Michael McGarrity - Nothing But Trouble

The view across Killiney Bay was stunning, with low hills and a distant mountain sheared off at the top standing on a headland under a gun-metal cloud bank.

“It’s glorious,” Sara said.

“Certainly a place where one could settle in and live comfortably,” Fitzmaurice replied.

Sara laughed at Fitzmaurice’s sarcasm. “Let’s make sure Spalding doesn’t get that chance.”

The storefront office of the auctioneer and estate agent who’d handled the sale of the villa was closed. A note attached to the door said that the agent, a man named Liam Quinn, was off showing property and would be back in the afternoon.

Fitzmaurice tried Quinn’s mobile telephone number, got no response, and left a brief voice message asking him to ring back when he returned to the office.

“While we’re waiting for Quinn to call, let’s ask around for Mr. Spalding at some of the hotels, guesthouses, and inns,” he said.

Working from a tourist guide of area accommodations, they stopped at the few downtown hotels before widening their search to self-catering apartments, short-term rental units, and bed-and-breakfast establishments. Just as they were about to give up canvassing and head off for a quick lunch, the estate agent rang Fitzmaurice on his mobile and said he was on his way back to his office.

“Let’s hope he has something to offer,” Fitzmaurice said as he clipped the phone to his belt. “Otherwise we’ll need at least two more days and many more officers to query every innkeeper and hotelier in the area.”

“Have you met or spoken to Quinn before?” Sara asked.

Fitzmaurice shook his head. “No, I sent one of my detectives around to see him.”

“So he doesn’t know you’re a peeler.”

Fitzmaurice’s eyes lit up. “Are you thinking we should present ourselves as prospective clients?”

Sara nodded. “Let’s string him along and see where it leads.”

“You’re a gifted schemer, Lieutenant Colonel Brannon.”

Sara laughed. “With a willing accomplice, Detective Inspector Fitzmaurice.”

Fitzmaurice found a car park within easy walking distance of Quinn’s storefront office and they passed along a street of two- and three-story stone buildings with brightly painted trim work that housed retail shops featuring Irish crystal, linens and woolens, posters and prints, Celtic jewelry and trinkets, and souvenir T-shirts and hats, all geared to the tourist trade.

Although the architecture and landscape were different, the area reminded Sara of the shops on the Santa Fe Plaza, where the store clerks assumed all their customers were from out of town. Kerney and Fitzmaurice, strangers living two continents apart, were right to complain about theme-park mentality and crass consumerism. It was everywhere and it sucked.

Liam Quinn greeted them with a smile and a hearty handshake when they entered his office. In his mid-thirties, he had a ruddy complexion, red hair cut short and brushed forward, and a narrow nose that ended abruptly above thin lips. He wore a white shirt and striped tie, a light wool tweed sport coat, and dress slacks. The office was nicely furnished with an antique desk and an old-fashioned wooden chair on casters, a credenza with a desktop computer, printer, and fax machine on top, several comfortable easy chairs, and a round conference table with four matching straight-backed chairs. One wall featured flyers with photographs and descriptions of available properties. Hung on the opposite wall were several framed posters of area attractions.

They sat at the conference table, and Fitzmaurice, who had introduced Sara as his wife, took the lead.

“We’ve fallen in love with those Italian-style villas on Coast Road,” he said. “Surely someone might be tempted to sell.”

Quinn shook his head. “They rarely become available. I had a gentleman stop by earlier in the summer asking for the same inquiry to be made on his behalf, and it all came to naught.”

“Yet a resident we spoke to said one had sold recently.”

“Yes, to a client of mine,” Quinn replied, looking quite pleased with himself.

“To the gentleman you mentioned?” Fitzmaurice queried.

“No, to a woman. She’s hired a builder to refurbish it completely, once the planning council approves the architect’s plans. It’s a protected property, and nothing can be done until then. But I have other properties equally as charming you might wish to consider.”

“But nothing on Coast Road?” Fitzmaurice asked.

“Sadly, no,” Quinn said, with a shake of his head.

“That’s too bad,” Fitzmaurice said. “I suppose it’s all a question of timing, isn’t it?”

Quinn nodded in agreement. “The villa came on the market unexpectedly and I had a ready buyer.”

“A woman, you say?”

“Yes.”

“Tell us about the gentleman who inquired about the villa earlier in the summer.”

Quinn cocked his head and gave Fitzmaurice a sharp look. “What is this about?”

Fitzmaurice took out his Garda credentials, laid them on the table, and passed a photograph of George Spalding to Quinn. “Is this the gentleman in question?”

Quinn shifted his gaze from the photograph to Fitzmaurice and then to Sara.

“Please answer the question,” Sara said.

“Yes.”

“What name did he use?” Sara prodded.

“George McGuire.”

Fitzmaurice plucked the photograph from Quinn’s hand. “We know he purchased the property in Josephine Paquette’s name, yet you said his inquiries came to naught.”

Quinn’s ruddy complexion deepened. “There is nothing improper about purchasing property to benefit another person.”

Fitzmaurice smiled as he slipped his Garda credentials into his pocket. “It’s just as you say, indeed. You’ve a keen sense of right and wrong, Liam. A very fine quality in an estate agent. But why did you lie to us?”

“I merely maintained a confidence. Mr. McGuire wished to preserve his anonymity by having the deed registered in Ms. Paquette’s name. He wishes to move to Dun Laoghaire without drawing attention to himself. That is not so uncommon as you might think. Some of the wealthy have an obsession with privacy.”

“Why didn’t you tell the police about McGuire?” Sara asked.

Quinn tugged at the collar of his shirt. “It didn’t seem to be of any consequence.”

Fitzmaurice glanced at the framed photograph on Quinn’s desk of a woman holding a chubby-cheeked infant. “Is that your family, Liam?”

Quinn nodded.

“It must be difficult to make your way as an auctioneer and estate agent and a family man running a business all on your own in such a competitive market. As I understand it, independents such as yourself constantly risk being either driven out of business or absorbed into the big national estate companies.”

“It’s been a very good spring and summer for sales,” Quinn replied stiffly.

Fitzmaurice leaned forward across the table. “Made even more profitable for you by a sum of money in your pocket not reported to the taxman?”

Quinn stood up. “I resent that.”

“Sit down, Mr. Quinn.” Fitzmaurice waited a beat for Quinn to comply. “What if I were to tell you that McGuire is an international fugitive who used ill-gotten gains to buy the villa?”

“I know nothing about that.”

“Of course not,” Fitzmaurice said, staring hard at Quinn. “The thought never entered your mind that McGuire might be attempting to hide criminal assets.”

“It is not my responsibility to determine the source of a client’s wealth,” Quinn replied sharply.

“I’m sure we can clear this up easily to everyone’s satisfaction,” Sara intervened with a smile. “Tell us about your dealings with Mr. McGuire.”