Fitzmaurice gave her an appraising glance. “If he came to Ireland at some earlier time, your theory may well prove to be correct. What put you onto the idea?”
“For over thirty years Spalding lived his life as an established, well-regarded, wealthy man,” Sara replied. “Surely he would want to replicate that lifestyle under a new identity.”
“Why did he choose Dun Laoghaire?”
“The answer to that question was buried in the case material the Canadian authorities sent you. Among Spalding’s property the Canadian Customs and Revenue Agency seized for tax evasion were two boats, an offshore sport-fishing boat and a sailboat.”
Fitzmaurice’s eyes widened. “Dun Laoghaire is a boat lover’s paradise.”
“Exactly. Spalding wants to live on the seashore in an English-speaking country where he can fit in, indulge in his hobbies, and travel around Europe as he wishes.”
“Are you quite sure you’re not an FBI profiler?” Fitzmaurice asked as he pulled into a campus parking lot.
“Quite sure,” Sara answered with a laugh.
They’d arrived early, Fitzmaurice explained as they crossed the campus to O’Reilly Hall, so they could spot Paquette and sit as close to her as possible. The university consisted of modern buildings surrounded by well-kept grounds with walking paths that led to classrooms, faculty office buildings, and common areas. At an ornamental lake near O’Reilly Hall a small group of well-dressed people had already started to gather, but Paquette was not among them.
The doors to the hall were opened for the audience, and Sara and Fitzmaurice took programs from ushers as they walked in. The writer being honored, Brendan Coughlan, was an Irish emigrant to Canada who’d written a number of contemporary novels set in Nova Scotia. According to the program notes Coughlan had been born and raised in County Clare, and his novels captured the essence of Irish characters living in a foreign land yet still haunted by the bloody history and partition of their native country.
Paquette showed up accompanied by an older man and a middle-aged couple. In contrast to their quite fashionable clothes Paquette wore a designer dress that broke at her knees and had a revealing bodice. She wore diamond stud earrings and her hair was done up in a French twist that accentuated her long neck. She had an oval, pretty face with high cheekbones, and a petite figure with a tiny waist.
“She enjoys being flamboyant, doesn’t she?” Sara said.
“It is attire perhaps more appropriate to a gala opening at the Abbey Theater,” Fitzmaurice replied.
With Fitzmaurice at her side Sara followed Paquette into the hall, listening in on her conversation, which consisted of small talk about the beautifully decorated Georgian terrace house she’d visited while interviewing a Canadian celebrity, and the wonderful, perfectly presented dinner she’d been served at a restaurant owned by a young chef who immigrated to Dublin from Vancouver.
They sat behind Paquette in the packed auditorium and eavesdropped as she described to her companions her recent meeting with the evening’s honoree, Brendan Coughlan. Paquette babbled on until the lights dimmed and the event began.
After some short introductory remarks by a faculty member, who praised Coughlan as a unique voice in Irish literature, the writer took center stage to rousing applause and spoke at length about his childhood and youth in County Clare, and how he’d found the magic and beauty of Ireland mirrored along the rocky coast of Nova Scotia, where the pure, deep sounds of Eire could still be heard among the many voices, memories, and dreams that had blossomed there.
He finished with a reading from his most recent work, and Sara decided she wouldn’t leave Dublin without at least one of his novels in her bag.
When the award was presented to Coughlan, the audience gave him a standing ovation, which included thunderous clapping by Fitzmaurice. As people filed out of the hall, Sara lost sight of Paquette.
“Don’t worry,” Fitzmaurice said, “I’ve a man on her. She’s off to a private reception for Coughlan, along with all the other glitterati who were here tonight.”
“He’s a brand-new writer to me,” Sara said.
“You’ve not read him?”
Sara shook her head.
“Well, you should,” Fitzmaurice said. “I mean no offense, but you Yanks spend far too much time beating your own literary drums, and not enough time listening to other voices.”
“None taken,” Sara replied. “He’s on my to-be-read list effective immediately. I think you would have come here on your own tonight if I hadn’t asked to have a look at Paquette.”
Fitzmaurice grinned. “You’ve caught me fair and square. I’m a big fan of Coughlan’s work.”
On the ride back to her hotel Sara’s enthusiasm for Dublin waned a bit. The late-night traffic was awful, and some of the neighborhoods they passed through looked no more inviting than the typical urban sprawl found in any major city.
Fitzmaurice parked at the curb in front of the hotel, and through the open car window Sara watched a group of talkative young people hurry down the quay toward a pub where a laughing, cigarette-smoking crowd stood on the sidewalk in front of the entrance.
“I bet you’re bored stiff with this assignment,” she said.
Fitzmaurice shifted in his seat and looked at her. “It’s been less than exciting, although I have enjoyed knocking around a bit with high society.”
“Can you arrange to get me into Paquette’s hotel room?”
“With or without the blessings of the court?” Fitzmaurice asked.
“Without, preferably.”
“It’s been on my mind to ask you,” Fitzmaurice replied slowly, “why all the bloody secrecy about a Yank soldier who made a fortune smuggling and then went missing from Vietnam so many years ago?”
“Spalding’s not the only target of the investigation,” Sara answered.
“And would that target be some lofty member of your government?”
“You have a suspicious nature, Mr. Fitzmaurice.”
“ ’Tis because of you that I’ve taken to speculating. What would possibly bring a Yank colonel to our shores with a diplomatic passport to hunt down a lowly soldier? Am I now part of some clandestine military operation?”
Sara smiled. “You’re making far too much of it. I would rather move cautiously until we have more of a fix on Spalding.”
“Yes, you more or less said that before. But quite possibly, talking to Paquette could bring him into our sights.”
Sara shook her head. “She could easily deny doing anything more than having bought a seaside villa with Spalding’s money. Once we pull her in for questioning, we will have played our hand.”
“An offer of immunity might loosen her tongue.”
“Let’s wait,” Sara said. “Can you get me into her hotel room?”
“Most likely I can,” Fitzmaurice answered as he started the engine. “I’ll let you know in the morning.”
Sara opened the car door. “You’re a prince, Detective Fitzmaurice.” “Not quite,” Fitzmaurice said with a chuckle. “On my mother’s side of the family we were never more than landless, impoverished earls.”
On her second day in Dublin, Sara rose to a cheerless early morning, which didn’t depress her in the least. Through her hotel-room window a low sky pressed down upon the city, and the still-dark buildings across the Liffey were soft shapes in the mist that had rolled in from the bay. Along the quay only a few people were out. Several university students toted book bags on their way to Trinity College, an early-rising couple were consulting their tourist guides, and a middle-aged man in a pin-striped suit hurried by with briefcase in hand.
Sara showered, dressed, and went outside, where a clearing sky and Detective Fitzmaurice greeted her. He nodded, reached into a pocket, and handed her a slip of paper with a number written on it.
“That’s Paquette’s room number,” he said. “The housekeeper will leave the door unlatched exactly at eight-forty. You’ll have ten minutes, and ten minutes only.”
Sara smiled her thanks. “Are you sure Paquette will be gone?”
“According to her driver she’ll be at a photography session with a Canadian model who’s all the rage in Paris this year. One of my lads will be following along.”
“Perfect,” Sara said. “What about hotel security?”
Fitzmaurice smiled. “They’ll be busy with more important matters.”
“When does Paquette meet with the builder?”
“Late in the afternoon. We have time for breakfast. There’s a small cafe on a side street next to the post office where the 1916 Easter Rising took place. They serve great bangers and eggs.”
“Wasn’t it shelled by a gunboat on the river and virtually destroyed?”
“Indeed it was. Have you been reading a guidebook about our fair city?”
“I confess I have,” Sara said with a smile.
Over breakfast Sara learned that Fitzmaurice was married to a schoolteacher named Edna and that the couple had two sons, Brian, who lived close by and worked as a programmer for a software company, and their younger boy, Sean, who lived at home and was studying literature at Trinity College on a scholarship.
“He was at the award ceremony last night,” Fitzmaurice said, “but I asked him to give me a bit of a wide berth, as I was working.”
“You could have at least pointed him out,” Sara said as she cut into one of the bangers. “Did he get his love of books from you?”
“And his mother,” Fitzmaurice said with a nod. “She was quite interested to learn from Sean that I’d squired an attractive woman to the event under the guise of official business.”
“You didn’t tell her who you’d be with?”
Fitzmaurice laughed. “Of course I did, but Sean rightly made you out to be a stunning American beauty.”
“Give him my thanks for the compliment.”
“I will,” Fitzmaurice said. “From the ring on your finger I take it you’re married.”
“To a policeman, of all things,” Sara replied.
Fitzmaurice slapped his knee. “Married to a peeler, are you? That’s grand.”
“And he’s a third-generation Irish-American.”
“Even grander,” Fitzmaurice said, his smile widening.
For a while they talked about their lives and families and by the time the meal had ended, Sara found herself feeling that she’d made a new friend. On the way to the car Fitzmaurice, who’d adamantly refused to let her pay for breakfast, announced that he was so taken by her descriptions of the Southwest that he’d already decided to start planning a holiday to New Mexico.
He dropped her off a block from Paquette’s hotel, and Sara timed her entrance to give herself three minutes’ leeway to find her way to the room. She crossed the richly appointed lobby and took the elevator to the third floor, where she found the hallway empty expect for a housekeeping cart, and the door to Paquette’s room ajar.
It was far more elaborate than Sara’s room, although not much bigger, with windows looking onto St. Stephen’s Green, a thick carpet with a subtle Oriental design, and embossed fleur-de-lis wallpaper. By the window was a chaise longue next to a rosewood table with a reading lamp. An arched camelback sofa faced a huge armoire that opened to reveal a television, DVD player, and compact stereo. Between the oversized bed and the chaise longue stood a small round dining table with fluted legs and two matching chairs. Against the wall opposite the windows, under a Chippendale-style mirror, was a writing desk with satinwood inlays and finely tapered legs.
Paquette was a very tidy person. Her shoes were in an orderly row on the closet floor under garments arranged neatly on hangers, her toiletries and makeup had been put away in the bathroom cabinet, the duvet on the bed had been pulled up and smoothed out, and the papers on the writing desk were organized in stacks.
Sara quickly searched through drawers, clothing, and luggage, putting everything back in its proper place, before turning her attention to the writing desk. She checked the wastebasket and then fanned through the paperwork, which was all work related, before powering up Paquette’s laptop. It was password protected, so Sara shut it down, closed the lid, and pushed it back to its original position. The edge of a piece of hotel stationery slipped into view. She pulled it out. On it was a string of numbers.
Sara wrote the numbers down, checked her watch, and saw that she was out of time. Back at the car she gave the paper to Fitzmaurice.
“It’s definitely a telephone number,” he said.
“How quickly can you check it out?”
“Promptly. The government agency that regulates communications is just a short distance away, and they have access to all landline and mobile telephone records.”
“Good. While you’re doing that, I’ll go back to my hotel and call the French. They should have researched Spalding’s previous travel bookings by now.”
Fitzmaurice waved the notepaper at her before putting it his shirt pocket. “You may be onto something here.”
“Let’s hope so,” Sara replied, flashing a smile.
An hour later Fitzmaurice sat with Sara in her hotel’s restaurant and filled her in.
“The telephone number belongs to a George McGuire,” he said with a knowing shake of his head. “It’s for a mobile phone bought here in Dublin under a prepay plan that was purchased three months ago. Records show that a number of text messages from that number were sent to Paquette’s computer, several as recent as two days ago, but no voice calls have been made.”
“When did he open the account?” Sara asked as the waitress brought coffee for her and hot tea for Fitzmaurice.
Fitzmaurice read off the date from his notes. “Of course, he used a fictitious mailing address on the mobile-phone contract and paid in cash.”
Sara grinned. “That date coincides with the information I got from the French authorities. According to Spalding’s travel bookings he was in Ireland during that time, supposedly on holiday, and he stayed for six weeks. What will it take to get access to Paquette’s e-mail account?”
Fitzmaurice added milk to his tea and stirred it. “A writ from an agreeable judge, which I think we can get by attesting that Paquette used illicitly gotten gains provided by a known fugitive to purchase property on his behalf. I have a detective on his way to the registrar of deeds and titles to pull the paperwork so we have the necessary documentation.”