apartment, staring blankly at the TV. She didn’t know any of Lyle’s relatives so she had called Earl and told him that someone needed to see Lyle before he walked into his house. She persuaded Earl to be the one, but as the evening wore on, she thought she should have gone, too. She started to call Lyle then changed her mind. Better to leave the two of them alone.

  She’d heard about the murder second hand, hours after it was reported to security. Clyde Bates left a message with her secretary that afternoon. The message said there had been a murder in the Timeless Village housing area. The name of the victim was Hank Deming. Even if Kate had not lived in Timeless Village, and even if the victim had not been Lyle’s father, she would have wanted to know why in hell Bates waited so long to tell her. And then he took the chicken way out and left a message. Bates’s people had finally started to give Kate regular security updates, but this was the kind of news she should have heard immediately.

  When she got the message, she rushed across the park to the security headquarters, marched into Bates’s office, and sat in front of him as he explained the crime in detail. NC security had been first on the scene and later, the San Navarro Sheriff’s Office had been notified. Hank Deming was shot twice with a handgun. There were no suspects and few leads. The sheriff was treating the case as a daytime burglary gone wrong.

  Kate briefed her media-relations manager and told her to call if they got any press inquiries. Then she went to Max’s office and tried to reassure him and Brent Pelham that this would not be a disastrous blow, though she felt it could be. By 10 p.m. that evening, they had received no media calls.

  ***

  When Lyle woke up the next morning, he didn’t know where he was. It wasn’t a hotel room, but it didn’t look familiar. He looked around then remembered he’d gone to Earl’s place in Flagstaff. His father was dead. Not another heart attack but murder. Lyle tensed. He wanted to see his father, wanted to know where they’d taken him. He’d seen bodies before. He just needed to know.

  “How you doing, bro?” Earl asked, his voice a soft rumble as he stepped into the bedr
oom holding a cup of coffee.

  Lyle hoped it was as strong as Earl usually made. He wanted to think clearly, knew there were things he was supposed to do. “What time is it?”

  “After nine.”

  Lyle groaned.

  “Wanted to let you sleep.”

  “I need to do...something.”

  “You’re welcome to stay here as long as you want. I’ve gotta leave in a few minutes. I have to tape a program.”

  “Thanks, Earl. I’ll be fine.”

  Earl put a note down on the nightstand. “One of the guys from the sheriff’s department wants to talk to you.”

  “Rey Martinez. I know him.”

  “Here’s the key to my car. Someone’s picking me up. Catch up with you later.”

  When Earl left, Lyle lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. His mind churned with a variety of thoughts, among them guilt for leaving his father alone and guilt for the feeling of being released from having to look after him. After a while, Lyle rolled over and picked up the note from Martinez.

  ***

  Two hours later, Lyle met Martinez at the condo. Lyle got there a few minutes early and looked around. Obviously, a fight had taken place in the family room. An ashtray was knocked over. Several butts lay on the floor. A small end table had been tipped over and the cops hadn’t bothered to straighten it. Preserving the crime scene.

  Lyle had been at crime scenes--murders--but never one in his own home. He felt as if he were standing in a movie set for an unfinished drama. Martinez had told Lyle on the phone that the condo had already been checked over by the county’s criminalists for fingerprints and other evidence, yet he still was reluctant to touch anything. Was it the ex-cop afraid to disturb evidence or the son not wanting to concede the reality of his father’s death?