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.
He accepted a mug of black coffee and followed Jamison into the living room, where they sprawled in heavy leather chairs facing the blank TV screen.
“I can figure out half a dozen ways they could have abandoned the yacht,” Spence said.
“But how did they stay disappeared? Supposedly, nobody saw them after the yacht blew up.”
“We can get details from the undercover guy. I touched base with him this morning. He’s stationed in Miami and sounds happy to be away from the Peligro Cartel.”
“Too dangerous?”
“Too chaotic. The danger comes from disorganization. After the big boss—El Jefe—was convicted and jailed in federal prison—”
“Thanks to Mollie’s father.”
“Not just him. Several others were willing to testify. Anyway, when he was removed, the organization fell apart. Nobody heard from Julio or Madison, but there were lots of rumors about how they took over some of the regular trucking routes. Another guy focused on drugs until he was replaced by another family, and Peligro was absorbed into another cartel.”
Neither Spence nor Jamison noticed Mollie until she spoke. “It sounds like Peligro was out of business.”
“Could be,” Jamison agreed.
“Why were Dad and I kept as protected witnesses if there wasn’t a threat?
” She strode into the living room. Instead of an appropriate dress for a memorial service at the church in Cloverdell, she wore jeans and a simple dark brown blouse, casual but not sloppy.
“How long has it been safe for us to leave WITSEC?”
“I don’t like to comment on the priorities of another federal agency,” Jamison said, “and I can’t unequivocally state that there was no danger from the cartel. There’s always a risk. But it seems to me that you and your father could return to your lives before the threat.”
“And now?” She looked first to Jamison, and then she stared at Spence. “I’ve been in two attacks. If it’s not Peligro, then who?”
“Evidence points to Julio Flores.” Spence looked her over from head to toe. She was wearing sneakers. “What’s with the outfit?”
“I rummaged around and found this. Everything fits. The pants are a little baggy. No big deal. Even the shoes are the right size.” She glanced at Jamison. “Please tell your friend thank you. I promise to pay her back for the clothes.”
“I don’t get it,” Spence said. “On the drive over here, you wanted to go to a boutique. What made you change your mind?”
She shrugged. “I’m incognito.”
“Don’t get me wrong. I like the idea, like it a lot. Protecting you will be easier when you’re dressed like that. But why the change?”
“I don’t need to parade around, having people notice me while—at the same time—being a clear target for Julio and his thugs. My reasons for attending are personal. I want to take a moment to remember Aunt Irma and mourn her passing. Also, to celebrate her life, a life well lived.”
Though many people—including Bethany and Erin—would be dressed up, Mollie’s casual clothing made it possible for her to fade into the crowd.
Spence checked his watch and shifted gears.
He’d already spoken to Rossi and Quintana about a protection detail at the church.
Escorting high-profile clients under threat was something they’d done before. Many times before.
After he got her safely tucked into the Escalade, he communicated with his team via a nearly invisible two-way earpiece.
He told them what Mollie was wearing and set up a drop-off near the church so he didn’t need to worry about parking.
Typically, the target was most vulnerable when entering or leaving an event.
Inside the church, his people had already arranged for her to hide in the pastor’s office. Out of sight.
He ended the call and looked in her direction. She stared back at him like a cat watching a canary. Not necessarily to swallow him in one bite but to be aware of his movements.
“If it can be arranged,” she said, “I want to sit with the congregation.”
“No promises, but I can try to sneak you in.”
“Only if it’s practical,” she said with a shrug. “My sister is the demanding one. It’s my job to provide balance. And I like to prioritize things.”
“I’ve noticed,” he said dryly.
“The important part of this afternoon is making it to the five o’clock meeting.”
He wasn’t so sure about that. “I turned the note over to Jamison for FBI fingerprinting and other forensics. He hasn’t gotten it back yet, but he’ll let us know when he does.”
“I ought to be mad at you,” she said. “You weren’t supposed to make big decisions like that without consulting me. But I’m okay with it. Jamison isn’t like most feds.”
“He’s a good guy to have on our side.”
They drove through the forests and farmland separating Salem from other parts of the valley.
Staked-out rows of grape vines outlined the hillsides surrounding wineries.
Christmas tree farms bristled with Douglas fir.
As they got closer to Cloverdell, Mollie buzzed down the window, stuck out her arm and rode her hand on the June breeze.
“Almost home.” Her voice cracked, betraying her excitement. “I never realized how much I missed this place.”
No place like home.
* * *
The pointed white steeple atop the United Methodist church in Cloverdell marked the highest point in the small town.
At one time, there had been clanging bells but those had been removed due to expensive maintenance issues.
The congregation opted for repairs to the fellowship hall rather than repairing the bell tower.
Mollie had appreciated the decision. Cloverdell was, like her, practical.
Who needed bells when you could have a new oven for the potlucks?
The church represented more than a religious center.
Ritual events, like weddings and funerals and baptisms, filled the schedule in the sanctuary.
The fellowship hall provided the setting for town meetings, social dinners, concerts, lectures and so on.
The first time Mollie had danced with a boy was in the fellowship hall.
He’d given her a kiss and then called her by her sister’s name.
After that and other such incidents, she’d made a purposeful effort to avoid looking like Madison, tinting her hair blue and never wearing the same color.
As she and Spence got out of the Escalade and headed toward the church, she had that same feeling.
Concealing her own identity. Making sure nobody thought she was Madison.
The outfit she’d put together at Jamison’s house represented the opposite of anything Princesa Madison would wear.
Baggy jeans and a plain blouse. Spence added an oversize sweater to make her even more shapeless.
He directed her toward the front entrance to the church but veered away when it became obvious that the crowd had formed a bottleneck there.
There were too many people who might recognize her. They were too close.
Following a signal from Rossi, he took her to a side door where they could ease inside.
One of Spence’s team had been saving them a space at the farthest end of the rear pew.
Mollie scrunched down so nobody would notice her.
The recorded music playing over the church’s PA system included Great-Aunt Irma’s favorite tunes, mostly from the early rock ’n’ roll era when she was a young woman.
Elvis hits and Bobby Darin and Four Seasons mingled with Beatles.
Oldies but goodies. Mollie remembered Irma teaching her how to do the twist and boogie down.
Peeking out from under her cap, she saw many faces she recognized.
Not all were friendly but most were familiar.
Shopkeepers, teachers from the high school, docs and nurses from the clinic where Irma volunteered, field hands from the hazelnut orchard; it was a standing-room-only crowd.
Great-Aunt Irma had been a beloved and respected member of the community.
Standing at the front pew, Mollie saw Bethany and Erin, who were looking back at the crowd, possibly searching for her. The thought that she might be missed touched her. Being away from her family and friends made her appreciate them more.
Beside her, she saw Spence take his cell phone from his pocket. She hadn’t heard it ring, which meant he must have it on vibrate. Is this an important call? He listened for a moment and returned the phone to his pocket.
Leaning close to her and whispering so nobody else could hear, he said, “The FBI forensics team got fingerprints from the note inside the envelope. First, there were yours.”
No surprise. “Who else? Did they find Madison’s prints?”
“Sorry, Mollie. The only other prints were from Julio Flores.”