Michael McGarrity - Nothing But Trouble

The underground rooms had one-way mirrors that hid small viewing areas where digital video equipment was set up to record interviews and interrogations. The walls were a neutral beige and the rooms were well lit. The only furniture consisted of rectangular office tables and several straight-backed chairs.

“Perfect,” Sara said.

“Soon you’ll have Paquette in hand,” Fitzmaurice said, “which may put you in close reach of Spalding. But who are you really after?”

“Is it that obvious?”

He perched on the end of the table and studied Sara’s face. “Yes. You’ve skirted around Paquette until it has become absolutely necessary to confront her, you’ve relied on me as your intermediary to make it seem as though the investigation has been conducted completely independent of any involvement on your part. Except for being introduced to Colm Byrne, you have avoided all possible contact with Garda personnel other than myself. I’m half convinced that soon you’ll be asking me to delete all references in my reports of your presence in the Republic and your participation in the investigation.”

Sara shook her head. “I have no need to do that, and to ease your mind, I’m not setting you up.”

“Since I am an Irishman and a peeler, and therefore doubly suspicious both by disposition and training, normally I wouldn’t believe you.” Fitzmaurice rose to his feet and smiled. “But I do. However, you’ve severely limited my ability to assist you.”

“The person I want is outside of your reach,” Sara said.

“Fair enough, but when all is over, I expect to be told the truth, in the strictest confidence, of course, with no mention of it to be made in my official reports.”

“Fair enough,” Sara echoed. “How much time do we have before Paquette is picked up?”

“About a half an hour, more or less, I would say.”

“Then let’s go over all the facts and information we have before she gets here.”

Fitzmaurice opened the folder he’d been carrying and sat at the table. “I have a statement from Paquette’s driver you might find interesting, as well as a report from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police that came in overnight, addressed to you, about Paquette’s rather precarious current employment and financial situation.”

Josephine Paquette listened as Hayden LaPorte, the Canadian artist she had just finished interviewing, prattled on, mentioning for the third time that the Canadian ambassador to the Irish Republic would be attending the gallery opening of his one-man show on Friday night.

Bright overhead lights glared against bare walls where paintings were stacked, waiting to be hung. One of them was a large triptych of a band of Inuit, moving camp across the frozen tundra in a snowstorm, a work that captured the harsh beauty of the Artic. The gallery was uncomfortably cold in spite of the warm September day and the bright interior lights, as though a hundred or more Dublin winters had seeped through the stone walls and created a permanent chill that would never go away. The triptych only served to heighten the effect.

LaPorte, a stocky, bearded, nervous, distractible man in his sixties, hadn’t been easy to interview, but Paquette had managed to keep him on track by stroking his ego and directing the conversation back to his work as an artist.

When LaPorte stopped talking, Paquette smiled, closed her notebook, stood, and smoothed her skirt, a Jean Muir creation, silky brown with a slightly flared hem at the knee, which she’d bought on a one-day shopping trip to London. “I’ve taken far too much of your time.”

LaPorte nodded absentmindedly, stared at the empty walls, and sighed. “So much to do.”

After assuring LaPorte that she and the freelance photographer she had hired would see him at his opening, Paquette stepped outside into the warmth of the day. Her waiting car was parked on the narrow cobblestone street, in front of a yellow building where a vendor stood behind a ground-floor window selling coffee to a man with several bundles under his arm.

As she stepped toward the car, a young, pleasant-looking man in a business suit approached her and displayed police credentials.

“Ms. Josephine Paquette?” he asked.

“Yes?” Paquette replied.

The man introduced himself as a Garda detective and told her that valuables had been reported stolen from her hotel room.

Paquette stiffened. “I’ve been robbed?”

“So it seems,” the detective replied, “but fortunately we’ve recovered a number of items which need to be identified by you.”

Paquette searched the man’s face for any sign of deception and saw none. Still, she was wary. “How did you find me?” she demanded.

“The doorman at the hotel knows your driver. I contacted him by mobile and he gave me your location.”

“Must I do this now?” Paquette asked.

The detective smiled. “Yes, if you wish your possessions returned in a timely fashion. It will only require a few minutes of your time. If you’ll accompany me, we’ll have you on your way shortly.”

Paquette glanced over the detective’s shoulder at her driver, who leaned against the car door. When she caught his eye, he quickly dropped his head and lowered his gaze. During her many years as a journalist Paquette had learned to read behavioral signs, and her cheerful, chatty Irish driver seemed decidedly ill at ease.

“Of course,” she said with an amiable smile. “I’ll be glad to help in any way I can. But may I follow you in my hired car? I have an appointment I dare not be late to.”

“I’ve arranged to have your driver follow me,” the detective replied as he touched Paquette on the arm and pointed at his vehicle.

As far as Paquette could tell, there was nothing to worry about. But a twinge of anxiety surfaced, and she had to force it down as she got into the unmarked Garda vehicle.

At Dublin Castle the detective guided her to a building on the grounds that sat perpendicular to the coach house with its mock Gothic facade. Across the gardens and behind the state apartments Paquette could see the turquoise-blue cupola that rose above Bedford Hall. Two days ago she had attended a luncheon for benefactors of a Canadian-Irish arts guild there in the Erin Room.

Inside the Garda offices she was taken down a flight of stairs to a room where a very attractive woman sat at a table studying some papers, which she quickly put away in a folder. As the detective left, the woman stood, smiled at Paquette, gestured at an empty chair, and said, “Please, sit down.”

Paquette noted the woman’s attire as she sat at the table. She wore dark, taupe gabardine pants by Calvin Klein paired with a lightweight V-necked Ralph Lauren cashmere top.

“You don’t sound Irish,” Paquette said.

The woman laughed. “My father was an Irish diplomat, my mother is Norwegian, and I spent most of my youth growing up in the States. I get teased about my Yank accent all the time. May I call you Josephine?”

“Of course,” Paquette said. The woman neither looked or acted like a police officer. Aside from her clothes, her strawberry-blond hair had been cut and shaped by an expert stylist, and she was obviously very knowledgeable about using makeup that complemented her lovely green eyes and creamy complexion. She wore a pair of gold hoop earrings mounted with single small diamonds that looked custom made. All in all she appeared extremely high maintenance.

“I’m Sara. Thank you for coming.”

Paquette smiled in return. “I understand you have some items stolen from my hotel room you want me to identify.”

“In a moment. But first, can you recall any recent encounters with people who might have approached you to do something for them that seemed unusual?”

“Such as?” Paquette asked.