Michael McGarrity - Nothing But Trouble

By the time she reached the highway she was quarreling with herself. Should she keep to the path she’d chosen so many years ago? Or was it time to explore new possibilities, no matter what happened in Ireland? The questions remained unanswered long after her flight had passed over the mountains east of Albuquerque.

During her layover in Chicago, Sara called Kerney at his office for an update on how the child-care arrangements for Patrick were going.

“So far I’ve talked to five preschool directors,” Kerney replied, “and they don’t have any openings. I may have to settle for finding a sitter.”

“Don’t give up that easily,” Sara said. “What’s Patrick doing?”

“When he’s not using my office as a playpen, he’s busy charming my office staff. Right now one of the secretaries is reading Pablito the Pony to him.”

Sara laughed. “It sounds like you have everything under control.”

“Barely.”

“Don’t grumble, Kerney. You can do this. E-mail me tonight.”

Sara worked and catnapped on the flight to Dublin. Fitzmaurice, the Garda detective, had faxed her some preliminary information on the house Paquette had bought with Spalding’s funds. It was a protected structure, the Irish term for a building with historic significance, and as such could not be altered without permission by a local government planning commission. The house was located in a suburb of Dublin known as Dun Laoghaire. Fitzmaurice had thoughtfully circled the name of the town and scratched a note to her, saying that the name of the town was pronounced “Dun Leary.” Included in the material he’d faxed was some general information about estate agent fees, stamp taxes on purchased property, and registry requirements.

From her window seat she watched the coastline of Ireland appear in the early-morning glare of the rising sun. Soon the plane was flying over rocky cliffs, windswept mountains, and stretches of farmland that rolled down to rivers and lakes. On the approach to the Dublin Airport the plane turned and banked over the Irish Sea, revealing the busy harbor filled with ships. The city spread out along the coast, cut by the River Liffey and buffered by green inland hills.

Sara had been to Ireland once before, on her honeymoon with Kerney. But they’d flown into Shannon and spent all their time in Connemara on the rugged western shore of the Atlantic Ocean, so Dublin was new to her. Against the backdrop of the bay and the hills the city looked intriguing, with its magnificent old buildings, beautiful squares, and stunning coastline.

Her diplomatic passport in hand, Sara quickly cleared customs and was met by Hugh Fitzmaurice, the Garda detective who was heading up the hunt for George Spalding. A middle-aged man with a full head of raven-black hair, blue eyes, and a long, broad nose, Fitzmaurice greeted her with an easy smile and hearty handshake.

“Welcome to the Republic of Ireland, Colonel,” he said. “Is this your first visit?”

“It is to Dublin,” Sara replied. “But I’ve spent some time in Connemara.”

“ ’Tis beautiful there, no doubt. Shall we stop at your hotel first or go straight to my office?”

“Why don’t you brief me on the way to the hotel?”

Fitzmaurice nodded. “As you wish.”

As he drove toward the city in the slow-moving traffic, Fitzmaurice filled her in on the status of the investigation. Garda were shadowing Josephine Paquette everywhere she went, and the officers were keeping their eyes open for Spalding. Each person Paquette met, interviewed, or socialized with was being carefully checked for a link to Spalding. Her phone calls were being traced, her mail intercepted, and her credit card transactions monitored.

“We know from the French that Spalding didn’t alter his appearance,” Fitzmaurice added, “so we’ve shown his photograph around at banks, brokerage firms, area hotels, and guesthouses. He’s not been seen.”

“I’ve studied the Interpol file,” Sara said. “He’s cautious, but he has made some mistakes. Keeping his given name and using a slightly altered birth date for his new identity was a misstep. Making a phone call to Paquette from his Paris apartment was another slipup. I think he’s eager to come out of hiding and may have discarded the Bruneau alias and taken on a new identity.”

Stuck behind a lorry on a busy street, Fitzmaurice sounded the car horn. “Perhaps it’s time to bring Paquette in and have a go at her.”

“Not yet,” Sara said. “It could alert Spalding that we’re hunting him. Is there anything going on with Paquette that looks promising?”

“Tomorrow she’s to meet a builder at the house she bought with Spalding’s money. The estate agent who sold her the property told us she wants to refurbish it while it’s still vacant.”

“Would she do that without consulting Spalding?” Sara asked.

Fitzmaurice eased around the lorry. “If she did consult him, it happened before we started our surveillance.”

They were approaching the heart of the city along a wide boulevard jammed with traffic, headed toward a bridge that crossed a river. People hurried along the sidewalks past old storefront buildings, giving the street scene a vibrant air.

“Let’s pay a visit to the builder after Paquette meets him,” Sara said.

Fitzmaurice nodded. “And do you have any plans for today?”

“I’d like to review your case file and get an up-close look at Paquette.”

“The file is waiting for you at my office,” Fitzmaurice said as they crossed the bridge. He turned onto the quay and parked in front of Sara’s hotel, a four-story Victorian building that looked out on the river.

“Would it be an imposition to have it dropped off at my room?”

Wondering if Brannon had some reason to avoid going to his office, Fitzmaurice gave her a questioning look, which she answered only with a smile.

“Not at all,” he said. “You’ll have it within the hour. Tonight Paquette is scheduled to attend an award ceremony for a Canadian writer. I’ve secured tickets for both of us.”

“Excellent,” Sara asked.

“Do you need help with your bags?”

“I can manage, thank you.”

After Fitzmaurice drove away, Sara checked in at the reception desk, where she was greeted by a pleasant young man who told her all about the hotel’s restaurant, spa center, and pub before handing her the room key. The room had a view of the River Liffey and was quite spacious, with a high ceiling capped by ornate cornices. Furnished with an overstuffed easy chair, small dining table, desk, a double bed, and a large armoire that hid a television, it had framed landscape prints on the walls and beige window drapes.

Sara unpacked, took a shower, and had just finished dressing when a Garda officer arrived with the police files. She sat on the bed, propped against the pillows with her legs crossed, and read the paperwork, until her body demanded physical activity and her head required her to stop thinking. She grabbed a tourist guide from the writing desk that had a map of the city center with points of interest highlighted and left for a walk.

Out on the street she strolled briskly to the O’Connell Bridge and turned to find herself in front of Trinity College, a wonderful campus that seemed both restrained and grand. Unwilling to stop in fear she’d become distracted for the rest of the day, she hurried on to Grafton Street, a pedestrian walkway filled with high-end shops, pubs, and milling tourists serenaded by street musicians playing fiddles, whistles, pipes, and guitars.

By the time she reached St. Stephen’s Green, Sara was completely entranced. A beautiful park surrounded by stately buildings, the green was as manicured and inviting as any she’d known.

She circled the green and spotted the hotel where Josephine Paquette was staying. It was a truly elegant building, with a fancy ironwork entrance bracketed by two bronze statues of women holding what appeared to be torches above their heads.