The Yellow Packard (16 page)

“If that is the case,” Reese soberly added, “then the money would have been a ruse.”

“Could be,” she agreed, “or the icing on the cake. They get what they want, and the cash as a bonus. Five thousand seems like such a small amount when being caught buys the person a ticket to the electric chair. Logic tells me they would have gone after someone with a lot more ready cash if it were just kidnapping.”

Turning and striding back to the table, Meeker opened the file and studied Hall’s statement one more time. Taking a seat, she drummed her fingers for a few seconds, her nails clicking like the keys of a typewriter, before looking back to the distraught man.

“Mr. Hall, you said in your previous interview you found ten one-hundred-dollar bills you needed to make the down payment on the flower shop. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” he replied. “Well, actually Rose found them beside the garage door.”

She quickly looked to the sheriff. “Anyone report a robbery or losing any C-notes?”

The sheriff shook his head. “Nothing that we know of. Since we got word of the kidnapping I’ve made a lot of calls, and no one reported any money missing. It seemed the cash literally fell out of midair.”

“And no more was found?” she asked.

Atkins and Hall shook their heads.

“Henry, why don’t you get a team down there to really look over that garage. See if you can find any more cash. Look under the floor, in the rafters, everywhere.”

“You thinking,” the other agent chimed in, “there could be a connection to a larger chunk of cash?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I’m grasping at straws. I mean, why kidnap the kid rather than just grab the loot from where it was hidden?” She drummed her fingers for a few more moments and added, “Unless they didn’t know where it was hidden.”

“I’m following you,” Atkins said. “An old bank job or a robbery where the loot was never recovered. Maybe part of the gang that pulled the job got double-crossed somehow and came back looking for it. So when those bills showed up, they assumed George found the cash.”

George’s eyes widened at the comment. “So, what are you saying?”

“Then,” Reese added, ignoring Hall, “we need to go through local and state records, as well as those of the Treasury Department and the FBI, and try to find a robbery where five thousand dollars was taken.”

“No,” Meeker corrected him, “more than that. The kidnapper knew that a thousand had been spent on the down payment. They couldn’t get that back, so they opted for what was left.”

“A kidnapping as a cover for the recovering of stolen loot,” Reese noted, “that’s a new one on me.”

“It makes perfect sense,” Meeker explained. “In fact it makes a lot more sense than this kidnapping than if they had just demanded the five thousand out of Mr. Hall; he’d have gone straight to the police. But if you steal the kid, make it look like a kidnapping, then the family is much more likely to produce the cash and not involve us. And when you think about it, it worked perfectly.”

The room grew suddenly silent as each of the five considered the theory. It was George who finally posed the haunting question that demanded an answer. His voice shaky and tired, he asked, “So this had nothing to do with anything Carole and I did?”

Meeker’s businesslike tone grew soft and compassionate. “Probably not. How long have you lived in your home?”

“A couple of years.”

She looked toward Johns and Atkins. “Did either of your know the people who lived there before the Halls?”

Johns nodded. “The Casons were there for about ten years or so. They built the house.”

“What kind of people were they?” Meeker asked.

“Good folks,” Johns replied. “Went to church, helped in the community. Ben was a car salesman at the Ford house. They had three kids, all of them graduated from high school.”

“You’re almost right about them being a good family,” Atkins noted, “but you forgot about Milt. He got into a couple of scrapes when he was in his late teens. Ran around with a rough crowd in Danville. Spent a few months in the county jail before joining the military.”

“Is he still in the service?” Meeker asked.

“Yes, the Navy.”

Meeker’s eyes caught the sheriff’s. “What kind of scrapes, as you called them, was he in?”

“A couple of robberies, car theft.”

“There you go,” Meeker solemnly noted. “Let’s find him and grill him. If he fesses up to hiding any money there, maybe it will give us leads on who was trying to get it. That will take us one step closer to finding those responsible for taking Rose.”

“I’ll get someone on it this afternoon,” Reese chimed in. “And I’ll start looking for unsolved robberies in the area dating back to before the Halls bought the home.”

“That pretty much covers things for the moment,” Meeker noted. “Anyone else have anything to add?”

Almost apologetically George lifted his hand and looked toward the woman. “Could I ask a question?”

“Of course you can, Mr. Hall.”

His voice cracking, the father whispered, “If you find those men, the ones who might have been in a robbery with Mr. Cason, will you find my girl?”

“We hope so,” Meeker assured him. “We certainly hope so. Thank you for your time, and if you think of anything else please let us know immediately.”

Meeker remained seated while Reese escorted Johns, Atkins, and Hall from the room. Only when the door had closed did she get up and once more move to the window.

“Case seems to mean a lot to you,” Reese noted as he moved beside her.

“They all do,” she replied. “Remember you volunteered to be a part of ‘The Grand Experiment’ as well. If we fail, then the FBI will stay a men’s club for a very long time.”

“Helen, how long have we been working together?”

She shrugged. “Maybe too long.”

“It’s been six months. During that time we have worked all kinds of cases—three murders, several drug cases, some robberies, and even income tax evasion. And you were coolly professional on all of them. Yet, when you were trying to be tough with Hall, I saw a tear in your eye. The iron maiden almost cracked.”

“I’ve been having problems with my eyes the past week,” she snapped. “Just had something in them. That’s all.”

“No, it’s more than that,” Reese replied, not giving the woman any wiggle room. “This case means something … something personal. I can’t figure what it is. You don’t know the family, you’ve never been to the town, so there doesn’t seem to be any kind of tie, but there is. I know you well enough to know there’s something special here. Level with me.”

Turning from the window, Meeker looked directly into her partner’s eyes. “It’s a case. That’s what it is. And what are the odds of solving it? From our experience, you with the FBI and me with the Secret Service, both of us know those odds aren’t good. What are the chances that girl is still alive? Almost zero! That’s especially true if the real reason involved was getting back loot from a robbery. The kid was just a pawn. Odds are we won’t even find her body. Imagine being a parent and having a kid taken. Then never even being able to have a funeral. Never saying good-bye.”

“Yeah,” Reese replied, “would be tough.”

“More than tough,” she shot back. “It will likely destroy that family. That Hall guy we just met, he’ll carry guilt the rest of his life. He’ll beat himself up. Maybe even become suicidal.”

“How can you know that?” Reese demanded.

“I’ve done my homework,” she sadly replied. “I’ve made studying kidnapping cases my hobby since I was in college. There are no sadder cases.”

Meeker turned back to the window and studied the streets of Chicago. Thousands of people were strolling down the sidewalks, cars were bumper to bumper on every street, and the elevated train was carrying hundreds more to jobs or adventures. Among those thousands of people, one of them might have the clue that would solve this case. But which one?

“I’m going to get started on my homework,” Reese said.

“I’ll join you in a minute,” she assured him.

When the door closed and she was alone, a single tear ran down the agent’s face and fell onto the windowsill.

Chapter 29

April 23, 1940

I
t hadn’t been a good day for Bill Landers. He was sitting at the counter in a diner, twenty miles south of St. Louis. His six-year-old Studebaker had once more let him down. It was the third time this month. And on each occasion the sedan had died by the side of the road it had cost the salesman another chance to close a deal. At this rate he’d be broke and jobless by the end of the month.

Landers lived by himself in a tiny house in Bryant, Arkansas. The small community just south of Little Rock was known by some as the “Bauxite Capital of America.” About half the jobs in the community revolved around aluminum. And with the war cranking up in Europe, there were lots of plants using the metal in the “lend-lease program” that the President had established with the countries fighting Germany and Italy. So there was money to be made in aluminum, but Landers was not one of those making it, and his boss at Bynum Aluminum was tired of his salesman failing him. The clock was therefore ticking.

Today, Landers had been scheduled to meet with three different companies. Yet he couldn’t secure those deals on the phone—he had to do it person. And that meant more than just meeting with the company owners; it meant taking them out to eat and showing them a good time. And he couldn’t do that without a good car!

The mechanic at the shop that had towed him in gave him the bad news. The block had cracked. There was no way to fix it short of putting in a new motor. But with the bad brakes and worn interior, not to mention a transmission that slipped like a dog on ice, investing any more money in the car was simply not an option. Yet buying a new one was also impossible. Thanks to a failed marriage and losing his last job, his credit was lousy and the cash he had wouldn’t purchase anything much better than the Studebaker.

Landers looked across the counter and into the mirror. For a man in his early forties, he didn’t look too bad. His hair was still dark brown, his jaw firm, and his skin pretty much wrinkle free. But the eyes told another story. They were sunken, dark, and lifeless. Anyone who looked into those eyes would read him like a book, and the ending wouldn’t be a happy one.

“What can I get you, Mack?” the skinny college-aged kid working the counter asked.

“A new car,” Landers cracked.

“Tell me about it,” the kid replied. “Mine busted last night. Dropped an axle. I’ll be on foot for at least a week until I can scratch up the dough to fix it.”

“I may be walking the rest of my life.” Landers sighed. “And if I don’t get to Indy by tomorrow morning at ten, I’ll lose my job as well. This trip was my last chance. I was pretty much told that if I didn’t land a big contract not to come back. With my car officially dead, guess I’m a man without a country.”

“Without a country?” The kid looked confused.

“Just a saying.” He shrugged. “Why don’t you give me a ham sandwich on rye and a Coke. I still have enough for that.”

“You want it grilled?”

“Sure, why not. I might as well live it up!”

The skinny kid mixed a fountain drink, dumped some ice in the glass, and set it on the counter. As he left, Landers reached for a straw. Before he could grab the dispenser, a gruff-looking man handed him a wrapped straw.

“Thanks,” Landers said.

“No problem,” came the quick reply. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I heard you were having issues with your car.”

“You heard right.” The salesman tore off the paper wrapping, stuck the straw into his glass, and took a long sip.

“I may be able to solve your problem,” the man announced with a grin. “I’ve got a pretty nice car that belonged to my uncle. When he died, my aunt gave it to me. I don’t need it as I’ve got a new Mercury.”

“What kind is it?” Landers asked offhandedly. “I mean what kind is your uncle’s car?”

“A Packard sedan. It has an eight, not one of those cheap models with the six. Good shape, smooth riding, and lots of power. Tires are in great shape, too. I’d be driving it myself, but like told you I got this new Mercury.”

“So you said,” Landers replied. “What year?”

“It’s a ‘36, but it’s low mileage, and my uncle really took good care of it. New blue paint job, too.”

“Here’s your sandwich,” the kid said as he set a plate in front of the salesman. “You need anything else?”

“No,” Landers replied. “What do I owe you?”

“Thirty-five cents.”

Landers pulled two quarters from his pocket and set them on the counter. “Keep the change.”

“Thanks,” came the enthusiastic reply.

Before biting into his supper, the salesman casually studied the man seated to his right. The guy had a seedy look about him. He dressed pretty nicely; his clothes looked new, but he didn’t appear comfortable in them. He was also about two weeks overdue for a haircut and three days past due for a shave. He was simply not someone that Landers felt he could trust, and normally he would have politely dismissed him, but there was that old saying about looking a gift horse in the mouth…. And if the Packard could be bought for the money Landers had in his pocket, and it was as good as this guy claimed it was, then this unseemly character might well be the key to his holding on to his job.

“So where’s the car?” Lander asked between bites.

“It’s a couple of blocks away,” the man answered in hushed tones. “In a garage a friend of mine owns. I can run down and get it if you want to drive it.”

“Don’t get the cart in front of the horse.” Landers laughed. “Or in this case, the Packard.”

“What do you mean?” the man asked.

“Nothing worth noting,” Landers explained. “I just need to know what you’re asking for it. No reason for you to go to all that trouble if I don’t have the cash with me to buy it.”

“I’m asking a hundred and a half.”

The salesman shook his head, “Sounds pretty cheap for a car that is as solid as you claim. Especially a Packard!”

“I just need to move it,” he replied. “I’m leaving for the West Coast in a few weeks and can’t take it with me. I got nothing in it anyway. So for me turning it fast is more important than making big dough.”