The Yellow Packard (21 page)

“Want to continue here?” Reese asked his partner.

“Let’s take him downtown,” she replied. “I think the neighbors have heard enough.

Chapter 40

A
fter they’d put Landers in the backseat of the Ford and searched the Packard, Reese pointed the car toward the local jail. Glancing toward the front passenger seat, he asked his partner, “Do you want to take him to Bryant station or back to your motel room? Might be easier to work him over without the local cops watching.”

Meeker studied the driver for a moment and quickly caught his drift. “Motel’s fine with me. I haven’t seen your short, powerful jabs since you won the FBI boxing crown last year.”

She casually looked back at the salesman. His jaw had dropped to his chest, and all the color had drained from his face. As she continued to push his buttons with her cold stare, she added, “Of course the local cops have a real problem on their hands if we opt to not check in with them.”

“What’s that?” Reese asked.

“You have the key to the cuffs the woman is sporting, and her file is here in the car. If they have a private room at the jail, we can still work our guest over there.”

“It’s your call,” he replied.

“Let’s go to the jail,” she suggested, “unless Mr. Landers wants us to just pull the car over right here and visit. He looks to be in a visiting mood. What about it?”

“I–I–I’ll answer anything you want. You don’t have to get rough with me.”

Moving so she was sideways in the seat, Meeker studied their prisoner. He was quaking in his shoes and had tears rolling down his cheeks.

“Henry, just keep driving around town. We’ll see how cooperative Mr. Landers is. If he doesn’t give out with the information we want during our ride, then we can go to the room and try your method.”

Meeker licked her lips before picking a piece of paper from the seat beside her. She held it in her hand as she gently posed her question. “Bill—I believe that is what your friends call you, is that right?”

He quickly nodded.

“Okay, Bill, I fished this bill of sale out of the Packard’s glove box while Henry was putting you in our car. You claim this was given to you when you bought the car at the diner?”

“That’s the truth,” he immediately answered.

“Did anyone see you make this transaction?”

“No, I didn’t know anyone there. Hold it. Wait a minute, there was a kid working behind the counter. I talked to him about it. He could back up my story.”

“Do you recall his name?”

“No, but I can describe him. And he’d know me, I’m sure of that.”

Meeker glanced over to Reese. “I’ve got a couple of samples of Bill’s handwriting from stuff I found in the glove box. It’s not anywhere close to what’s on this piece of paper. And the date on this sales slip is about a month after the kid was taken.”

“His partner likely wrote it up to give them a cover,” the other agent shot back. “I’m still thinking this is the guy. When I work him over, he’ll fess up.”

Meeker moved her gaze back the fidgeting, handcuffed man in the backseat. “Okay, Bill, tell me about the guy who supposedly sold you the car.”

The sweating man swallowed hard. “My throat is so dry—”

“The man who sold you the car is what we’re talking about,” Meeker cut him off.

Landers nervously shook his head. His lips trembled as he began, “He had on what looked like a new suit. I think it was dark, but I don’t remember if it was black, blue, or brown. It might have even been gray. He was normal height and build, and his face was kind of pockmarked. I don’t remember the color of his eyes, but they were kind of dark and set deep into his skull. I guess you would call them beady.”

Meeker waved her hand. “Bill, you’ve just described every cheap hood in all the Hollywood movies. That doesn’t bode well for you. Give me something that makes me believe you were actually there and that this man really exists, or I’m afraid I’ll have to let Henry get this information the old-fashioned way. I don’t have to tell you how much he loves that interrogation method.”

Landers shook his head and sighed. “I was looking at the car more than the man. He was just a normal guy. Nothing stood out. No, wait! There was one thing—when we were driving around, he smoked a cigarette.”

“Lots of folks smoke,” Reese cut in from the driver’s seat. “Don’t think that fact limits the field much.”

“It’s not that he smoked,” Landers said, his voice suddenly excited, “it’s how he smoked. He held his cigarette between his little and ring fingers. I’d never seen anyone do that before.”

“Bill,” Meeker continued, “I want you to fully understand something. A little girl was kidnapped in your car back in March. At that time the car was yellow. Five thousand dollars was also taken at the same time. That little three-year-old girl is still missing. Whoever took her is staring at a long stretch in prison if we find her alive. If we find out they killed her, they’re going to fry. I’ve watched an execution; I’ve seen a man sit in Old Sparky when they throw the switch.” Meeker paused, glanced out the window at a tiny row of buildings. “It isn’t pretty,” she finished.

Silence filled the car for a long moment while she let that sink in. She drummed her gloved fingers on the car’s seat for effect before continuing, “When they threw the switch, the man’s body went stiff, his hands grabbed the chair, and smoke poured off the top of his head. He shook like a rag doll for more than thirty seconds—that’s an eternity. Then they cut the switch, and a doctor went to him. He took out his stethoscope and checked the guy out. You know what?”

A now very frightened Landers shook his head.

“He wasn’t dead. They had to do it again. This time he screamed. I’d never heard a scream like that. Horrible. Before he finally gave up the ghost they had literally cooked the guy.”

Landers, now as pale as a sheet, swallowed hard.

“Here’s the deal, Bill,” Meeker explained, “we want that kid back. If you just tell us where she is, I’ll make sure you get a break. And if she’s dead, I can keep you out of the death chamber and make sure you just get prison. You don’t want to sit in Old Sparky. So are you going to come clean, or do we just let matters roll the way they roll?”

“I only bought the car. That’s all!”

“Henry,” Meeker said, “pull over to the curb.”

After the car had come to a stop in a quiet residential district, her eyes locked onto Landers and she spoke in slow, measured tones. “Bill, your work log puts you within a few miles of the crime on the day when the kid was snatched and the money and car were taken. The car you’re driving is the car! We checked and verified the numbers last night when you were asleep. It has been painted, which any jury will believe was to keep it from being spotted. I’m a lawyer, the daughter of one of the best prosecutors in the history of the state of New York. Any jury in the world would find you guilty even without us ever producing a body. So why don’t you just come to clean with us? Tell us if you killed Rose Hall, and if you didn’t kill her, tell us where she is.”

Meeker stared directly into the man’s face. The salesman had the look of a hopeless traveler who just found out his next stop was hell. His lips were dry, his eyes moist, and his skin almost gray. After three minutes, he finally sighed. “I know you don’t believe me, but I don’t know what you’re talking about. All I did was buy a car.”

Meeker glanced from their prisoner to her partner and ordered, “Bill, you stay here and don’t move.” She then signaled Reese to meet her outside the Ford.

After they were both out of the vehicle and had walked around to the sidewalk, she said, “He wasn’t involved.”

Reese nodded. “Yep, he doesn’t have the stomach for it.”

“He’s a sucker,” Meeker added.

“His involvement with that black widow pretty much proves he’s desperate enough to believe what people tell him. He bought that car knowing it was too good a deal to be true. Deep in his head he likely knew it was hot. But he had to have it. So, he played the odds.”

“And,” Reese moaned, “where does that leave us?”

“Let’s check out the woman and see if she is connected, which I doubt, and then we have to backtrack and find the guy who sold Landers the car. The kid at the diner might be able to give us a lead on him.”

“Want me to call the St. Louis office,” the man suggested, “and have them get to work on it?”

“No, Henry, we need to do this ourselves. And we’re going to take Bill Landers with us. If the kid recognizes him, we’ll know for sure his story checks. Landers and the kid might be able to work together to give us a better picture of … what was the name on that bill of sale?”

“John Smith,” Reese quipped.

“Boy,” Meeker grimly replied, “old Bill is even dumber than I thought. Let’s hope he can give us a clearer picture of this John Smith.”

Chapter 41

M
eeker had the Packard shipped by express rail back to the FBI lab in Chicago before the trio began their trek to St. Louis. Landers had been allowed to pack a bag and inform his boss he needed to take a few days off. Whether those days turned into a long stretch in prison would be determined by what they found at the greasy spoon just outside the gateway city. The trio checked into a hotel for a few hours’ sleep before driving out to St. Charles. It was just past eight when they pulled into the diner’s parking lot.

“So, this is the place?” Meeker asked.

“Yeah,” Landers assured her. “He brought the car to a spot right over there. I looked it over under that streetlight before taking it for a spin. We concluded the deal in the parking place where that gray Hudson is sitting right now.”

“Seems things are coming back into focus,” Reese noted.

“Sure are,” the salesman answered, “and the guy’s eyes were a really dark brown. Almost black.”

“It’d be too dark in the parking lot to see that,” Meeker argued.

“Yeah, but he sat beside me in the diner. I’m also remembering some kind of deep scar on the index finger of his right hand. And he didn’t have a fingernail on that finger.”

Reese looked over to Meeker and smiled. “You were right to bring old Bill along. Let’s get inside and hope the kid is manning the counter tonight.”

The trio walked in and stopped just inside the entry. As the agents studied the fifty or so patrons who had chosen this dive for their Tuesday dinner, Landers spotted the kid. With hope in his step he moved quickly to the bar. Pushing between a man in jeans and a work shirt and an older woman wearing a striped dress, he got the counter attendant’s attention.

“What’s your need, sir?” the kid inquired.

“Do you remember me?” Landers asked at just the moment he was joined by the agents.

The kid took a look into the man’s face before asking, “Should I?”

“I was here on April 23
^rd
and ate a ham on rye. It cost thirty-five cents, and I gave you two quarters and told you to keep the change.”

The kid shrugged. “There are a lot of folks who place that order and pay like that. Unless they come back over and over, I don’t remember any of them. Besides, that was forever ago.”

“You’ve got to remember,” Landers pleaded.

“I’m sorry,” the kid sincerely answered, “but I don’t. That doesn’t mean you weren’t here; it’s just that we’re on the highway and we get so many people that come in and go out. I never really look at any of them. A guy I served yesterday or this afternoon could come in, and odds are I wouldn’t know him.”

Landers’s shoulders sank as he glanced back at Meeker. The agent shrugged and moved toward the counter. She pulled her identification out of her bag and showed it to the kid.

“What’s your name?”

“Danny Fisher.”

“Okay, Danny, Mr. Landers needs you to help him and so does the FBI. You’ve got to think real hard.”

“I didn’t know there were lady G-men. Wow!”

Shaking her head, Meeker continued, “The night Mr. Landers came, in he was having car problems. His Studebaker had died. He had to find a car so he could get to an appointment in Indianapolis the next day. He met a man here that night who offered to sell him a Packard sedan.”

Fisher’s face remained blank. It was obvious he had no clue.

Meeker looked over to her companions. It seemed this was going to be a dry run. They were no closer to the kidnappers than they had been a month ago. It looked like it was up to the lab boys to find something in the car.

“Danny,” she said as she turned back to the boy, “here’s my card. If you remember meeting Mr. Landers, call me collect.”

“Sure,” he said, reaching out to take it.

“Let’s go,” Meeker announced.

As they moved toward the door, Landers stopped dead in his tracks, turned, and rushed back to the counter. “Danny, I came back in that night, and I asked you if I could trust the guy who was selling me the car. You said he’d been in every day for a few weeks and he lived with a family down the street. Their name was …”

“Hooks,” the kid announced. “Sure, now I remember. The guy was quiet, kind of grumpy, had a weird finger.”

“That’s him!” Landers gleefully announced. “Did you hear that, Miss Meeker?”

“You told me he lived with the Hooks family?”

The kid nodded. “And you gave me a buck for the information. I remember it all now!”

Meeker eased back to the counter and asked, “Has he been in here recently?”

“No,” Fisher replied, “it has been a long time since I’ve seen him.”

“What about the family?”

“The place where they were staying is for rent. It’s on Balmer Street, just off of Vine. It’s a gray house, two-story. The paint is faded. But like I said, they aren’t there, and the last I heard they moved west back in the early summer.”

“Any idea where?” Meeker demanded.

“No, I went to high school with their only kid. A girl. Got killed in a car accident last year. I never knew the old man or woman.”

“Thanks, Danny,” the agent replied. “You’ve been a big help.”

As they moved out the door and got back into the car, a suddenly hopeful Landers posed a question, “So you got something you need?”