Nothing But Trouble

Chapter Nine

As Brigadier General Stuart Thatcher saw it, he’d risen through the ranks because he was objective, ambitious, and maintained a healthy skepticism about other people’s motives. Accordingly, he was constantly on guard for any sign of disloyalty from his subordinates or any outside threats to his authority.

On Friday, as he was about to leave the office at the end of the day, a memo from the vice chief of staff had been hand-delivered by his aide, advising Thatcher that Lieutenant Colonel Sara Brannon had been tasked to carry out a special courier assignment effective immediately. The memo contained no specifics as to the whys or wherefores, nor had Thatcher been consulted on the matter. His authority had been undermined, and he was desperate to know why.

Officially there wasn’t anything Thatcher could do about it other than defer to the vice chief. Still, he fumed that Clarke had not even given him the courtesy of a call about needing Brannon for a special detail. Because Henry Powhatan Clarke was clearly Brannon’s mentor and protector, Thatcher couldn’t help but wonder if hidden motives were in play.

Since her arrival at the military police directorate, Brannon had caused Thatcher nothing but trouble. It had started with her assignment to revise sexual-assault criminal investigation protocols and procedures, which she’d turned into an indictment against the army for failure to prosecute offenders and adequately protect victims.

Her findings had reached the halls of Congress, and it had taken a concerted effort to keep the situation from becoming an embarrassment to the service while preserving the careers of several ranking, highly connected officers. Fortunately, Thatcher’s second cousin, U.S. Senator Howard Ballard Rutledge, chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee, had buried Brannon’s report under the provisions of the National Security Act. But from that moment on Thatcher had kept a watchful eye on Brannon and her work, reviewing it in exhaustive detail.

Thatcher had hoped to quash Brannon’s chances for promotion by holding her back from accepting a plum temporary duty assignment with the training branch, and giving her a less than exemplary efficiency rating prior to her departure from his command. But General Clarke had outmaneuvered Thatcher and quashed his plans.

He wondered what Clarke and Brannon were up to and had spent the last two days discreetly trying to learn the nature of Brannon’s assignment. People he could usually rely on for information had professed no knowledge, and all his attempts to tease out any particulars from collateral sources failed.

Alarmed and convinced he was a target of some scheme hatched by Clarke and Brannon to ruin him, Thatcher decided to uncover the threat on his own and counteract it. Late Tuesday evening, after the personnel in Brannon’s section had left for the day, he exercised his authority to conduct a security audit of her workstation and began going through her files, paperwork, and notes in minute detail, searching for anything that would confirm his suspicions and reveal the nature of the plot against him.

In the top drawer of Brannon’s desk he found a file containing computer printouts of her outgoing telephone calls. Some time back Brannon had placed a number of calls to the Quartermaster Corps and the army forensic lab. He knew of no reason for her to do that. Additionally, over a considerable period of time, Brannon had also telephoned the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. One call had been made the day before Clarke had cut her special orders. What was that all about?

Thatcher decided to dig deeper and began dialing the numbers. Within short order he had duty officers at the Quartermaster Corps and the forensic lab scrambling to locate any documents or memorandums to or from Brannon. Then he phoned the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and spoke to a supervisor, who told him his department routinely kept in contact with Brannon regarding the status of an army deserter named George Spalding.

“What is the current status of the case?” Thatcher asked.

“Spalding is still at large,” the officer replied. “But based on a close watch list of one of Spalding’s known friends, we now have reason to suspect that he may be in Ireland.”

“Was this information shared with Colonel Brannon?” Thatcher asked.

“Yes, the colonel was advised.”

Thatcher thanked the officer and hung up. Well over a year ago the Spalding case had been transferred from Brannon to army CID. Yet Brannon had continued to follow up on the investigation without his knowledge or authorization. What was she up to and why all the secrecy?

He called back the duty officers and told them to concentrate on looking for specific information to or from Brannon that pertained to the Spalding investigation.

Within the hour Thatcher hit pay dirt. Long after the case had been transferred, Brannon had requested a handwriting analysis on documents she’d requested from the Quartermaster Corp which showed that Thomas Loring Carrier had, during the Vietnam War, forged signatures on personal-effects release forms.

Brannon had obviously targeted Carrier as a member of the smuggling ring Spalding had operated in Vietnam, which was completely incredible to Thatcher. Tom Carrier was no common criminal. A born-again Christian and a great American, Carrier had the ear of important people in the president’s inner circle. Brannon’s assumptions about him were simply scurrilous.

Had Brannon sidestepped him because of his friendship with Carrier and taken her unfounded suspicions to General Clarke? If so, why now?

He ran a hand through his thinning hair. He didn’t like Brannon. She was an officer who subtly challenged his authority in ways that avoided outright censure, who had a pattern of consistently maneuvering behind his back, and had no allegiance to the command ethics of the army.

Thatcher tapped his fingers on the desktop. Brannon had been tasked by Clarke on a secret assignment one day after she’d learned from the RCMP that Spalding might have surfaced in Ireland. Could it be that was where Clarke had sent her?

Clarke had to know of Carrier’s ties to the White House, how he’d been a media point man to sell the administration’s handling of the war on terrorism. Had Clarke authorized the mission to find evidence that could embarrass the commander-in-chief by raising questions about a man closely associated with his war policies?

Thatcher smiled. As far as he could tell, he wasn’t a target after all, and foiling Lieutenant Colonel Sara Brannon’s mission for General Henry Powhatan Clarke might win him his second star. If he played his hand well, the result would be decidedly less pleasant for Brannon and Clarke. His smile widened in anticipation of the debt of gratitude Tom Carrier would owe him and the good days that loomed ahead.

In the morning Sara met Fitzmaurice in the hotel lobby. On the way to the car he gave her an update on the overnight activity. Spalding had made no new credit-card purchases, his boat hadn’t been spotted by the Irish Coast Guard, and Paquette had spent the evening clubbing with friends before retiring late to her hotel room.

“Is that it?” Sara asked.

“We’ve dropped surveillance on her,” Fitzmaurice said as he opened the car door for Sara. “But I’ve arranged for her hired driver to keep us informed of her whereabouts. All on the QT, of course.”

“Good.”

Fitzmaurice settled behind the steering wheel and handed Sara a file folder. “We have been able to determine the specifics of Spalding’s Irish citizenship claim based on the passport information we got during our visit to the Irish Sailing Association. He was granted citizenship by virtue of descent under the name of George McGuire, but the supporting documentation of his Irish-born grandparents was forged.”

Sara scanned the report.

“Also,” Fitzmaurice said, “we accessed the records of the mobile-phone account Spalding established under the name of McGuire. He’s been using it to communicate with the Dun Laoghaire solicitor who handled the conveyance of the villa. A detective spoke to the solicitor early this morning and learned that Paquette has signed a legal document that will transfer the property to Spalding at the end of the year by private treaty. Paquette stands to receive payment of half a million euros for the property. A far cry from the full value of the house, but a tidy sum nonetheless.”

“So Paquette is looking forward to a very profitable payday,” Sara said.

“In squeaky clean cash.” Fitzmaurice put the key into the ignition but didn’t start the engine. “The text messages he sent to Paquette’s computer are interesting. He gave her very specific instructions on the type of countertops, appliances, and fixtures he wanted installed in the kitchen and bathrooms at the villa and a color scheme for the walls of each room. Apparently, he’s planning to settle permanently in Dun Laoghaire, as you suggested, and live a long and happy life as George McGuire.”

Sara closed the file. “What else?”

“He’s made several recent calls on his mobile to a London telephone number, one of which was placed just before he left Bray on his boat. We’ve asked the London authorities to find out what they can and ring us back.”

“I wonder if he sailed to England,” Sara said.

“He could get to Wales in a matter of hours,” Fitzmaurice replied. “Or, according to the Coast Guard, he could not be at sea at all, but cruising along the mouth of some inland waterway.”

Sara looked out the windscreen of the car. People hurried along the quay, shops were opening, lorry drivers were queuing up at curbside to make deliveries, buses rolled by. Sunlight dappled the Liffey, the blue sky was tinged with green, and the tourists were in short sleeves, anticipating a warm, clear day.

“Do you have a plan?” Fitzmaurice asked.

Sara let out a small sigh. She’d hoped to get to Spalding by working around Paquette and leaving the smallest possible footprint of her participation in the investigation. “Has there been any fresh communication between Spalding and Paquette?”

Fitzmaurice shook his head. “Not as far as we know.”

Sara bit her lip. If she waited for Spalding to surface or make another misstep, it could be days before he could be brought to ground, and time wasn’t on her side. “Let’s have a talk with her.”

Fitzmaurice turned over the engine and laughed. “That’s a fine plan, Colonel Brannon. One I heartily endorse.”

Sara touched Fitzmaurice’s shoulder. “Wait a minute. Let’s think this through. Where is she now?”

Fitzmaurice glanced at his watch. “On her way to an appointment with a Canadian artist who is about to have a major show at a gallery in the Temple Bar district.”

“Can we have her picked up without arousing her suspicion?”

“A subterfuge of some sort? Is that necessary? We have sufficient cause to question her.”

“Which would surely put her on guard,” Sara countered. “If we approach her as a suspect, she could immediately go on the offensive and either request a solicitor or ask to contact the Canadian embassy.”

Fitzmaurice eyed Sara. “And you wouldn’t want that.” Sara shook her head.

“I could arrange for a detective to approach her about a theft of items from her hotel room.”

“That would work. But I would prefer to meet with her somewhere other than your office.”

“Dublin Castle would do nicely,” Fitzmaurice replied.

“Isn’t it a big tourist attraction?”

“One of the most popular in the city. The former police yard and armory on the castle grounds house Garda offices, including the drug unit. There are several belowground rooms that are equipped for interviews and interrogations.”

Sara laughed. “So we’ll have Paquette thrown into the castle dungeon.”

“Not quite,” Fitzmaurice said with a smile as he pulled out into the crush of morning traffic. “But with a bit of embellishment it will give you an excellent tale to tell once you’re home in the States.”

Sara asked how far it was to the castle, and Fitzmaurice replied that it was no more than a biscuit’s throw away. When they arrived, he gave Sara a few minutes to look around, pointing out an old Norman tower with tall battlements that housed the Garda Museum; the circular gardens, with their serpentine footpaths amid lush grass, resting on the site of the dark pool-dubh linn-that had given the city its name; the Gothic Revival chapel; the state apartments; and the viceroy’s coach house that, from the outside, looked much like a small castle but now served as an exhibition and conference center.

“Originally,” Fitzmaurice said, as he led Sara to a brightly plastered building that bordered the circular garden, “the castle sat along a river. But the old moat was filled in and it’s an underground river now that flows into the Liffey.”

“This is an amazing place,” Sara said as she followed Fitzmaurice inside the Garda Carriage and Traffic Building. They walked down a long hallway, past offices where uniformed officers manned desks, to a suite of rooms that housed the drug unit. There Fitzmaurice introduced Sara to a detective named Colm Byrne and explained that he had need of an interrogation room.

Byrne, who had the look of a young tough who could street-fight with the best of them, gave Sara the once-over from head to toe.

“You’ve come up in the world,” he said to Fitzmaurice with a toothy grin. “Circulating with a much better class of people now, are you?”

Fitzmaurice smiled jovially. “I’m still knocking the north side riffraff’s heads together as need be, Colm, and if you keep drooling on the good colonel’s shoes, I’ll soon be adding your name to my list.”

Byrne threw back his head and laughed. “I want none of that. The interrogation rooms aren’t in use. Take your pick.”

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.

“Leave a package at the hotel for another guest, or perhaps give you money and ask you to buy something for them?”

Paquette shook her head. “No. Do criminals pick the people they plan to rob that way?”

“Frequently. They’ll use any number of ploys to target potential victims. Have you had occasion to make expensive purchases that might have drawn attention to yourself?”

“I went clothes shopping in London for a day and overindulged a bit. But I’m far too busy here in Ireland working on a cover article for my magazine to do much in the way of supporting the local economy.”

“Yes, I understand you’re a fashion-magazine editor. That must be a very exciting profession.”

Paquette smiled. “It has its entertaining moments. Can you tell me what was stolen from my room?”

“So, you’ve not been asked by anyone to do a special favor, nor have you made a large purchase that might have drawn attention to yourself?”

“No,” Paquette replied. “Can we get on with this?”

Sara slipped a photograph out of the folder and placed it before Paquette. “Do you know this man?”

Paquette’s gaze jumped from the photograph to Sara’s face. “That’s George,” she said quickly. “Why are you asking me about him?”

“And what name is he using now?”

“Now?”

“Yes, Josephine, now. We know you met him in Paris.”

“I knew him as George Calderwood in Canada, but the police told me his real name was Spalding and that he was an American army deserter and a tax dodger.”

“Now, Josephine,” Sara said gently. “Tell the truth, don’t you also know the name he’s using now?”

Paquette answered without hesitation. “He legally changed it to McGuire. He said it was his mother’s maiden name. He even showed me his Irish passport to prove it.”

“But the funds he gave you to buy a villa for him came from an account under the name of Georges Bruneau.”

Paquette nodded. “Yes, Mr. Bruneau, his personal accountant. George said they joked about having the same Christian name.”

Sara stood, put her hands on the table, and leaned toward Paquette. “An amusing coincidence. Life is full of funny things like that no one can explain, isn’t it? But surely you can tell me how you came to agree to help a known fugitive purchase a house under your name.”

Paquette looked nonplussed. “Fugitive? George’s legal problems have all been resolved.”

Sara sank back in the chair and studied Paquette silently for a long moment, unsure if the woman had simply rehearsed a story or was telling the truth as she knew it.

“Are you sure you’re a Garda detective?” Paquette asked.

“Do you have something to hide from the police that would make you ask that question?” Sara retorted.

Paquette shrugged. “Not at all. But you’re wearing expensive American designer labels from recent collections, and I don’t know too many police officers who dress in such nice outfits.”

“I’m glad you like it,” Sara said with a smile. “I picked it up in New York City. With the euro strong against the dollar, the United States is a shopper’s paradise for Europeans looking to go on a weekend clothes-buying spree.”

Paquette nodded. It made sense. The fashion trade journals had reported on the phenomenon several times since the dollar had plunged in value against the euro and the pound, and a diplomat’s daughter probably didn’t have to live solely on her police salary.

“Tell me why you believe George’s legal problems have gone away,” Sara asked.

“Is he still wanted?”

“Yes, by your government for income tax evasion and flight to avoid prosecution, and by the United States Army for smuggling and desertion.”

Paquette sighed. “He told me that he’d reached a settlement agreement with Canadian revenue officials and that the matter of his military service had been resolved.”

“And you believed him?”

“Not without proof,” Paquette retorted. “He had legal papers and official documents from both Canadian and American government agencies.”

“What kind of documents?” Sara asked.

“Dishonorable discharge papers from the U.S. Army and a tax payment agreement from the Canadian government. It was all there in black and white.”

“Didn’t you think it strange that if his legal problems were behind him, he would want you to buy an Irish seaside villa for him in your name?”

“He said he wanted to move on with his life and start over in Ireland without drawing any attention to himself.”

“How did George arrange for you to meet him in Paris?”

“He sent a letter to me at work asking for my assistance.”

“Do you have that letter?”

“No.”

“Why didn’t you call the police when the letter arrived?”

“I saw no reason to doubt him. He wrote that he was no longer in trouble with the law and could prove it to my satisfaction, if I was willing to help.”

Sara rose, walked to Paquette, and looked down at her. “How could he have possibly known when you would be traveling to Ireland?”

“I didn’t think to ask him that.”

Sara stayed silent for a moment, letting the tension build. “Explain to me why George would buy the villa under your name and then hire a solicitor to prepare a conveyance to transfer the deed to him by the end of the year.”

For the first time during the interrogation Paquette’s composure wavered. Her mouth tightened and she gave Sara a stormy look. “If he’s still a criminal, why don’t you just go arrest him and ask him these questions? I’ve done nothing wrong.”

Sara walked behind Paquette’s chair and looked at her in the one-way mirror. “I wonder what a polygraph would tell me.”

“Would you not stand behind me, please,” Paquette said.

Sara stayed put. “You could avoid further difficulties by telling me now how much George promised to give you if you went along with his scheme.”

Paquette craned her neck to look at Sara. “It’s not a scheme. I simply agreed to help out a friend.”

“I’m confused, Josephine. If this was all on the up and up, why would you pose as George’s lover when the two of you met with the architect and builder?”

Paquette looked away. “I did no such thing. They must have formed a mistaken impression about our relationship.”

Sara patted Paquette gently on the shoulder. “That could well be the case. People make faulty assumptions about others all the time.”

“Which is exactly what you’re doing with me,” Paquette said pointedly as she looked at her wristwatch. “I really must go.”

“Not yet.” Sara moved to the table, sat on it, and smiled down at Paquette. “I’m still a bit confused.”

“About what?”

“Your secret meeting with George on his yacht at the Dun Laoghaire Marina.”

“There wasn’t anything secret about it.”

“Then why was it the one and only time since you’ve been in Dublin that you didn’t use your car and driver?”

Paquette nodded and paused an extra beat. “I needed some time by myself without having to listen to my driver’s incessant chatter.”

Sara reached for the folder and thumbed through it. “Your driver, Martin Mullaney, told us that you informed him early in the day you wouldn’t be needing him that evening. It doesn’t appear that your need to take a break from a chatty driver was all that spontaneous.”

“Believe what you like. I’m telling you the truth.”

Sara sighed and plucked a sheet of paper from the folder. “Josephine, everything we’ve learned points to the fact that George is paying you to be his intermediary.”

“I’ve been helping out because he’s been spending most of his time cruising on his yacht.”

“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.

From the original account the money had then flowed into various investment portfolios managed by a wholly owned subsidiary of the bank. At that point the audit trail became murky until well after nightfall, when the revenue officers linked a hedge-fund account to the new accounts Spalding had opened under his Bruneau and McGuire aliases.

During a short break for a meal of fast food takeaway one of the revenue officers had fetched, Fitzmaurice leaned back in his chair and flipped through a stack of hard-copy investment records.

“He’s been electronically siphoning off profits from his investments for years,” he said, “and sending the funds out of the country. It all looks on the up and up. The paperwork is in order, taxes on the earnings have been paid, and the money deposited into a numbered Swiss account.”

“Can we identify the owner of that account?” Sara asked.

“Yes,” Fitzmaurice replied, “but not until tomorrow morning when the Swiss bank opens. Do you have a particular person in mind?”

Although Fitzmaurice’s tone was mild, his eyes were watchful as he sat slightly forward in his chair, poised and waiting for her reply. Over the past three days he’d been more than patient with her, never once asserting the authority he could rightly have claimed over the investigation. Instead, he had done all in his power to help her and for that he deserved an honest answer. She wrote down a name on a slip of paper and handed it to Fitzmaurice.

Fitzmaurice’s eyes lit up. “Thomas Loring Carrier. I take it that this is the gentleman who is beyond my reach.”

Sara nodded.

Smiling broadly, he slipped the paper into his shirt pocket and turned to the revenue officers. “Let’s gather and compile the evidence we need.”

“What will you do with it?” Sara asked.

“Present it to a judge and ask for Spalding’s assets to be frozen and the villa and the motor yacht to be seized. That should put a damper on his plans to start a new life here.”

For the next hour the revenue officers printed hard-copy information from the bank’s mainframe files, while Sara and Fitzmaurice entered it into evidence. After the material was boxed and carried away by the revenue officers for further inspection, Fitzmaurice presented a list of the seized records to the bank’s solicitor on their way out the door. The man looked none too happy to receive it.

Outside, they hurried across the dark street through a light rain to a waiting Garda vehicle that would take them to the airport for the return flight to Dublin.

“Were I to do a computer search on Thomas Loring Carrier, what might I learn?” Fitzmaurice asked as he slid into the backseat next to Sara.

“Enough to confirm your suspicions about my assignment,” Sara answered.

“Why did you tell me about Carrier now?”

“Because I may need you to cover my back,” Sara said.

“Exactly who might I be protecting you from?”

Sara carefully considered her response before she answered. “They think of themselves as patriots,” she said.

“Ah,” Fitzmaurice said with a knowing nod. “We had our fair share of those during the Troubles.”

Each day that passed with no word from Sara made Kerney more anxious and worried about her. Patrick, who missed his mother badly, intensified Kerney’s unspoken concerns by constantly asking where she was and when she would return. Sara’s absence had shaken Patrick and made Kerney realize that up until now he’d been a sorry excuse for a parent.

Clearly, Sara was the linchpin in Patrick’s world and Kerney the absent father seen only occasionally. That point had been driven home to him midmorning when he’d been called to Patrick’s preschool. A mean, bossy kid had pushed Patrick down and kicked him during playtime. Patrick had thrown a tantrum and tried to run away. When Kerney got there, he found his son teary eyed, sullen, and miserable, demanding his mother, wanting to go back to his real home, his real school, his real friends.

Kerney took Patrick home immediately and tried to soothe him, but it wasn’t until after lunch, when he suggested an afternoon ride, that Patrick broke into a smile. After Kerney saddled up Hondo, a gray gelding, and put Patrick on the saddle in front of him, his son’s spirits lifted enough for him to start in again about wanting his very own pony. By the time they reached the pond, fed by a natural spring, surrounded by marsh grass and cattails, Patrick seemed to be over his preschool ordeal. In the coolness of the cloudy afternoon, with a slight breeze tinged with enough humidity to promise rain by evening, Kerney dismounted and led Hondo up a hillock, with Patrick still in the saddle clutching the pommel. At stone ruins that looked out at the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, knife-edge sharp in a shaft of sunlight that cut through the cloud bank, he tethered Hondo to the thick branch of a cedar tree.

“Do I have to go back?” Patrick asked as Kerney lifted him out of the saddle.

Kerney studied his worried son’s face before he set him down. “To preschool?”

Patrick nodded somberly.

“Only for a few more days.”

“I don’t want to,” Patrick said stubbornly.

The look on Patrick’s face almost broke Kerney’s heart, and he made a snap decision. “Okay, you don’t have to go back there.”

“Ever?” Patrick asked, his eyes brightening.

“Ever,” Kerney replied as he ruffled his son’s hair and unclipped his cell phone from his belt. Patrick smiled and scrambled gleefully to the top of the low stone ruins. With one eye on his son Kerney called Deputy Chief Larry Otero and told him that he was starting his vacation effective immediately and wouldn’t be back until after he returned from the Bootheel.

“You deserve it, Chief,” Otero said.

“It’s more that my son deserves a father,” Kerney replied.

After a short but fruitless search for arrowheads and potsherds at the ruins, which were purported to be the site of a Native American sweat lodge, Kerney rode, with Patrick in front of him, to the barn, where he unsaddled Hondo, put him in the paddock, rubbed him down, and fed him some oats. Then, as a treat, Kerney fixed strawberries and ice cream for Patrick and spent an hour reading to him until it was well past his nap time. When Patrick’s head drooped and his eyelids fluttered and closed, Kerney carried him to his bed.

In the study Kerney checked his e-mail. There were still no messages from Sara, which, since he still didn’t know where she was or what she was doing, left him with a growing sense of alarm. He fired off a note to her, saying all was well at home but that he really needed to hear from her, and went to check on Patrick. The events of the morning had worn him out and he was fast asleep, but his face was clear of worry. Kerney closed the door quietly and went to the kitchen to clean up the lunch dishes, marveling at the resilience of the young, wishing some of it would rub off on him so he could rebound from his present funk.

Upon their late-night arrival in Dublin, Fitzmaurice received a message informing him that the calls Spalding had made to London were to a very expensive, independent personal escort named Victoria Hopkins, who operated out of a flat in St. John’s Wood and advertised herself on the World Wide Web as a “courtesan of distinction.” Inquires made of her neighbors by the police revealed that Hopkins was traveling in Wales and due to return home tomorrow.

“Apparently,” Fitzmaurice said after he filled Sara in, “yachting isn’t Spalding’s only preferred leisure-time activity. I would imagine he’s anchored in a lovely cove somewhere near Holyhead, rocking the boat-so to speak-with his for-hire courtesan right now.”

“Can you arrange for overnight surveillance on the villa in case Spalding arrives early?” Sara asked.

“Consider it done,” Fitzmaurice replied as he eased to a stop in front of Sara’s hotel. “And I’ll alert the Coast Guard and ask them to be standing by so that he can’t slip away to sea.”

“Perfect,” Sara said as she opened the door. “You really have been a prince, Detective Fitzmaurice. I appreciate all that you’ve done.”

“ ’Tis the company I’ve been keeping, Colonel,” Fitzmaurice said with smile. “Till the morning, then.”

In her room Sara kicked off her shoes, read her e-mail, and immediately called Kerney.

“Everything is fine,” she said when he answered. “I’m safe and sound, and there’s nothing for you to worry about. How is Patrick? How are you?”

“All is well here,” Kerney replied. “But we’ve been missing you a lot.”

“Me too,” Sara said. “Tell me what the two of you have been up to.”

After the call Sara sat for a long time trying to figure out why Kerney had sounded a little strained behind his cheerfulness. He’d told her about his daily horseback rides with Patrick, his plan to take him to the Albuquerque zoo, and how Patrick loved to help him in the barn when it was time to feed the horses. But he’d skirted around her questions about Patrick’s adjustment to the Santa Fe preschool.

It wasn’t like Kerney to hold things back from her. She wondered if he’d deliberately avoided discussing some difficulties Patrick might have experienced. The thought stayed with her long after she set the alarm clock, turned off the light, and went to bed.