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“You still there?” he asked.
“Oh, yeah.” She felt a bit of her old self returning. “Do you have a picture of her? Of Lorna Percival? She had to have some kind of government ID to get a credit card, I would think. So is there a driver’s license?”
“I’ll send it to your e-mail address. It will be encrypted but you’ll be able to open it, just . . . you know.”
“It will be hard to trace the source. Yeah, I know. What about the dates on those receipts? They should be dated and time stamped.” And there would be security camera footage at the mini-mart.
“I’ll send them as well.”
“Anything else?” she asked.
“Not yet. You want me to keep looking?”
“Yes!”
“Okay.” He was about to cut the connection when he added, “Oh. Hey. I heard about your son. The baby?” Of course he had. “Just want you to know, I’m sorry. And . . . and we’ll get the son of a bitch who did this.”
“You bet we will,” she said, talking as much to the woman in the mirror as to the man on the other end of the connection. “You damned well bet we will.”
Chapter 30
Padgett Long!
Jesus. God. Padgett Long?
Pescoli stared at the photo that came in through her phone. The woman’s image on the driver’s license looked different, of course, had aged, but Pescoli would recognize those intense blue eyes anywhere. The hair was different, curly black hair now short and streaked, blond on blond, but still she was recognizable.
Lorna Percival was effin’ Padgett Long.
Rocking back on her heels in her bathroom, Pescoli felt the fury rise within her. Why would this woman steal her child?
Hadn’t she been locked up in some mental hospital? Mountain View? With its tall fences, electronically locked gates, and panoramic, serene vistas of the nearby hills?
What was she doing here, stealing her baby?
The last Regan had heard, Brady Long’s sister had been mute, speaking only in prayers, but then what did she know?
The evidence was clear.
“You bitch,” she whispered, glaring at the photo on her phone.
So do something!
Get your kid back!
Almost on automatic, she went to her closet, unlocked the gun safe, pulled out the case for her service weapon, and un
locked it as well. When the case sprang open, she picked up her handgun, tested its weight, then slapped in a clip, grabbed her jacket, and put the weapon in her pocket.
She flew down the stairs and found her children, both shell-shocked, watching television, some reality show, which was just fine. “Where’s Santana?” she asked.
Jeremy looked up. “He said he had to check on something at the Long Ranch. That he would be back in an hour or so.”
Her heart froze. This was not good. “When did he leave?”
“I dunno, maybe fifteen minutes ago? He went in to check on you, but you were resting, so he told us to ‘sit tight’ and ‘take care’ of you.”
“I’m fine.”
