Page 25 of Safeguarding the Witness

She threw off the comforter and picked up the white terry cloth bathrobe also provided by Quintana. After tucking the note into her pocket, Molly circled the bed and went to the door of the adjoining bathroom. About an hour ago, she’d heard him in here taking a shower. It took a serious exertion of willpower not to whip open the door and pounce on him. As if she’d ever make such a move. She wasn’t like Erin. Or Madison. Mollie had always been cautious.

She glided across the honeycomb tiles on the bathroom floor. The door to his room was closed, but she could see light under the door. He was still awake. She knocked. “Spence, may I come in?”

“Sure.”

His bedroom was similar to hers, but the predominant color was light green. The comforter, dark blue. Spence sat in the middle of the bed with the covers pulled up and a PC on his lap. Pillows were arrayed across the headboard to create a backrest. His chest was bare. She really hoped he was wearing pajama bottoms.

“Is this your home office?” she asked.

“One of them,” he said. “I had to work out a few details about our meeting tomorrow morning with my grandpa. He’s excited to see you. All three of you.”

She’d always liked Oliver Cameron. “There was a time, after your grandma passed away, that I thought he and Aunt Irma might get together.”

“I had the same thoughts.” He closed his computer and set it aside, giving her a better view of his nicely muscled torso. Instead of a rigid six-pack, his body illustrated how he’d lived his life. Lean and healthy. A long scar across his shoulder showed the result of a past injury. On the other shoulder, he had a small tattoo of the University of Oregon mascot—a duck in a sailor cap—that made her grin. A pattern of dark, springy chest hair arrowed down to his belly button. “What can I do for you, Mollie?”

She dragged her attention back to the matter at hand. “I haven’t been completely honest with you.”

“I know,” he said. “Erin mentioned the FBI video.”

What was he talking about? Was she so preoccupied with his hairy chest that she was hearing things? “The FBI video?”

“Of the explosion on the yacht. According to Erin, you received an anonymous delivery before you went into WITSEC. I’d like to follow up with some research to find out if the undercover agent who contacted you stayed in touch with the Peligro Cartel.”

She waved her hand to erase his words. “Already taken care of. That was five years ago. My dad insisted on tracing the video back to the source. His contact with the undercover agent wasn’t approved. The feds kicked Dad off the case.”

“Why did the agent send it?”

“I guess he had gotten too involved and felt bad about my sister’s death.” She pressed on. “I have something else to tell you.”

“Another lie?”

“I didn’t purposely deceive you. This is just something I didn’t mention.”

He patted the edge of the mattress. “Sit.”

“Don’t want to.” Mollie bit her lower lip. She was acting as skittish as a scared virgin.

“I promise,” he said, “I don’t bite.”

She reached into her pocket and yanked out the note. Waving it like a flag of surrender, she said, “I found this in your SUV. It was tangled up in the safety belt strap.”

She tossed it toward him, and he had to lean forward to reach it. The comforter slipped lower. There were no pajama bottoms that she could see. Before picking it up, he pulled both hands away. “I shouldn’t touch it. It’s more important to preserve the fingerprints.”

“I’ve already had my hands all over it,” she said as she picked up the note by the corners and held it closer to him so he could read the message that stated the time and the place for their meeting.

He squinted. “What’s the Clover Clubhouse?”

“A place we used to go to hang out,” she said. “It’s in Aunt Irma’s backyard.”

“The signature.” He raised his gaze to look at her. “Is that Madison’s handwriting?”

“She always made a pointy-topped M instead of rounding the edges.” He was so close that she could see the shards of jade green in his irises. Unusual eyes. Incredible.

When he leaned across the bed and reached into a drawer in his bedside table, she confirmed her earlier notion about his lack of pajamas and focused on his hands. Inside the drawer, he grabbed a used manila envelope, legal-sized. “Put the note and envelope in here so we don’t mess up the prints. I’ve got a forensic guy in town who I work with.”

“Good.” She slipped the note inside, closed the flap and handed him the manila envelope. “I don’t want to give it to the FBI.”

“Why not? Their labs are better than private companies’. It’s possible they could get trace DNA from the note. Not likely, but possible.”