Page 35 of Safeguarding the Witness

“Must have.” Easton’s eyes closed. He was fading fast.

There was more Mollie needed to know. “Don’t you fall asleep, Jerry. I need answers. What about the Peligro Cartel? Are they after Mollie and her father?”

“Count on me, Princesa.”

His head flopped to one side, and his eyelids slammed shut. She wasn’t going to get any more coherent information from Marshal Jerome Easton.

Chapter Twelve

“I can’t show up for Aunt Irma’s memorial dressed like this.”

From the driver’s seat of his Escalade, Spence barely heard what Mollie had said. Her long, bare legs distracted him. Not to mention the flash of cleavage when she leaned toward him from the passenger seat and snapped her fingers in his face. Loudly, she demanded, “Did you hear me?”

“The dress,” he guessed. “You need a different one.”

“We could stop by that boutique on Court Street. I’ll run in, grab something and run back out. It’ll only take a minute.”

He dragged his mind back to the main problem: too much exposure. The visit to the hospital had gone better than he expected. Not only had Mollie teased out information from Easton, but they hadn’t been threatened. Still, he couldn’t discount the ongoing danger of an attack from Julio.

“You’re not going shopping,” he said. “We’re headed to Jamison’s place. His girlfriend might have left something you can change into.”

She shrugged. “That will have to do.”

He stopped at a light on State Street in front of the Capitol building, where Japanese cherry trees with pink blossoms lined both sides of the grassy mall. Gazing across the console and trying to ignore her smudged lipstick, he said, “You did a good job with Easton.”

“Poor guy. I feel bad about lying to him. He’s obviously in love with my sister. The Princesa. Another man who has played the fool for Madison.” She gave a snort. “Join the club, Easton.”

Spence added, “It doesn’t hurt that she’s been paying him and Youngblood to watch out for you. They’ll probably get away with it by saying they were just doing their jobs.”

“Except for two things,” she said. “First, there were the thugs they hired as watchdogs in Denver. I’m pretty sure that’s not in the US Marshal handbook of acceptable behavior.”

“Definitely not.”

“Also,” she continued, “Youngblood must have alerted Julio to our arrival in Salem. That makes me think he was double-crossing somebody. Being paid by both Julio and Madison.”

At this point, Spence figured his grandpa would have made a comment about what was good for the goose was also good for the gander. “The difference between your twin and her former lover is simple. Julio is trying to kill you.”

“I don’t think so.” She flounced in her seat, revealing a few more inches of leg. “If he wanted me dead, the sniper could have picked me off. I think Easton was right about the shooter sending a message to Princesa. Julio wants Madison to know he’s onto her.”

Spence parked in the driveway of a small Craftsman-style house, light green with gray trim, and came around to her side to open her door and scan for anyone who might be waiting or watching. Having already explained the standard procedure of having her stay inside the Escalade until he’d circled the vehicle and checked out their surroundings, he was glad to see she’d followed his instructions.

Moving fast, he escorted her from the car to the front door which Jamison opened for them after he parked his vehicle. Inside, the little house was cool and comfortable. Heavy masculine furniture was arranged with a wide-screen television as the central focus. A well-worn banjo occupied a stand beside a rocking chair. Jamison had been single since his divorce, but he had a long-term relationship with a local psychotherapist who had wisely declined his marriage proposals several times. Living separately suited her.

Jamison’s gourmet-style kitchen showed the influence of a woman’s touch. As did the closet in his guest bedroom. He and Spence left Mollie to select an appropriate outfit from those his lady friend had left.

“Help yourself,” he encouraged her. “You’re about the same size. Those dresses have all been dry-cleaned and are ready for her. When she wants to wear them.”

Spence guessed that Jamison liked having her clothing at his house. Maybe as a first step toward living together. Clear evidence of a softer side to the FBI agent tough guy.

They left Mollie to get dressed and returned to the kitchen, where Jamison brewed Stumptown coffee in a fancy machine that appeared to be only slightly less complicated than the instrument panel in the helicopter Spence was learning to fly.

“I’m going to be breaking some rules for you,” Jamison said. “Can you trust Mollie not to tell anybody about what she learns from my FBI contacts?”

Spence nodded. “Her main concern is reuniting with her twin, who is apparently still alive. On a secondary level, she wants to know it’s safe for her to stay in Oregon and run the art gallery her great-aunt left to her.”

“Nice inheritance,” Jamison said. “Okay, I’ll put her in touch with the undercover agent who caught the yacht explosion near Mazatlán. His video and a couple of eyewitness reports were the only proof that Julio and Madison were killed.”

Spence had seen the footage. An escape from the exploding yacht wouldn’t have been hard to rig. The lovers and the crew could all have donned scuba gear, splashed overboard and put distance between them and the yacht. Then, the bomb could have been detonated by a remote trigger. Julio was known for his expertise with explosives.