The Yellow Packard (38 page)

“I’ll pack my bags,” Meeker informed him. “But before I do, I’ve got to ask how you found this woman and discovered she might have Rose.”

“The car,” he explained. “The little girl rode in the yellow Packard. It seems the family who reported her brought her to their house to play. They had bought the car at our auction. This girl they knew as Jenny reached under the front seat—”

“And found two magnetic dog toys.” Meeker didn’t let him finish.

“How’d you know?” He sounded more than a bit amazed.

“I knew they were there,” she whispered. Moving off her desk, she sat down in her swivel chair. Her eyes fell to her calendar. There was nothing in DC that she couldn’t put off for a few days. Plus there was an investigation she needed to do in Chicago concerning a possible group of German sympathizers in the city’s west side. Justifying the trip would not be a problem. And if anyone protested, she’d just call Eleanor.

“Henry, when can you get to St. Louis?”

“I can drive down early tomorrow morning and be at the airport by noon.”

“I’ll catch the first plane out. And if I beat you, I’ll wait.”

“I’ll check the schedules,” he assured her, “and I’ll make sure I’m waiting at the gate.”

“Thanks,” she said softly.

“It will be good to get the team back together. Maybe ‘The Grand Experiment’ can be revived.”

“I just want to close the case,” she replied. “Bye.”

“Good-bye, Helen.”

She placed the receiver back in its cradle. Getting up quickly, she marched out the door, down the hall, and into Gladys Termane’s office. She waited for the fifty-year-old secretary to finish jotting down some information while she was on the phone before lightly tapping on her desk.

“What is it you need, honey?” Termane asked as she hung up.

“I’ve got to get to St. Louis as soon as possible. Can you book me out on a flight in the morning?”

The woman smiled. “I’ll do it even if I have to bump an admiral off the plane.”

Chapter 76

A
s promised, Reese was at the gate waiting for her. After quick greetings and grabbing her two bags, they hurried off to his car.

“You got one of the new ones,” Meeker noted as she slid into a 1942 Ford Coupe. “How did you rate not getting stuck with one of the older, well-worn members of the FBI’s mechanical fleet?”

“When they jerk you out of Hawaii,” he said with a laugh, “and back to winter in Chicago, they feel they owe you. Now, let me catch you up on what I’ve found out since we last talked. After all, you’d rather talk about that than cars.”

“Let me have it,” she anxiously replied.

After they’d pulled out of the parking lot and pointed the maroon sedan south onto the highway, he gave her the scoop. “A local sheriff did a bit of legwork for me, and based on my description he was able to confirm that a woman who looks like Clara Hooks or Clara Baker is staying in a farmhouse about a quarter mile outside of Koshkonong.”

“Koshkonong?” she asked.

“A little town in the south central part of the state. Not far from the Arkansas border.”

“Koshkonong,” Meeker said again.

“The locals call it Kosh,” Reese informed her. “Now back to what I know. A little girl has been spotted with this older woman. The car in the drive matches the one Beverly Coffman saw Baker bring when she came to her house—a black midthirties Dodge. It has a large dent in the front fender.”

“That information sounds solid,” Meeker said as she nodded. “Do we know who lives at the house?”

“The man’s name is Mike Burtrum. He’s middle-aged and is somewhat a hermit. Moved to town about a year back. Bought the place where he lives with cash. Doesn’t get out much. Goes to the grocery store about twice a month, and along with food he buys lots of cigarettes.”

She lifted her eyebrows. “Same initials as the handyman in Oakwood and the prison guard. This guy’s not very imaginative.”

“Mr. Burtrum also holds his cigarettes the same way as Mr. Burgess, according to our source.”

Meeker checked her watch. “How long will it take us to get there?”

“We’ll be there by five.”

“And we are sure the local cops haven’t spooked them?”

“The sheriff has his mouth taped shut for two reasons. One, he’s scared of the FBI, and the other is the reward’s still out there, and he doesn’t want to share it.”

She glanced at a two-story Victorian home along the road. As she studied the gingerbread pattern on the porch railing, she posed one final question, “Are we going in alone?”

“No,” the man answered. “I hope that doesn’t disappoint you.”

She turned her attention from the house back to the driver. “No, I’m fine with that as long as no one is trigger-happy. I don’t want Rose to get hurt.”

“I’ve read about the cases Melvin Purvis handled. He always went in with more firepower than he needed just in case something unexpected happened. So I have Austin Ross and J. P. Adams coming in from Little Rock. They were down there working on a bank robbery case.”

“I remember Adams,” she said. “I trust him.”

“There is a part of my plan that requires a woman,” Reese continued.

“Really,” she said with a grin. “What do I do?”

“Not you,” he shot back. “The guys are bringing along a gal from the secretarial pool. She’s had some experience on the stage in high school and college, and we need those skills.”

“We do?”

“Let me hang on to one of my secrets for a while,” he quipped, a twinkle in his eyes.

As they left the St. Louis city limits heading south on Route 66, she eased back against the Ford’s Bedford cord upholstery.

“Finding Rose Hall sure would put Hoover in his place,” Reese noted, as if reading her mind.

“I really don’t care about what old J. Edgar thinks,” she softly replied. “I don’t care about ‘The Grand Experiment.’ It’s not nearly as important as giving that child back to her parents. You have no idea what that would mean to me.”

“I think I have a better idea than you realize,” he assured her. He paused for a long time before adding, “What was your sister’s name?”

“Emily,” she said softly. “I don’t really even remember what she looked like.”

“Don’t you have pictures?” he asked as he reached over to turn the heater down a bit.

“No,” she sadly answered. “Dad destroyed them after mom died. He got rid of everything that was hers. It was as if he were trying to wipe out every facet of her existence. And he was successful except for one place.” She grimly shook her head. “He couldn’t wipe her out of his mind, and that killed him as surely as it killed Mom.”

“I can’t imagine,” Reese proclaimed. “I really can’t imagine that kind of pain.”

“It’s with me every day.” She sighed. “That’s why I pushed Eleanor into getting me a job with the FBI. You all are the ones who deal with kidnappings. I wanted to be there and help bring somebody’s kid home.”

“Looks like you’re about to do that,” he assured her.

“Maybe,” she said, “but let’s not get excited just yet. Let’s hope she’s still there and this wild goose chase is about over. When Carole Hall gets her kid back, then I will celebrate. But not until then.”

Chapter 77

I
n Rolla, Missouri, they got off Route 66 and took U.S. Highway 63 to Koshkonong. As they rolled past the W
ELCOME
sign, she sized the place up. There must have been two hundred people living in the city limits. There were a couple of stores; a filling station, a garage claiming to work on trucks, tractors, and cars; a post office; and a bank. Along the road on each side of the buildings that made up downtown were unassuming frame houses. Judging by the age of the cars and the size and condition of the homes, Koshkonong’s citizens had experienced some very tough times during the Depression.

It was just past five when Reese piloted the new Ford into the parking lot of a small, native-stone Baptist church. A 1939 Ford was already there. Leaning against the hood, seemingly unconcerned about the cold north wind, was J. P. Adams. Meeker guessed the woman barely visible in the backseat was their actress, and Austin Ross had to be the man inspecting the gravestones at the cemetery on the north side of the old church.

After Reese set the parking brake and switched off the ignition, the two travelers got out and walked to Adams’s position. As they strolled over to the spot, the woman opened the door, and Ross made his way across the cemetery to the parking lot. He was the last to arrive, and no one spoke until he did.

Sensing all eyes on him, Reese began, “This is Helen Meeker with the OSS. She worked this case with me from the get-go, and she deserves to be in on the finish.”

Adams, a man of average height and build, nodded at her. “Nice to see you, Meeker. Wish they’d kept you around. Though we were all jealous Henry drew you as his partner.”

“Thanks,” she said, returning his smile. “If we can close this case up, I’ll consider my time with the FBI worthwhile.”

“Helen,” Reese continued, “this young feller is Austin Ross.”

Ross chuckled. At fifty-two, he was one of the oldest men in the bureau. Though he might have had some years on him, his hair was still jet-black, his body firm and fit, and his dark eyes filled with energy and life.

“Nice to meet you,” he said in a deep voice that would have been welcomed for the bass part in any quartet in the country. Ross turned his gaze back to the woman they’d brought with them.

“This is Judy Asher, but today we can call her Bette Davis.”

Asher was not beautiful, but she was kind of cute in a girl-next-door way. The sparkle in her hazel eyes and the shine in her honey blond hair exuded Southern charm. Yet it was her cute figure on her barely five-foot frame that men would have found alluring.

“Hi,” she squeaked, accompanied by a quick wave.

Reese winked at Asher before turning back to the men. “Did you all drive by the house on your way in?”

“Yeah,” Ross volunteered. “It’s a frame home, maybe a thousand square feet. It has a small porch on the front and kind of a stoop on the back. Those are the only two entries or exits. There are no outbuildings, but there are some large cedar trees growing very close to the house. There’s a pretty thick woods on the back and sides of the place. That should give you lots of cover as you work your way in from the south side—”

“So,” Reese interrupted, “you are thinking the south side is the best way for Helen and me to get to the back of the house.”

“Yeah,” Ross said with a nod. “Based on the placement of the windows and doors that would likely be the path where the folks inside wouldn’t see you.”

From his spot leaning on the car, Adams picked up the conversation. “Austin’s right on the mark. If we can get the adults in that house separated from the kid, you should be able to grab her without putting her life in any kind of danger. It’ll be Judy’s job to grab their attention and hold it. By the way, do we know how many adults will be there?”

“The sheriff told me there were never more than two,” Reese explained. “I had him scope it out yesterday, and he swears it’s only the woman, Clara Hooks, and our guy, Mitchell Burgess, aka several other names with those same initials.”

The agents nodded. Reese turned his attention to the woman.

“Miss Asher, do you understand what you need to do?”

“When we get everyone in position,” she quickly explained, “I walk up to the front door of the house and knock. I’ll be crying. I’ll explain that my car broke down a few hundred yards up the road and I need to make a call. As the house doesn’t have a phone, I’ll try to get the man to come look at the car with me to see if he can fix it.”

“And if that doesn’t work?” Reese quizzed her. “What do you do then?”

“I cry even harder and do everything in my power to at least get him to step out on the porch.”

“Okay.” Reese grinned. “We’ve got about an hour before it’s dark enough to pull this off. Did you see a place anywhere near the house we could hide the cars and ourselves until that time?”

“Yeah,” Ross replied. “There’s a lane that leads to a farmhouse not too far away. We checked. The house is vacant. No one has lived there for a decade or more. The lane is passable, and the house and barn sit about a half a mile off the road. We can hide the cars behind those buildings. No one should see us.”

“Lead the way,” Reese said.

After they’d gotten back into Reese’s FBI-issued car, Meeker remarked, “That’s your big surprise? That’s the master plan you were so tight-lipped about?”

“Yeah.” He sounded a bit wounded. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing,” she said with a laugh, “but the way you were hush-hush about it earlier, I was expecting something a bit more dramatic.”

He shook his head as he eased his Ford behind the other agents’ car. A mile down the road, when they were just beyond the city’s southern limits, Ross tapped his brakes twice. Meeker knew the code.

Glancing to her left she saw the frame house.

“There’s the old Dodge,” Reese pointed out. “Looks like she is there.”

“Yep,” Meeker replied

It was shabby, its white paint cracked and peeling, the roof patched with three different types of tin. The porch was not level, and the porch’s roof was leaning forward. It looked as if a strong wind might take the whole place down. There was a large dirty window facing the highway. Meeker’s heart stopped as she noted a small figure with blond hair staring through it. A few seconds later, the little girl and the house were out of view.

Chapter 78

F
or the next hour, all Meeker could picture was that face peering through the dirty piece of glass. She had been too far from the child and the window was too dirty for Helen to make out any details, so maybe it was her mind playing tricks on her, creating an impression of a sad, mournful expression. But in her mind the pain was there. And it was that pain that was now eating at her and making time feel as if it were standing still.

As the minutes slowly passed, as the light gave way to dusk, and then darkness, Meeker felt more apprehension than elation. Even if they did get the child back, would they be returning the same little girl the Halls had known and loved? In Rose’s time away from her family, what kind of damage had been done? Would her wounds heal?