The Yellow Packard (20 page)

“Mr. Landers. Is your car a six or an eight?”

“It’s an eight. And what a ride it is! Well, good night, and don’t hesitate to call if I need to get you any more money. Once again, I’m so sorry I wasn’t more careful.”

After sliding in the car, starting the motor, and pulling forward, Landers looked over at his fiancée and grinned. “The night is still young; let’s have some fun!”

Coco’s face showed a bit of anxiety, and her tone was deeply apologetic, “Did my kiss get you in trouble?”

“No.” He laughed. “But it did cost me twenty bucks. And I must admit, that kiss was worth every penny.”

Chapter 38

T
he ringing phone pulled Helen Meeker’s nose out of the file she was studying. Setting the folder on her desk, she picked up the receiver.

“Meeker.”

“Helen, it’s Henry.”

“You still in Arkansas? Figured you’d have that case put to bed and be on your way back to the Windy City.”

“One piece of the art heist was missing,” he explained. “It’d been sold to a local banker. The banker had no idea it was hot. So I had to stick around an extra day to get that painting. The museum in Chicago will be happy we got it all, and none of it has been damaged.”

“Well,” she replied, “at least we’ve solved one case this summer.”

“And, Helen, you aren’t going to believe this. I literally ran into something that might be a lead on the Hall kidnapping.”

After leaning back in her chair and taking a slow, deep breath, she anxiously asked, “You think so?”

“Maybe,” he answered. “There was a car that backed into my car last night. There wasn’t much damage; in fact it did more damage to his car than the FBI’s Ford, but there may have been just enough damage on his vehicle to uncover a clue.”

“A fender bender gave you a clue on our case?” She was having problems making the connection.

“Yeah, this guy, William Landers, was driving a dark blue 1936 Packard sedan—”

“So?” Meeker cut in. “There are thousands of them in this country, and the one in the Hall case was bright yellow.”

“It had been repainted blue,” Reese explained. “And that blue paint had been added very recently. The scrape revealed that the factory color was yellow. Bright yellow!”

Meeker bolted to her feet and leaned back against the office wall as she spoke into the phone. “Are you sure it was bright yellow and not cream?”

“Yeah,” he assured her. “I went by the guy’s place early this morning while he was still asleep. It is the brightest yellow I’ve ever seen. And the only thing under that yellow is primer and metal.”

“What else you got?”

“Well, I did a little digging…. Landers’s district covers Illinois and Indiana, as well as Kentucky, Missouri, and Kansas. I tracked down the company’s owner today at a diner and struck up a conversation with him. His name is Calvin Bynum. It seems Landers brought the car back from one of his sales trips to Indiana. He told his boss he got a great deal on it and paid for it in cash.”

“Have you had a chance to check if he’s got any kind of record?”

“Officially,” Reese replied, “I haven’t checked. I’ll let you put the bloodhounds on that from your end. It will create a lot less suspicion. But the locals tell me he’s been a model citizen his whole life.”

“If his past is clean, we can’t just arrest him,” she shot back, her tone and machine gun delivery betraying her excitement, “but we can bring him in and question him as a possible material witness.”

“You want in on it?” Reese asked.

“Yeah,” she assured him, “I’ll catch the first plane to Little Rock. Don’t come get me. I’ll have a car waiting at the airport. Don’t let him know we are on to him, but keep an eye on him. And get me a room at wherever you’re staying. We’ll need to light a very hot fire under Mr. Landers.”

“Got it.”

“I’ll leave a message at your hotel once I know when I’m going to get there.” Meeker paused before adding, “Thanks, Henry.”

She didn’t wait for him to reply before setting the receiver in its cradle. There was suddenly a lot to do. First she had to get her plane reservations, and then she had to get any records she could find on William Landers of Bryant, Arkansas.

Chapter 39

M
eeker observed Landers from Reese’s car parked two houses down the block. In the sunlight she could even see the yellow paint on the back fender.

“There he is,” Reese said, pointing to the man standing on the porch of the house.

She nodded and turned her gaze to the man’s companion, “And the woman with him?”

“Her name is Coco Cakes,” Reese explained. “The owner of the diner where she works says she’s a widow from West Virginia. Moved here earlier this year. Here’s the file on her. It is interesting reading.”

Meeker opened the folder and glanced through several pages of material. Finally, she raised her eyebrows and laughed. “Interesting, to say the least!”

“Thought you’d think so.” Meeker glanced at her watch. It was almost six. “Have they eaten supper yet?”

“No,” Reese replied. “I’ve been on his tail since noon. Coco must’ve gotten off of work at the diner about thirty minutes ago.”

“Good,” Meeker quipped. “People seem to rattle more easily when they’re hungry. I want to see this through with no gunfire. Let’s play it step-by-step and slowly put pressure on the couple to talk. As you are the bigger and more intimidating, I suggest you take the lead.”

Reese nodded, his eyes still on the couple as he asked, “Do we run them up to Little Rock for questioning?”

“No,” Meeker said. “We don’t want them to have an hour to think about their stories. We’ll grab them on that swing and talk to them right there at the house. They’ll be a lot more nervous if they know their friends can see what’s going on.”

“You ready?” Reese asked.

“Let’s go, Henry,” Meeker said.

The agents slid out of the black Ford and with long, determined steps crossed the street and came through the gate and up the walk to the porch. They had mounted the steps and were on the porch’s wooden plank floor before either Landers or the woman looked up.

“William Landers?” Reese barked.

“Hey,” he said, his tone friendly but his face registering a bit of confusion. “You’re the G-man from yesterday….”

“Put your hands over your head,” Reese ordered. “Both of you.”

“What?” Coco demanded.

“Put your hands over your head, lady,” Reese explained, pulling out a service revolver to emphasize his demands.

“What’s this all about?” Landers questioned in an apologetic tone. “I’m sorry I hit your car. If twenty dollars is not enough to cover the damage, I’ll make good. I promise.”

“This isn’t about the accident,” Reese assured him. “Now get your hands up, or I’ll lift them for you. And if I do, your shoulders might just come out of their sockets.”

Meeker took a step forward, “As Mr. Landers knows, but you, Miss Cakes, might not, this man is Henry Reese. Henry is a special investigator for the FBI. My name is Helen Meeker. I’m an investigator for a presidential task force that works with the Secret Service. I’m on loan to the FBI.”

She studied their reactions. Landers was shocked—his knees were shaking and his mouth was agape. The woman was much more matter-of-fact. She showed no fear. In fact, if anything, she wore a look of contempt.

“Henry, I’ve got them covered,” Meeker said as she pulled a gun from her purse, “why don’t you check them for weapons.”

“I can assure you,” Landers explained, “I don’t even own a gun.”

“I’ll search you anyway,” Reese announced as he slipped his revolver back into his shoulder holster.

The agent patted them both down. They were clean. But Coco’s purse was another matter.

“Well, what have we here?” Reese exclaimed, pulling a small twenty-two pistol from the bag.

A shocked Landers looked over at his fiancée. She shrugged. “A single woman has to be able to protect herself.”

“Turn around and drop your hands behind your back,” Meeker ordered.

A minute later, when Reese had completed cuffing them, he spun them around and pushed them down onto the swing. Putting her gun on a porch table, Meeker took a seat in a wooden deck chair. The male agent propped himself on the porch railing.

Meeker leaned close to Landers and said, “Tell us about your car.”

“The Packard?”

“Do you own another car?”

“No.”

“According to our records,” Reese cut in, “you don’t have a title.”

“You’re still running Missouri plates, too,” Meeker added.

“That’s what this is about?” Landers moaned. “I’ve got a bill of sale. The man I bought it from was supposed to send me the title. I–I–I’ve been working so much I guess I forgot about it. But I got his name on the bill of sale. It’s in the glove box. I swear to that. You can go out and get it right now. That’ll clear this whole thing up.”

Meeker looked to her partner and then back to the flustered salesman. “Where did you buy it?”

“Some little town south of St. Louis. At a diner.”

“Yeah,” Reese mocked, “that’s where everyone buys their cars. I can’t count how many folks I know who ordered a hot dog, some chips, and a Chevy.”

“No, you have to believe me,” Landers pleaded. “I bought it from a man I met at a diner. My car broke down, and he was selling his uncle’s Packard.”

“What did you pay?” Meeker demanded.

“A–A–A one hundred and fifty. No, I talked him down. It was one twenty-five.”

“Kind of cheap for a nice car with new paint,” Reese hissed.

“I couldn’t believe it either,” Landers explained, “but you don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. At least that’s what I was always told.”

“So you had no idea,” Meeker cut in, “that this car was used in a crime. In fact, it was stolen from a family in Illinois.”

Landers shook his head. “I guess maybe that is why the guy sold it so cheap.”

“Let me tell you how it was,” Reese said. “You were doing a lousy job as a salesman. You lived in a crummy house and were driving a beat-up sedan that was on its last set of spark plugs. You had to have some cash, so, in your travels someone told you about a family with a kid who had some money. You grabbed the kid, demanded a ransom of five thousand. Then you stole the car when they delivered the money.”

“What?” Landers said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Listen, buster,” Meeker cut in, “we checked your schedule. You were in Illinois the week the kid was taken. The day after the money was dropped and the car and kid disappeared, you were in Terre Haute, Indiana. That’s within a stone’s throw of where the car was last seen. And right after that, the folks around here said you not only had this nice Packard but you were rolling in dough.”

“Wait just a minute,” Coco chimed in. “You’re a kidnapper?”

“Don’t pretend you didn’t know about this,” Reese said as he pointed his finger in the woman’s face.

“Hey,” she spat back, “I might be a lot of things, but I don’t go after kids.”

“What do you mean?” Landers asked, his eyes locked on hers. “You’re a lot of things?”

“You didn’t know?” Meeker asked.

“Know what?”

“Your girlfriend is a player,” Meeker explained with a smile. “She finds lonely men who have a roll of cash. She charms them, marries them, and then they somehow end up dead. She’s been arrested three times for suspicion of murder.”

“They never proved it,” Coco hissed.

“There are two other cases pending,” Reese added. “She’s had five husbands that we know about who have mysteriously died within months of marrying her.”

“People get sick,” Coco smirked. “Accidents happen.”

“And, Landers,” Meeker chimed in, “you would have been number six. She had you marked. You’d fallen hard, and you couldn’t wait to make her your little wife.”

“But what about her daughters?” the salesman asked.

Coco spat, “I’m not saying anything else until I get a lawyer.”

The realization that he’d been played hit the salesman like a shot from an Army tank. As Reese and Meeker let the news sink in, a siren howled in the distance. The agents watched as two local cops pulled up at the house and raced up with guns drawn.

“What’s going on here?” a small, fat deputy asked.

“Would you allow me to pull some identification out of my jacket pocket?” Reese asked.

“Don’t do anything stupid, and move slow,” the fat man nervously ordered.

“No problem.” Reese smiled. With both cops nervously looking on, the agent gently inched his left hand into his coat and pulled out his FBI badge and ID.

“A G-man,” the other cop announced, his tone showing both astonishment and awe.

“And my partner works for President Roosevelt.”

“What are you doing with Bill here?” the fat one asked.

“He’s in possession of a stolen car at best,” Meeker explained, “and involved in a kidnapping and murder at worst. We haven’t fully sorted that out yet.”

“What about Coco?” the taller one inquired.

“Well,” Meeker continued, “she’s wanted in a half dozen states for everything from suspicion of murder to theft. Don’t know if she’s tied up with what we want him for, but the fact that she came to town about the same time of the Hall kidnapping makes her a person of interest for us, too. Would you mind taking her downtown and throwing her in the jail? You can find more than enough outstanding warrants to hold her for a long time. I’ve got her file in the car. I’ll bring it down when we bring this guy down to the station.”

“Okay. Come along, Coco,” the tall cop ordered.

“My real name’s Debbie,” she corrected him as Reese unlocked her handcuffs from the swing then locked them back to her wrists as the tall officer took hold of her shoulder.

“Actually,” Reese added, “it is Margaret Mason O’Toole. She’s from Andover, Kansas. So book her under that name.”

“Come on, Miss O’Toole.”

The woman and her escorts walked crisply out to the squad car. Only when they were about a block down the street did the agents turn back to Landers.

“I had no idea,” he whispered. “I thought she was as pure as the driven snow.”

Reese shook his head and looked over to Meeker. She shrugged.