Michael McGarrity - Nothing But Trouble

“We know that your magazine is about to be sold,” Sara said as she scanned the paper, “and your chances of staying on as the editor are slim to none. We know that you’ve been actively job hunting for the past three months and have had no offers. We also know you are strapped for cash and carrying a lot of debt.”

Sara returned the paper to the folder. “The point is, no matter how often you tell this story, we can show that you have colluded with a known fugitive and that money was your motive. You can be charged as an accessory.”

“I have nothing more to say.”

“What do you think could happen to a person who did something like this?”

Paquette put her hands on the table and clasped them tightly together.

“People make mistakes,” Sara continued as she returned to her chair. “I understand that. Now is your chance to set things right. I’ll listen to anything you want to say.”

“Where would that get me?” Paquette asked.

“It could be very advantageous to you. Once we have George in custody, we’ll learn the truth about your involvement and any chance you have to extract yourself from this situation will be gone.”

Paquette picked some imaginary lint from her pleated silk Louis Vuitton blouse and shook her head. “I feel so stupid.”

“Don’t, Josephine.” Sara leaned forward and smiled sympathetically. Although Paquette probably didn’t know it, she’d just admitted guilt. “George Spalding has spent a lifetime using people. He’s a master at it. You are simply one of his victims.”

Paquette smiled weakly in return.

“Why don’t you tell me everything,” Sara said.

“If I do, will I be arrested?”

“Not if you give a full and truthful account,” Sara replied, sidestepping the fact that the half a million euros Paquette expected to receive at the end of the year had just evaporated.

Paquette took a deep breath and started talking. When she finished, Sara had all the particulars of the scheme, but most important she now knew that Spalding would be at the villa tomorrow afternoon to have one final look at his new home before starting his qualifying cruise for his ocean yachtmaster certificate.

She cautioned Paquette to cooperate fully with the Garda in all possible ways, made her surrender her passport, and turned her over to the detective waiting outside the door.

Within a minute Fitzmaurice stepped into the room with a big smile spread across his face. “Well done,” he said. “You got her to lie to you right from the outset. It’s all been recorded on digital video and sent to the server. I made a diskette copy.”

He tucked it into the chest pocket of his suit coat. “A detective will take her written statement. We’ll keep a close watch on her from now until tomorrow afternoon.”

“Are you smiling because you think I should have questioned her sooner rather than later?” Sara asked.

Fitzmaurice shook his head. “Not at all. She never would have broken unless you had the facts at your disposal.”

“Then why the big grin?” Sara asked.

Fitzmaurice laughed. “Because I had no idea you were the product of an Irish diplomat’s marriage to a Norwegian shipping heiress, and a Garda detective authorized to grant foreign citizens immunity from prosecution.”

Sara grinned and handed Fitzmaurice the passport. “I said nothing about a shipping heiress. You’re a terrible embellisher, Mr. Fitzmaurice. She almost had me there. Did you really want to arrest her?”

“No, but now I’m more convinced than ever that you’re a far cry from an ordinary lieutenant colonel.”

“You just won’t quit, will you?”

Fitzmaurice shook his head. “Is it time for us to start uncovering and freezing Mr. Spalding’s assets?”

“Is that possible?” Sara asked.

“Indeed so,” Fitzmaurice replied. “His bank in Galway serves only private clients, and it is justifiably concerned that it not be a party to any illicit dealing. The rumours of that may not be good for business, and a scandal in the courts might frighten off prospective clients. I’ve asked for a writ from the court under the Proceeds of Crime Act. It should be signed shortly and then we can be on our way to Galway. We’ll travel by helicopter.”

On the flight to Galway, Fitzmaurice gave Sara a short history of the Garda Criminal Assets Bureau. The bureau had been established in 1996, after drug dealers murdered Veronica Guerin, an investigative reporter who’d exposed the extent of drug trafficking in Dublin and the wealth of the drug lords who controlled it. The public outcry that resulted from her death had led to the creation of the bureau, which was given the authority to identify, freeze, or confiscate assets and other wealth derived directly or indirectly from criminal activity.

During that time Fitzmaurice had been an undercover narcotics officer working the tough, drug-ridden north-side Dublin neighborhoods, and he had participated in the investigation that brought Guerin’s killers to justice.

“That was back when I was still young enough to do that type of work,” Fitzmaurice said. “Some days I would go home wondering if Edna and the boys would still be there when I arrived. I rarely saw them.”

Sara nodded sympathetically, her thoughts suddenly riveted on Kerney and Patrick. The emptiness that came from seeing Kerney so infrequently often weighed on her, and the unhappy prospect of being separated from Patrick for two weeks only served to enlarge that feeling.

Fitzmaurice read her gloomy expression. Sara quickly hid it with a forced smile.

“ ’Tis hard on family life, this work we’ve taken on,” he said.

Sara nodded. “Yes, it is. Will we have full access to Spalding’s bank records?”

“Indeed,” Fitzmaurice replied, noting Sara’s shift away from private thoughts. He understood completely. When family worries gnawed at the back of one’s mind, it was always best to focus on the work at hand. “The order allows a search through all records bearing the name of George Spalding and any of his known aliases.”

They flew into Galway City and in the distance Sara could see the banks of the river fed by Lough Corrib, which was apple green in the distance, ringed by fields and wetland thickets.

She remembered her day in the city with Kerney; visiting the museum at Spanish Arch, walking the nearby pedestrian streets, wandering in and out of the shops, gazing at the many medieval buildings, and listening to the Irish folk tunes played by buskers for spare change.

She recalled Kerney’s amazement at the fast-flowing rivers and waterways that coursed through the city, the lush green of the surrounding countryside, the delicate blue sky that turned the bay silver. The thought of that lovely time together with him cheered her.

After landing they were driven to the bank by a uniformed officer. In a sixteenth-century building on the corner of one of the pedestrian streets, the bank was beautifully preserved, with an arched window front and decorative stone carvings above the ground floor.

Inside, they were met by the bank’s solicitor, a tall man with a mustache who wore standard corporate attire: a dark suit, white shirt, and a conservative necktie. He inspected the order and escorted them to an upstairs room where two revenue officers from the Criminal Assets Bureau waited, seated at a table with desktop computers. Introductions were made and after Fitzmaurice politely dismissed the solicitor, work promptly began.

As the computer files were accessed it became apparent that Spalding, using the alias of Calderwood, his ex-wife’s maiden name, had been a client at the bank for a number of years, long before Kerney unmasked him. Millions of Canadian dollars had flowed into his original account from Swiss and offshore banks, converted first into Irish punts and later to euros when Ireland switched to the new currency.