Yellow Packard

by Ace Collins

  “Can you take it out?” Meeker asked.

  “Sure.” Grabbing her tweezers, Bobbs carefully worked the scrap free. She then moved across the room to a table. “Let me unfold what’s left.” She grabbed a second set of tweezers and gingerly pulled the paper flat. The technician’s ruler proved it was three quarters of an inch long and a half-inch wide.

  The lab tech shook her head. “Not much there.”

  “Enough to know it’s a C-note,” Meeker said. “Let’s bag it and hold on to that.”

  “Does it mean something?”

  “Has to mean something. I just don’t know what.”

  “Anything else?”

  Walking back to the car, Bobbs opened the front passenger door and flipped the bottom cushion. Meeker came up beside her and looked in. There, stuck to the metal seat frame as if hidden to retrieve later, were two toy Scotty dogs. One was black and the other white.

  “I’ve seen these,” the agent noted, “or at least some like them.”

  “You can buy them pretty much anywhere,” Bobbs quipped. “These dogs are each set on separate magnets and when you push them toward each other they rush to the other or push away. It’s kind of a science lesson all about magnetic poles. Do you think they were the little girl’s?”

  “Probably,” Meeker answered. “When you get finished testing them, have them sent to my office. I’m going to go see her folks in a couple of days. I’ll take them down and ask.”

  “Will do. Sorry I couldn’t find more.”

  “Thanks for flying in, Becca. I’ll take you out for dinner next time I’m in DC.”

  As Bobbs took the toy dogs back to the lab table, Meeker studied the car. An idea was forming in her head. It was a long shot, but at this point she really had no other options. And if nothing came out of her next trip to Oakwood then it might be time to take some long shots.

  Chapter 43

  On Friday, Meeker made the three-hour drive to Oakwood alone. She didn’t need Reese and felt it might go better if the Halls dealt with just one person. She walked into Carole’s Flowers at three thirty. The owner was helping a teenager pick out a corsage for a weekend date. As the agent listened in on the conversation, she was able to deduce it was some kind of high school dance being held at the Danville Country Club. Oh, to be young and carefree again. On days like this, adult responsibilities weren’t any fun at all.

  In the five additional minutes it took for Carole Hall to convince the boy which flower was best and then fix the corsage and box it for him, Meeker thumbed through the latest issue of Good Housekeeping. She noted a recipe for a cream pie that looked tasty. She made a mental note to pick up a copy of the magazine when she went by a newsstand on her way to work on Monday.

  As the bell atop the door rang, signaling that the boy had left the shop, Carole made her way to the corner where the agent stood. Meeker looked up and smiled. Though her eyes were sad and her complexion pale, the mother seemed be stronger than she had been during their last visit. Nevertheless, Meeker asked, “How are you doing?”

  “As long as I’m working,” Carole explained, her voice steady and strong, “I’m fine. The nights aren’t very good.” She paused, bit her lip, and added, “Thanks for the card you sent on Rose’s birthday. It meant a lot.”

  “It wasn’t enough.” The agent sighed. “Not nearly enough.”

  Carole walked over to the window and looked out at the now empty street. “When you called I got my hopes up a little. But you’d have said something on the phone if you’d found Rose. That is unless you found her and she’s …” She obviously couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence.

  “No,” Meeker quickly cut in, “we haven’t found her, so don’t go imagining things. What I called about was that we did find your Packard.”

  Carole didn’t speak. Rather she just turned and waited for the explanation she was sure would follow. She didn’t have to wait more than a heartbeat.

  “It was in Arkansas. A salesman bought it back in April in the St. Louis area. Best that we can tell, he had no way of knowing it had been a part of a crime. Someone had repainted it dark blue. Right now we are trying to track down the man who had it painted and sold it to this Bill Landers. I was hoping the car might give us some more clues, but that hasn’t happened. At least not yet.”

  Casting her eyes to the floor, Carole nodded.

  “Carole, I was hoping George would be here, too.”

  A pained expression washed over the woman’s face as she looked at Meeker. Her bottom lip trembled as she fought to control her emotions. Finally, her voice quivered out a completely unexpected explanation, “I should have told you on the phone, but he left about a month ago. Just packed his things and took off. He said he couldn’t take it anymore.”

  The agent reached out and took the woman’s hand. “I’m sorry.”

  “I understand why he left,” Carole continued. “What happened broke him. No matter what anyone says, he feels he’s to blame. When he realized her birthday was coming up, he fell completely apart.”

  She turned her head back to the window and added, “You know, George never drank. Not even when the other kids were doing it back in high school. He was always the straight arrow. But in the weeks before he left, he drank himself out of a job. He was just that miserable. I couldn’t pull him off it. No one could. He drank for three straight days before he left. When he sobered up, he packed and had me take him to the train station. He called me last week, told me he was in San Francisco. He assured me he loved me, just that he felt he’d let me down too much to come home.”

  She walked over to the counter and pulled an envelope out from a shelf under the cash register. She waved it in the air as she picked up the conservation. “He must have a job. This arrived today. He sent me money and vowed to continue to make all the house payments and any other expenses I had. So he’s trying. Maybe someday, when the wounds heal, he’ll be strong enough to come home.”

  The fact that George Hall left his wife didn’t surprise the agent. A lot of marriages failed when children died in crimes. Those couples that didn’t split never really got back on with their lives. At least their lives were never the same. The wounds didn’t heal. She knew firsthand—from an experience she had never and would never share with anyone—they never would.

  Reaching into her pocket, Meeker pulled out the toy dogs Bobbs had discovered in the car. She squeezed them into the palm of her hand for a moment, and then after taking a deep breath, strolled resolutely across the room.

  “Carole, do these mean anything to you?”

  She held out her hand, opening it so the other woman would see the Scotties. She noted an immediate flash of recognition in the flower shop owner’s eyes.

  “Rose had a pair like this. Her dad gave them to her at Christmas. She liked to play with them when I drove around making deliveries. I think she liked the fact that she could stick them to the dashboard.”

  “They were in the car,” Meeker explained.

  “That’s why I couldn’t find them when I boxed up her stuff,” Carole replied, her voice now breathy and unsure. “I did that, you know. I put all her things in boxes and took them out to the garage.” Her eyes went from the dogs to the agent. “Do you think I should I have done that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Meeker turned away to hide the tears that stung her own eyes. She took a deep breath and closed her fist once more around the toy dogs. From behind her, Carole continued, “I tried that for a while. I tried to go back to before it happened and pretend everything was all right. But that didn’t help me sleep. So by boxing things up I figured I could just erase the fact I ever had a little girl. But that doesn’t work either. The memories don’t go away even when all the tangible things are out of sight.”

  She took a deep breath and then continued, “The fact that I boxed Rose’s stuff up might have been the last straw for George. I think having the house completely void of all of her things pushed him over the edge.”


  There was no answer Meeker could give, no comfort she could offer. It was a sad truth and one that she silently acknowledged even if she didn’t verbally admit it. She composed herself enough to turn and again open her hand. “Would you like these?”

  Carole shook her head. “No. There’s no one left to play with them. Just give them to the first kid you see.”

  Those heartbreaking words were still hanging in the air when the agent set her briefcase on the counter, opened it, and pulled out a sketch. She placed it in front of the other woman and asked, “Have you ever seen anyone who looks like this? It doesn’t have to be an exact match, just someone who might look a bit like this drawing.”

  The storeowner studied it for a moment before answering, “No.”

  “Are you sure? Look close.”

  “I’m positive. You don’t forget a face like that. Those hard eyes look right through you.”

  Picking up the sketch, Meeker slid it back into her briefcase. As she did, Carole posed a question, “Who is he?”

  “The man who sold the car to the salesman from Arkansas.”

  “So,” Carole almost choked on her words, “that could be the man who took Rose.”

  “We have no proof of that.”

  “I hope it’s not,” the mother said in a hushed tone. “I don’t want those cold eyes to be the last thing Rose saw.”

  Chapter 44

  The sheriff was out, so Meeker left the sketch with his secretary. Though it would be a long drive back and the time she’d spent with Carole Hall had left her mentally drained, she still wanted to get back to Chicago rather than stay on the road.

  But she wanted to get back because she had an idea that might generate some press. Maybe it would be seen as nothing more than a stunt, but she needed to bring that poor woman in Oakwood some kind of peace.

  That peace had eluded her own family, and she didn’t want to see another family live that way. So if a wild stunt had a chance of working, Meeker was going to go for it.

  A late-afternoon rain began falling around six thirty, and the wipers on the FBI-issued 1939 Mercury had a tough time keeping up with what the storm was dropping. Rather than continue to attempt to peer between the drops on her windshield, she pulled into the first juke joint she could find. A meal in her belly and a few moments spent with folks more interested in the laughing than crying might be the needed tonic to pull her out of this pit of depression, frustration, and helplessness she found herself in.

  To a big-city girl, St. Anne was just another wide spot in the road. Yet the town of a bit more than a thousand people did have The Blue Note. According to the neon sign, it offered the best food in town, so she stopped. After running through the parking lot in the rain, she pushed open the door into a world she had rarely visited. A dozen or so tables sat off to her left, a well-stocked bar stood in front of her, and a bandstand and dance floor filled up a large area to her right. As she shook the moisture from her hair, a heavyset woman with bleached blond hair dropped a wet rag onto the counter and stepped out from behind the bar.

  “How you doing?” Her voice was as loud as her orange and purple print dress.

  “A little wet,” Meeker answered. “And hungry, too.”

  “The band won’t be here for another three hours,” the lady explained as she picked up a menu and led the way to one of several vacant tables.

  “I don’t have time to dance.”

  The woman proved agile for her size, whirled on her heels, and chuckled. “Everyone should make time to dance, as well as laugh and sing. Those things keep us young.”

  “I don’t feel very young today,” Meeker admitted as she sat in a chair and took the menu.

  “Too bad, honey, a pretty thing like you should enjoy your youth. It passes you by quicker than a small-town’s Christmas parade.” She grinned before adding, “Got a girl who’ll come out and take your order in a couple of minutes. She’s a college student who’s just working for me for the summer. That’s our busy time anyway.”

  A crack of thunder shook the building. “My,” the woman added, “that was a loud one. Hope this lets up before the band gets here. I’m looking for a big crowd tonight. I don’t need the weather to ruin it. Folks around here love to listen to Shaw’s Troopers. They play some swinging tunes.”

  “I bet they do.” Meeker smiled and said, “If they have half the jive in their step that you do, then they’re cool cats.”

  “Now you’re getting with the program.” The woman chuckled. “My name’s Thornton, Hanna Jean Thornton.”

  “I’m Helen.”

  “Nice having you here, Helen. Like I said, the little gal will be right out to take your order. And if you need them, the facilities are down the hall just past the jukebox.”

  As the woman headed back behind the bar, Meeker studied the menu. The cook must have once served on an ocean cruise line, as there were dishes from all over the world. Though the Hawaiian pork chops sounded good and the italian meatballs over pasta were tempting, Meeker had a desire to play it safe. She was surveying the sandwich choices when an apron-clad waitress set a glass of water on the table and asked, “Do you know what you’d like?”

  Without ever looking up, the agent posed a question the girl had probably heard a hundred times, “What kind of sandwich do you suggest?”

  “BLT.”

  “Then let’s go with that and maybe a side of creamed corn.”

  “Sure. And what to drink?”

  Looking up for the first time, Meeker answered, “A Coke will be fine.”

  The young brunette smiled. It was a funny smile causing the left side of her top lip to rise higher than her right and thus partially closing one dark eye almost like a wink. Yet what really caught the agent’s attention were the woman’s dimples. They were on top of her cheeks, not next to her mouth but just under her eyes.

  “You looking at my weird cheeks?” The waitress grinned. “Don’t worry if you are, I’ve gotten use to it. People always make fun of them. My friends call them dents.”

  “They’re dimples,” Meeker corrected her. “And I like them. They’re cute.” Extending her hand, she said, “My name’s Helen.”

  “I’m Alison.”

  “You from here?”

  “No,” the young woman replied, “just staying with my roommate and her family this summer. After Labor Day it’ll be back to the University of Chicago. I’ll be a junior this fall.”

  “Good for you, the world needs more women with degrees.”

  “I guess,” she shyly returned. “I’ll get your order out in a few minutes. Wave if you want anything else.”

  As the girl disappeared, a man got up from the bar and walked over to the jukebox. He fiddled with this pocket, pulled out a handful of change, dropped a nickel into the music machine, and made a choice. A few seconds later, the strains of “Fools Rush in Where Angels Fear to Tread” was pounding from the Wurlitzer’s speakers and making the jukebox’s bubbling lights flash in time with Glen Miller.

  The man who’d picked the number walk-waltzed back to the bar, grabbed the woman who’d first greeted Meeker, and led her out onto the dance floor. As the older couple moved to the big band swing music, the cares of the world disappeared, for at least a few minutes. Helen was glad for the reprieve, even if vicarious.

  Chapter 45

  It was just past 9:00 on Monday morning when Henry Reese strolled into the office. It had been almost two weeks since he’d found the Packard, and he still had no leads on the man who sold the car or on Marge Hooks. The trail was as cold as a butcher shop’s walk-in freezer. A bit amused, he listened as his partner in “The Grand Experiment” assured someone on the phone that she’d take good care of something. What that something was, he had no idea, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

  As Meeker set the phone in its cradle, Reese sighed. “I’m tired of striking out.”

  “I know what you mean,” Meeker agreed. “That’s why I’m trying a new slant.”

&nb
sp; “Your math must be better than mine,” he cracked. “I can’t come up with any new angles. Who were you gabbing with on the phone?”

  “Whom,” she corrected him.

  “Fine, with whom was you gabbing?”

  “I think your verb,” she teased, “should be were.”

  “Never mind the English lesson, just give me the dope.”

  “Eliot Ness,” she proudly announced.

  “The guy who broke Capone?”

  “None other.”

  “He’s not with us anymore,” Reese noted, “so why did he call?”

  “Actually,” she explained, “I called him. He’s working for the city of Cleveland now. Trying to clean up the police and fire departments.”

  “So,” an impressed Reese asked, “does he have a lead or something on one of our cases?”

  Meeker got up from behind her desk and walked toward the door. “Come with me. I’ll explain as we walk.”

  “Where we going?”

  “The basement.”

  As they waited for the elevator, Meeker began to unveil the reason behind her suddenly upbeat mood. “We’ve hit the wall on the Rose Hall kidnapping—with you unable to track down the Hooks woman, and I’ve heard nothing from the sheriff in Oakwood on the sketch. So I wanted to do something wild. I got the idea from studying some of Ness’s case files.”

  “When did you do that?” he asked as the elevator doors opened.

  “Back when I was in law school,” she explained as they moved inside and the doors shut. “Ness and his men actually drove around in some of the bootleggers’ cars and trucks for a while. They drove by places the hoods haunted showing off that the feds had the vehicles. Essentially they were rubbing their supposed successes in the hoods’ faces, trying to get them angry enough to make a stupid move.”

  “I’ve heard something about this,” Reese noted, “but I don’t see what it has to with the Hall case.”