by Ace Collins
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
Meeker 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 23rd 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 identif
ication 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?”
“We got something,” Reese admitted, “and no matter how little that is, it’s the first break we’ve had in the case.” He turned to his partner. “Where to next, Helen?”
“Chicago to be with the lab crew when they go through that car. But I want you to stay here and see if you can track down the Hookses. If we can find them then we can get a lead on our mysterious car salesman. He’s the key to this whole thing.”
“Can I go back home?” Landers asked.
Meeker shook her head. “Not until you spend some time with one of our sketch artists and then spend a couple of days going through some mug shots. Your memory was jogged tonight. I want to see what an artist can give us from your descriptions and if any of the faces of known criminals fits your car salesman.
“And, Henry,” she went on, “get that boy to give our portrait makers his memories as well. Let’s have a team go through fingerprint files looking for someone with a badly scarred index finger.”
“Got it,” Reese replied.
“But first”—she grinned—“let’s go to the hotel. I need to pick up my things and get to the airport.”
As Reese started the Ford and a very relieved Landers relaxed in the backseat, Meeker took another long look at the diner. The devil had been here. She could still feel his presence. And feeling the cold sting of evil was better than feeling nothing at all.
Chapter 42
The office phone was ringing as Meeker walked into the room. After she set her briefcase and purse down on the desk, she answered. A familiar voice was on the other end.
“Five rings, that’s a record. I’ve never known it to take you more than three.”
“I was just returning from lunch, Henry. A girl’s got to eat. What’s going on in St. Louis? You’ve had two full days, surely you’ve got something.”
“A sketch that matches no one in our files,” he explained, “and no fingerprint matches, either, where the index finger matches a face anything like the guy that sold Landers the car. Worse yet, I can’t find the Hookses. At least I can’t find the mother.”
“Okay,” Meeker returned, “you left that door open. So I guess I’ll walk in.”
“Make yourself comfortable,” Reese cracked. “Here is what I know for sure. Their names were Marge and Earl. They were pretty reclusive even before their daughter died. A neighbor said the mother took it real hard when Mary was killed. And it wasn’t a car accident like the kid remembered. She was shot.”
“Let me guess,” Meeker cut in, “no leads on who did it.”
“Yep, you guessed right. She was a good student, didn’t run with the wrong crowd, and never got into any kind of trouble anyway. She was found in a city park. Whoever killed her did it execution style.”
“Wow. No wonder the mother went into a shell.”
“It gets better,” Reese continued. “Earl died a few months ago. No one really knows how. Marge called it in, and the coroner ruled it a natural death. He was buried in a pauper’s grave.”
“How old was he?” Meeker asked.
“Helen, he was way too young to die of old age. The death certificate lists his age at forty-one. There was no autopsy as the body showed no obvious signs of foul play. Listen to this scoop–Hooks had no job, but local crime stoolies say he was connected to a gangster I’ve spent some time trying to catch. This guy is a real piece of work, too—Jack McGrew.”
“‘Pistolwhip’ McGrew?” she shot back.
“None other. I couldn’t confirm it, but it makes a certain degree of sense since the family had no income that I could find.”
“I’m guessing,” Meeker jumped back on the line, “that when Hooks died Marge took off?”
“She moved,” Reese confirmed, “but no one knows where. I took a trip down to Farmington, where she was born and raised, but no one had seen her there. Her only brother died of scarlet fever as a kid. Her parents died about a decade ago within a year of each other. The last time she was back in that area was for her mother’s funeral. No one here has heard from her since.”
“And that is your dead end.”
“Yeah,” Reese admitted. “I have no idea what direction to go now. It’s like she disappeared into thin air.”
“Then why don’t you come back here?” Meeker suggested. “We’ll show the sketch to the Halls and see if it means anything to them.”
“See you tomorrow.”
Meeker had no more than placed the receiver back in its cradle when the phone rang again. This time she answered on the first ring.
“Meeker.”
“Helen, it’s Becca. I’ve gone through the Packard. I could tell you over the phone, but knowing you, I figured you’d want to see it for yourself.”
“Be right there.” Dropping the phone back into place, Meeker took a sip of lukewarm coffee and headed out the door and down the hall to the elevator. Two minutes later, she was in the basement where the FBI’s crime lab was housed. In one corner was the Packard. Standing beside it, grease covering several different parts of her white lab coat was Rebecca Bobbs.
Bobbs was not with the FBI. She worked for the OSS, but Meeker only had to make one call to Mrs. Roosevelt to secure the young woman’s trip from Washington to Chicago. An Ohio native, Bobbs was one of the first female grads of OSS’s crime lab training school. She was a bright, energetic blond blessed with a pert nose, blue eyes,
and a beauty-queen smile. She employed her beautiful eyes to charm men while she noted the most minute of details at crime scenes. It was for that reason Meeker begged the First Lady to get FDR to have Bobbs pulled from a case in Maryland. She had flown in last night and immediately gone to work.
“So, what do you have, Becca?”
“I have a car that is pretty much clean, as far as evidence goes. The only fingerprints I could find in the obvious places were either from Landers or the black widow he was dating.”
“So you have no prints?”
“None. But the blue paint is thin. It was a quick job. Whoever did it didn’t take anything off the car. They just taped it and shot. I only found a couple of runs, so they knew what they were doing and had some skill. There are a thousand shops that do that sort of thing. They take a car the night it’s stolen, quickly give it new color, and then sell it. You could probably find half a dozen vehicles just like this on used car lots within a couple of miles of here right now. Yet there is one thing that set this one apart.”
“That is?”
Bobbs pointed to the sedan. “I found no prints at all in the paint. Usually the painter touches at least in one place, under a fender or the hood, while it is still wet with enough pressure to leave an impression. This guy must have been very, very careful.”
“I’m not surprised,” Meeker said, “considering this car was involved in a kidnapping. When you’re looking at death row, you tend to cover your tracks. Becca, did you find anything I can actually use?”
“Maybe,” the woman said as she opened the back passenger door. The rear seat had been taken out and turned upside down. She flipped on a flashlight and shined it at a point between the padding and a seat spring. “Do you see that?”
Meeker leaned over, grabbed the light, and studied the spot. Under a spring was a small piece of paper. From behind her, Bobbs explained, “That’s a part of some paper money.”
