sister and brother where the funds went if Billie should bolt.
Lorna made it to the bail office in just under thirty-five minutes. Not bad, considering all the roadwork they were doing on Route 896. Roger had all of the paperwork laid out for her on the worn and pocked counter in the front room of his two-room office, and after a quick ten minutes, the deed was done.
“Your friend should be out by late this afternoon,” he told her.
“How will she get home?”
He looked at her as if she were speaking a foreign tongue.
“That’s her problem.”
“How will I know when they release her?”
“You can call the prison in a few hours and someone there should be able to tell you.”
“Well, how does this work?”
“I go to the courthouse—which, lucky for you, is open till noon—and tell them that bail has been posted. The clerk will give me what they call a Release of Prisoner form. I take that to the prison, they let her out. I don’t provide transportation home, though. That’s on her. Oh, and you just make sure she shows up at the preliminary hearing, or it’s bye-bye.” He held up the envelope containing the cash she’d handed over.
“She’ll be there.”
“She’d better be. Else I’ll have to go out and find her. I hate it when I have to do that.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” he muttered as she walked out.
Unsure as to when and where to pick up Billie, Lorna stopped at the Callen police station on her way home. Chief Walker would know what to do.
She could not have been prepared for her reception.
“You have your nerve, coming in here this morning.” Brad stood in front of the reception desk with his arms folded across his chest.
“What?” Lorna looked behind her. Was he talking to her?
“Who the hell do you think you are, calling in the fucking FBI?”
“What are you talking about? I haven’t spoken to anyone from the FBI. Why would I have called the FBI?”
“You’re telling me that guy who came here yesterday, you didn’t call him in? He wasn’t here on your account?”
“I spoke with a private investigator, yes, I did that. I still haven’t decided whether to hire him, but I spoke with him. What makes you think he’s with the FBI?”
He reached onto the desk and grabbed a fax and waved it in front of her.
She snatched it out of his hand to take a look.
“You telling me that’s a fraud and it’s not from the FBI?”
“It sure looks official, but I don’t know why . . .” She skimmed the typed request for copies of all the reports relative to the disappearance of Melinda Eagan and that of her brother, Jason Eagan, all reports relative to the discovery of the body of Jason Eagan, and the subsequent arrest of Billie Kay Eagan. She frowned, confused, until she came to the signature at the bottom.
Mitchell Peyton, SA, FBI.
Regan’s friend.
“I don’t understand.” She shook her head. “Mr. Dawson, the PI, did say yesterday he was going to stop in here to pick up copies of the reports, so why Agent Peyton—whom I do not know and did not call, by the way—why he’s requesting the same reports, I don’t know.”
She handed the fax back to Brad. “You gave Mr. Dawson the copies of the reports, didn’t you?”
“No, we did not.”
“Why? At the very least, the reports on Melinda’s disappearance should be public record. Anyone can get a copy of a police report. Reporters do it all the time. Why didn’t you give him what he asked for?”
“Because it was late in the day when he came in, and Mrs. Rusk was working by herself, and didn’t know if she should give them to him.”
“She doesn’t know that the police reports are public record? No one’s told her that in the . . . how many years she’s been working here? Don’t you train your employees?”
“Don’t get smart, Lorna. She just didn’t know if she should give them out, that’s all.” He paused, then said, “Or maybe she didn’t know where the files were.”
“She
Lorna made it to the bail office in just under thirty-five minutes. Not bad, considering all the roadwork they were doing on Route 896. Roger had all of the paperwork laid out for her on the worn and pocked counter in the front room of his two-room office, and after a quick ten minutes, the deed was done.
“Your friend should be out by late this afternoon,” he told her.
“How will she get home?”
He looked at her as if she were speaking a foreign tongue.
“That’s her problem.”
“How will I know when they release her?”
“You can call the prison in a few hours and someone there should be able to tell you.”
“Well, how does this work?”
“I go to the courthouse—which, lucky for you, is open till noon—and tell them that bail has been posted. The clerk will give me what they call a Release of Prisoner form. I take that to the prison, they let her out. I don’t provide transportation home, though. That’s on her. Oh, and you just make sure she shows up at the preliminary hearing, or it’s bye-bye.” He held up the envelope containing the cash she’d handed over.
“She’ll be there.”
“She’d better be. Else I’ll have to go out and find her. I hate it when I have to do that.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” he muttered as she walked out.
Unsure as to when and where to pick up Billie, Lorna stopped at the Callen police station on her way home. Chief Walker would know what to do.
She could not have been prepared for her reception.
“You have your nerve, coming in here this morning.” Brad stood in front of the reception desk with his arms folded across his chest.
“What?” Lorna looked behind her. Was he talking to her?
“Who the hell do you think you are, calling in the fucking FBI?”
“What are you talking about? I haven’t spoken to anyone from the FBI. Why would I have called the FBI?”
“You’re telling me that guy who came here yesterday, you didn’t call him in? He wasn’t here on your account?”
“I spoke with a private investigator, yes, I did that. I still haven’t decided whether to hire him, but I spoke with him. What makes you think he’s with the FBI?”
He reached onto the desk and grabbed a fax and waved it in front of her.
She snatched it out of his hand to take a look.
“You telling me that’s a fraud and it’s not from the FBI?”
“It sure looks official, but I don’t know why . . .” She skimmed the typed request for copies of all the reports relative to the disappearance of Melinda Eagan and that of her brother, Jason Eagan, all reports relative to the discovery of the body of Jason Eagan, and the subsequent arrest of Billie Kay Eagan. She frowned, confused, until she came to the signature at the bottom.
Mitchell Peyton, SA, FBI.
Regan’s friend.
“I don’t understand.” She shook her head. “Mr. Dawson, the PI, did say yesterday he was going to stop in here to pick up copies of the reports, so why Agent Peyton—whom I do not know and did not call, by the way—why he’s requesting the same reports, I don’t know.”
She handed the fax back to Brad. “You gave Mr. Dawson the copies of the reports, didn’t you?”
“No, we did not.”
“Why? At the very least, the reports on Melinda’s disappearance should be public record. Anyone can get a copy of a police report. Reporters do it all the time. Why didn’t you give him what he asked for?”
“Because it was late in the day when he came in, and Mrs. Rusk was working by herself, and didn’t know if she should give them to him.”
“She doesn’t know that the police reports are public record? No one’s told her that in the . . . how many years she’s been working here? Don’t you train your employees?”
“Don’t get smart, Lorna. She just didn’t know if she should give them out, that’s all.” He paused, then said, “Or maybe she didn’t know where the files were.”
“She
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