Rene might’ve been spooky and weird, but if she was right, if Eagleton did have a postal box, Merrick was going to find it and bust him when he picked up his mail. He called T.J. and had him run a computer search of Santa Monica’s routes. T.J. came up with: James D. Eagleton P.O. Box 739 2231 Wilshire Blvd. Santa Monica, CA 90403 Rene was right. The address turned out to be the Pack-Tel Business Center. It offered packaging and shipping services along with postal box rentals. The owner’s eyes brightened with recognition when Merrick showed him Eagleton’s photo. “Haven’t seen him for weeks,” the husky fellow said, explaining homeless people use postal boxes to receive unemployment checks and replies to job applications. “Any idea when he might show?” The owner shrugged, then checked Eagleton’s box for mail. “Couple of pieces in there. Hard to say.” “Maybe I’ll get lucky,” Merrick said cynically. That was three days ago, and since then, from eight in the morning to seven at night, he’d been hunkered down in the Blazer, staking out Pack-Tel from various vantage points.
