Chapter 10

Mitch called the number he'd gotten from the web. It was the home office of the company listed in the New York records as Farmingham's insurance company.

"Northern Mutual Insurance," came a svelte female voice. "How may I direct your call?"

"This is Officer Connel of the Pembroke, Connecticut PD," he said in his best official voice. "I need to talk to someone about recovering the car of one of your clients. It's been in an accident."

"Claims?" asked the woman. "One moment please."

Mitch hummed while he waited for someone to come on the line. He heard a recording that said his call might be recorded to ensure quality service and snorted. All those recordings were used for was to cover their asses.

"Thank you for calling Northern Mutual claims service, the fastest and most complete service in America. This is Rodney, how may I help you?"

Mitch frowned. Rodney sounded like he might be seventeen. He repeated his identification and the explanation of why he was calling.

"You're not the insured?" asked Rodney.

"No, I'm the police officer investigating the accident."

"What's the customer's name?" asked Rodney.

Mitch told him.

"And his social security number?"

"I don't know that," said Mitch. He gave him Farmingham's home address.

"What's the customer's phone number?"

"I don't know that," said Mitch.

"I'm sorry, but we file all claims under the social security number and phone number of the insured," said Rodney.

"He hasn't made a claim yet," said Mitch. "He's been in the hospital ever since the accident."

"If he hasn't made a claim, there's nothing we can do," said Rodney.

"You folks insured the car, right?" asked Mitch. "Can we at least get that confirmed?"

"I'd be happy to do that for you sir. May I have the policy number?"

"I don't know that," said Mitch, getting impatient. "I gave you his name and address, isn't that enough?"

"I'm really sorry, sir," said Rodney. "Without the social, or phone number, or policy number, I have no idea how to confirm the insured is one of our customers."

"How 'bout I talk to your supervisor," suggested Mitch, hoping that would shake the tree enough for some information to fall out.

"Certainly, sir," said Rodney, who actually sounded happy at the prospect of handing this problem off to someone else.

There was another wait. It was longer this time. Mitch was treated to a few recordings, alternating between a peppy woman and a downright elated man, who extolled the virtues of ten or fifteen different programs offered by Northern Mutual.

"Thank you for calling Northern Mutual claims service, the fastest and most complete service in America. This is Priscilla, how may I help you?"

Priscilla, who had obviously been found by Rodney, had apparently not asked Rodney any questions of any kind. This was suggested by the fact that Priscilla asked Mitch the exact same questions that Rodney had. It got to be too much for Mitch and he vented his frustration.

"Look, Priscilla, I've got a man in the hospital and his car under the ice in the river. He was shot, OK? The car has evidence in it and I need you all to get it out of the river for me, because you insured it, OK? Send an adjuster with the tow truck, or whatever you want to do, and he can gather all the information he wants to. I just need this to happen as quickly as possible, all right?"

There was a silence on the phone that lasted six or seven seconds.

"Sir," said Priscilla. "If the car was damaged while being used in a crime, it voids the coverage. I'm terribly sorry, but I'm afraid there's nothing we can do for you."

"I didn't say the car was used in a crime," said Mitch, his voice rising. "I said the car was involved in an accident and went in the river. You're the insurance company. If the car is totaled, it belongs to you, and I suspect-I'm just guessing here-that the car is totaled, OK?"

Silence again. Mitch realized that this woman would be of no help to him either. He sighed resignedly.

"Let me talk to YOUR supervisor!" he said tightly.

This time the canned ads went through three complete cycles before someone came on the line. Mitch didn't let the man get through the whole welcoming speech again.

"Thank you for calling Northern Mutual..."

"Stop right there ... I'm a police officer, please identify yourself," Mitch broke in.

"Um ... this is Ed. How can I help you?"

Priscilla had apparently told Ed she had a problem, but not what the problem was. For the third time, Mitch patiently explained what he needed.

"Of course, sir. What is the insured's phone number?" asked Ed.

Mitch didn't want to arrest Farmingham anymore. He wanted to arrest every Tom, Dick and Harry on Northern Mutual's employee rolls instead.

In the end, Ed, who said he was the regional supervisor and there wasn't anybody higher up in the company than him, at that location, came up with half a dozen reasons why Northern Mutual wasn't going to do a damn thing. They couldn't confirm (or deny) that Farmingham was a customer. They couldn't locate his policy with the information available. There was no claim to act on. There was no police report as a basis for action. Mitch's call was not considered a police report. Ed said he didn't want to hurt Mitch's feelings, but the fact of the matter was that Mitch could be anybody at all. There was no proof he was a law enforcement officer. There was "suspicion" that the vehicle had been used in the commission of a crime. The VIN number of the vehicle in question had not been verified. Without a review of the customer's account record, there was no way to determine whether or not the policy, if one existed, was in force at the time of the accident.

It was when Ed said, "This is all highly irregular," that Mitch finally hung up on him.

Kris was sitting at the table, a legal pad in front of him and a Bic pen in his hand. He'd written only two outline bullets. One said "Accident" and the other said "Hospital." He was in the process of writing "Pembroke" when there was a knock on his door. Surprised, he got up and went to open it. He found two men on the porch. A gust of freezing air caused him to step back without thinking, inviting them in wordlessly.

"Thanks," said the older one. "I'm Bill Hoskins, pastor of the church downtown. This is Butch Flannery."

"Uh, how do you do?" asked Kris.

"We do fine," said Reverend Hoskins. "Which brings us to our purpose for being here. We understand you've had a run of bad luck. Butch here thought he might be able to help a little."

Butch didn't look very happy. That was because HE hadn't thought a damn thing about helping this man. It had been Reverend Hoskins' idea that since Butch had four cars, and only used two of them, one should be loaned to the mystery man so he could get around town. When Butch had objected, Hoskins had reminded him that he'd already made money on this man.

"Yeah, a whole two bucks!" complained Butch.

"Two dollars you didn't have before he came here," said Hoskins patiently. "And, if you lend him a car, you'll have an excuse to visit him occasionally, to make sure it's running OK, and we can keep an eye on him."

"I thought you said in your sermon that charity started at home," groused Butch.

"And if you'd actually been listening instead of napping, Butch," said the reverend, "you would have heard me explain that you arrange your heart ... your home ... to get involved in charitable acts."

"But this isn't real charity," said Butch. "You just want an excuse to snoop into his business!"

"God does work in mysterious ways," droned Reverend Hoskins. "You find yourself with more cars than you need, and we find ourselves with a need to keep an eye on a man who has shown an interest in one of our sisters."

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