Nothing But Trouble

Chapter Eight

The short drive from Dublin to Dun Laoghaire reminded Sara of the sprawl of large American cities where suburban towns and once rural villages, now surrounded by commercial and residential development, had been absorbed and become virtually indistinguishable from one another.

Granted, there were differences between Dublin and the States: The architectural styles of the spreading residential subdivisions paid homage to a Georgian, Palladian, Victorian, and Irish cottage heritage, and in many cases the houses were smaller and squeezed onto tiny lots. There were lovely old buildings scattered about in parkland meadows cut by cobblestone drives, and the new commercial buildings had a distinctly European minimalist flair. The Irish Sea, the coastal hills, and the remaining open space soothed the eye, but there was construction everywhere. Roads, subdivisions, shopping centers, and business parks were eating away at the edges of the intact village centers and gobbling up the land.

When Sara mentioned this to Fitzmaurice, he railed against the development, pointing out that the old family-run bakeries, fish-and-chips takeaways, butcher shops, grocery stores, and ice cream parlors were nigh on gone, swept aside by fast-food franchises, gimmicky tourist enterprises, and big-box shopping malls with huge car parks that catered to the relentless consumption of a nation gone mad with consumerism.

“The whole bloody Republic is being turned into an Irish theme park,” he added with a huff.

Sara smiled sympathetically but said nothing. Fitzmaurice sounded just like Kerney complaining about the changes in Santa Fe and northern New Mexico. If the two men ever had a chance to meet, she thought they would hit it off immediately.

They arrived in Dun Laoghaire, which, according to Fitzmaurice, had been a sleepy village in the early nineteenth century until the railroad arrived and a harbor had been dredged to accommodate mail ships that crossed the Irish Sea to Holyhead in Wales. Now it was not only a popular day-trip destination for tourists staying in Dublin, but also home to the largest ferry crossing to and from the UK, a retreat for the wealthy who maintained vacation homes in the area, and a bedroom community for people who worked either in the city or in the resort towns that ran along the southeast coast.

The area promoted itself as Dublin’s Riviera, compared itself to Naples, Italy, and had no industry other than tourism, which was offered up, as Fitzmaurice put it, to all those gullible people who came looking for the charm of Old Eire while turning a blind eye to the neighborhoods where the poor resided and street gangs roamed.

From the road the villa Paquette had bought looked like nothing more than a cottage painted a soft pastel blue. But from the end of the line of houses that followed the curve of the bay, Sara could see that it extended four stories down a cliff face to a rocky beach and a slipway where pleasure boats rocked gently against a pier. Terraced gardens of palm trees and brilliant flowers flowed down the cliff almost to the shore.

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.”

Quinn’s stormy expression cleared slightly. “He came to me three months ago asking about the villas. I’d just begun negotiations with an elderly gentleman who wished to sell his property by private treaty at the end of the summer rather than at auction. McGuire paid me a ten-thousand-euro commission in advance to secure the property.”

“How did the money come to you?” Sara asked.

“He gave me a bank draft the very next day, along with written authorization to make an offer above the fixed price if necessary.”

“Go on,” Sara said.

“When the contracts were drawn up by the solicitor, Mr. McGuire returned, signed them, and paid the ten-percent deposit after renegotiating the closing date, which he asked to have put off because Ms. Paquette would be unavailable until a later time. Since it was a cash purchase without the need for a secured mortgage, the seller agreed.”

“How did you keep in contact with McGuire?” Sara asked.

“I have his mobile number.” Quinn stood, took an address book from a desk drawer, and read off the number, which didn’t match with the one Sara had discovered in Paquette’s hotel room.

“Where did he stay while he was here?” Sara asked.

“He stayed on his motor yacht at the marina,” Quinn replied as he watched Fitzmaurice dial his mobile phone. “Who are you calling?”

“A detective to come and take your written statement,” Fitzmaurice replied, “which will then be carefully checked for truthfulness.”

Outside Quinn’s office Sara turned to Fitzmaurice. “Do you think he knew Spalding’s money was dirty?”

“He probably suspected it, at the very least,” Fitzmaurice replied, “as we have every reason to believe that Spalding bribed him to remain silent about certain particulars.”

“Well, the one thing we know for certain is that Paquette agreed to Spalding’s scheme long before she rendezvoused with him in Paris. What do you know about boating and motor yachts?”

“Except for a few nautical terms not a blessed thing,” Fitzmaurice answered.

“Nor do I,” Sara said as they walked toward the car park.

The Dun Laoghaire Marina, situated yards away from the ferry terminal to Wales and the rapid-transit rail station to Dublin, was a modern facility catering to all types of leisure boats, from small sailing dinghies to large yachts.

Sailboats and motorboats filled the marina, masts rising from the decks, sails furled, hulls gently knocking against the crisscross pattern of walkways where the boats were moored. In the bay a small regatta of boats in full sail cut through the waves past an old stone pier with a red-domed lighthouse and headed out to sea. In the distance the Holyhead ferry steamed toward Wales, smoke billowing from the stack.

The ferry terminal adjacent to the marina was a stark contemporary structure with a circular upper story that seemed to have been deliberately designed to look like an airport conning tower. It matched perfectly with the steel-and-glass architecture of the nearby rail-station ticket office that spanned the tracks below.

At the marina office a young man named Bobby Doherty, who had the wind-burned face of a sailor and an anchor tattooed on a forearm, searched through recent berthing records.

“I remember him,” Doherty said, as he flipped through papers. “He has a new Spanish-built Rodman Fifty-six, with twin Volvo engines and three cabins. He berthed here two or three times.”

“A very expensive boat that is, then?” Fitzmaurice asked.

“It cost him half a million euros, if it cost him a penny,” Doherty said.

“And you’re sure this is the man,” Fitzmaurice said, poking his finger at the photograph of George Spalding that he’d placed on the counter.

“Yes, Mr. McGuire,” Doherty said, glancing at the photo. “He tied up on the Q berth, where we put the larger visiting boats.”

“Did he sleep onboard his boat while he stayed here?” Sara asked.

“Of that I can’t be sure,” Doherty said as he handed the records to Fitzmaurice. “One of the night-watch crew could better answer that question.”

Fitzmaurice scanned the papers and passed them to Sara. Spalding had berthed his boat, Sapphire, three times at the marina on dates that corresponded nicely with his recent travels to Ireland, and had paid in cash. They’d missed him by five days.

“Do you know for certain that Mr. McGuire owns the boat?” Sara asked.

Doherty shrugged. “He could have hired it. Many people do that when they come here on holiday.”

“Who could tell us if it was a hired boat?” Fitzmaurice asked.

“Either the Registrars of Shipping or the Irish Sailing Association,” Doherty said. “Both keep excellent records of ownership, and you may want to ask after Mr. McGuire at the National Yacht Club. On his first visit he asked me to direct him there.”

“What time does the night watch start?” Fitzmaurice asked.

“Johnny Scanlan comes on duty at eighteen hundred hours,” Doherty replied.

Fitzmaurice handed Doherty a business card. “Have him stand by for us at that time.”

Doherty nodded. “Have we had a criminal in our midst?”

“It’s a family emergency,” Sara said. “How do we get to the yacht club from here?”

“Easily done,” Doherty said, and he rattled off directions that took them directly toward the lighthouse with the red dome.

Fitzmaurice parked in front of the National Yacht Club. The entrance consisted of a six-panel double door with a semicircular pediment window above. It was enclosed by a wrought-iron fence and a gate bracketed by two tall, ornate light stanchions. In spite of the Georgian touches the building had the look of a low-slung French chateau. Two polished brass plaques on either side of the door announced that it was indeed the National Yacht Club and that the building had historical significance.

After Fitzmaurice showed his credentials at the reception desk, they explored the public rooms while waiting for a club official to come talk to them. In a large gallery comfortable chairs and couches were arranged to give a view of the bay through a series of tall windows. Oil paintings of sailing ships in hand-carved gilded frames adorned the walls. In the separate dining room the tables were set with crystal stemware and silver flatware. The adjacent bar was an inviting, intimate cove of dark paneling and polished mahogany. There were few people about, but as they returned to the front room, a smiling older man with a neatly trimmed gray beard and mustache, and wide-spaced brown eyes below a bald, round head approached, introduced himself as Diarmuid O’Gorman, the commodore of the club, and asked if he could be of assistance.

Fitzmaurice displayed his Garda credentials and showed O’Gorman Spalding’s photograph. “We’re trying to locate a Mr. George McGuire and we understand he may have visited the club early in the summer.”

O’Gorman nodded. “Yes, I spoke with him myself. He was keenly interested in becoming a member. A very pleasant gentleman. Is he in some sort of difficulty?”

“Not at all,” Fitzmaurice said. “A family matter requires his attention.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you. He left with a membership application and a promise to return after he settled into a house in Dun Laoghaire. He said it might be some time before he would be ready to put himself forward for admission, and that he would be traveling until then.”

“On his motor yacht?” Sara asked.

“Yes, but he’s planning to purchase a racing dinghy, a sport we’re particularly active in. We’ve hosted two world championships in recent years.”

“Did he say where he might be going after he left Dun Laoghaire?” Sara asked.

“He mentioned wanting to complete the yachtmaster ocean training scheme.”

“What is that, exactly?” Fitzmaurice asked.

“It certifies a skipper to operate a boat beyond coastal and offshore waters,” O’Gorman replied. “The training must be offered by an approved ISA organization.”

“The Irish Sailing Association?” Sara asked.

“Exactly,” O’Gorman said. “They would be able to tell you where and when he completed the course, if indeed he has done so.”

With directions from O’Gorman in hand they left the yacht club and found their way to the headquarters of the Irish Sailing Association. Housed in a mansion along a quiet street, the two-story brick building was surrounded by lush grounds, a wrought-iron fence, and a low ornamental hedge. Set back from the road and partially hidden by large shade trees, the mansion’s entrance was topped by a neoclassical entablature supported by two Greek Revival columns.

Inside they spoke with Mary Kehoe, who managed the daily operations of the association. A pleasant-looking woman in her forties, Kehoe had a small, pointed chin, bluish-green eyes, hair that was as raven black as Fitzmaurice’s, and a gangly figure.

“We’re trying to locate a Mr. George McGuire to inform him of a family emergency,” Fitzmaurice said as he settled into a chair in Kehoe’s office. “He owns or has hired a motor yacht named Sapphire and may have had some recent dealing with your organization.”

“Yes, of course, Mr. McGuire,” Kehoe said, rising from her desk. “We’ve assisted him in a number of ways. Let me get his records.”

When Kehoe left the office, Fitzmaurice flashed a big grin at Sara. “Are you starting to get the scent of our prey?”

“What if he’s on the high seas and staying far away from land?” Sara asked.

Fitzmaurice grimaced. “Well, at least we won’t have to waste our time canvassing every bloody hotel and inn from Dun Laoghaire to Wicklow.”

Kehoe returned with a folder, sat at her desk, put on a pair of reading glasses, and slowly began to page through it. Fitzmaurice’s eyes lit up as though he were a cat about to pounce, and for a moment Sara thought he was getting ready to rip the documents out of the woman’s hands. Instead, he settled back and tried hard not to look impatient.

“We have his completed ISA membership application,” Kehoe said, placing it carefully to one side and studying the next batch of forms. “Also his coastal and offshore certificates of yachtmaster training, both the shore-based and sea-based courses, his international pleasure-boat operator certificate, and his application for a certificate of identity and origin.”

One by one Kehoe neatly arranged the papers to keep everything in order.

“Mr. McGuire owns the Sapphire, then?” Fitzmaurice asked.

“Indeed he does.”

“What is a certificate of identity and origin?” Sara asked.

“It’s used in conjunction with the ship’s registry,” Kehoe explained as she handed the paper to Sara, “to ensure yacht owners have free movement throughout the European Union. It may be helpful, especially if Mr. McGuire is at sea, as it contains his ship’s radio call sign and his registered sail number.”

Aside from what Kehoe had noted, the one-page form contained a trove of new information. It required Spalding, aka McGuire, to list his nationality, place and date of birth, passport number with the date and place of issue, and home address, along with specific details about his boat, right down to the builder, the model, the engine number, tonnage, the date and place of sale, and where the boat had been built.

According to the document McGuire was an Irish national born in Boston who’d been issued his passport in Dublin over a year ago. He’d bought Sapphire from a dealer in Northern Ireland soon after that.

Sara gave the form to Fitzmaurice, who scanned it eagerly. “When did McGuire take his yachtmaster courses?” she asked.

Kehoe paged back through the documents. “He finished his coastal courses eleven months ago and his offshore training this past July.”

“He lists a home address in Galway,” Sara said.

“Yes,” Kehoe replied, “but the information is outdated.”

“How do you know that?” Fitzmaurice asked.

“Mr. McGuire came by several weeks ago to let me know he would be moving to Dun Laoghaire in the next few months and until then would be living on his motor yacht.”

“Do you recall anything else he said to you?” Sara asked.

Kehoe nodded. “He was planning a voyage around Ireland after he completed his shore-based yachtmaster ocean-training scheme.”

“Where would he take such training?” Fitzmaurice asked.

“There are any number of certified training centres,” Kehoe said, looking at Fitzmaurice over her reading glasses. “Of the commercial centres the closest course offering is in Bray.”

Fitzmaurice fished out Spalding’s photograph and slid it across the desk to Kehoe. “Just to confirm, this is Mr. McGuire?”

Kehoe picked up the photograph and adjusted her glasses. “Indeed it is. Charming man. I hope his family troubles won’t be devastating to him.”

“His father died,” Sara replied, “and his presence is needed to help settle complex issues regarding the estate.”

“How sad.”

Sara nodded solemnly in agreement.

“May we have a copy of your records?” Fitzmaurice asked.

“Yes, of course,” Kehoe replied.

“Also, if you could furnish us with a list of the organizations who offer the yachtmaster training schemes, that would be lovely.”

After Kehoe left to make copies and gather the information, Fitzmaurice turned to Sara. “Apparently, our George is well on his way to establishing himself as a charming and agreeable member of the Dun Laoghaire yachting set.”

“If he has put out to sea on a cruise around Ireland,” Sara said, “what are our chances of finding him?”

“Hit or miss would be my guess. I’ll ring up the Coast Guard and ask them to start looking.” Fitzmaurice glanced at his wristwatch. “If we’re going to keep vigil while Paquette meets with the builder at the villa, we need to leave straightaway.”

On the drive to the villa Fitzmaurice kept one hand on the wheel as he called the Irish Coast Guard to get a search under way for Spalding’s yacht, and then made another call to the passport office in Dublin. He was still on the phone when he parked the car down the street from the villa.

When he finished the conversation, he turned to Sara and said, “Passport records show that Spalding, either under the name of Bruneau or McGuire, has spent seven of the last twelve months in Ireland.”

“Did you get the exact dates?” Sara asked.

Fitzmaurice rattled them off from memory as Sara wrote them down.

“Interesting,” Sara said, scanning the paperwork Kehoe had provided. “From what Kehoe gave us, soon after Spalding bought Sapphire, he started coming back to Ireland to take the coastal and offshore land-and sea-based training classes. To qualify he spent almost four months in class or at sea. To get his ocean certificate he needs to log another six-hundred-mile, nonstop trip. I bet that’s what his voyage around Ireland is all about.”

“There’s no need to be checking marinas and yacht clubs for him if he’s at sea,” Fitzmaurice said.

“We don’t know that.”

“You’re right, of course,” Fitzmaurice said.

“How far are we from Bray?”

“A few kilometers.”

“Telephone this number.” Sara read it off. “It’s for a company called Celtic Sailing. They offer the yachtmaster ocean certificate course.”

Fitzmaurice punched in the numbers, put the phone to his ear, listened, and shook his head. “Closed for the day. No matter, I’ll have an officer find the owner and arrange for us to interview him.”

He made the call, put the phone on the dashboard, and said, “It may interest you to know that Spalding paid for his passport application with a cheque from a Galway bank. Quite possibly he’s moved his assets there. I’ll query the bank in the morning. With any luck we may be able to trace his current movements through his cheque and credit-card transactions.”

Fitzmaurice stopped talking when a builder’s van rolled to a stop in front of the villa, and a stocky man with gray hair, holding a roll of blueprints, got out and waited by the side of his vehicle. He wore work boots, blue jeans, a plaid shirt, and had a bit of a potbelly. Josephine Paquette arrived shortly afterward in her hired car, accompanied by her driver. While the driver waited, Paquette talked briefly to the man at the front of the van, who quickly unrolled the blueprints on the bonnet of his vehicle and pointed to something that made Paquette nod in approval. The builder smiled, rolled up the blueprints, and followed Paquette into the house.

A half hour passed before they came out, Paquette talking and gesturing with her hands while the builder scribbled notes on a clipboard. Finally she waved a good-bye, got into the waiting car, and left.

The man walked to his van, sat in the driver’s seat with the door open, and continued to make notes.

“Here we go, then,” Fitzmaurice said as he got out of the vehicle.

Together they approached the man, who looked up from the clipboard to find Fitzmaurice’s Garda credentials under his nose.

“A few moments of your time, if you please,” Fitzmaurice said with a smile.

A brief conversation with the builder, a man named Brendan McCarrick, confirmed Sara’s theory that Spalding could not possibly have left the renovation of his villa solely in Paquette’s hands. Twice over the course of the previous week Spalding and Paquette, posing as an unmarried couple, had met McCarrick and an architect to discuss in detail the interior changes and improvements they wanted, which had to be made in accordance with the Protected Structures Act.

Once it had become clear to Spalding that McCarrick wouldn’t be able to start work on the refurbishments until the local planning council had approved the architect’s plans, Spalding had left Paquette in charge of seeing to the final details.

That afternoon McCarrick and Paquette had done a last walk-through to finalize all the construction specifications, before he sought permission from the planning council to proceed.

Without being specific Fitzmaurice advised McCarrick not to count on the project going forward. As they drove away from the disheartened builder, Sara asked Fitzmaurice about the Protected Structures Act.

“It’s a fairly new law,” Fitzmaurice replied as he pulled into the visitors’ car park at the Dun Laoghaire Marina, “that requires planning permission to make any substantial change to either the exterior or interior of buildings deemed to be worthy of architectural conservation. My semidetached suburban home, which I hope you may soon see, hardly qualifies. It is both a mercy and a pity. We can do what we like with it, but protected status does rather boost the value,” he ended with a chuckle.

They followed a pathway that skirted the marina, looking for Johnny Scanlan, the night-crew worker, and came upon him at the fuel dock, where he was topping off the tank of a sleek-looking powerboat. When he’d finished and the skipper had pulled away, Fitzmaurice approached and flashed his police credentials.

“Doherty said you’d be coming to see me,” Scanlan said, with a thick brogue that reminded Sara of the villagers she’d met on her honeymoon in Connemara.

“Have you seen this woman?” Fitzmaurice asked, holding up a photograph of Paquette.

“I have,” Scanlan replied as he put the fuel hose in the cradle. “She came looking for the Sapphire, Mr. McGuire’s boat, one evening no more than a week ago. Spent two or three hours on board before leaving. I saw her walking toward the rail station.”

“Did Mr. McGuire sleep on board his yacht during his stay?” Sara asked.

Scanlan locked the fuel hose to the pump. “Yes. I’d see him most evenings, or notice his lights on late into the night.”

“Did anyone visit him besides Paquette?”

“None that I saw.”

“Did he have any crew members?” Fitzmaurice asked.

Scanlan shook his head. “With a boat like that you don’t need a crew.” “Did he say where he was sailing?”

“No, but the way he provisioned his boat before he left, I’d say he was planning a long cruise.” Scanlan eyed the fuel-pump gauge and recorded the amount of petrol he’d delivered to the speedboat. “Is that it, then? I’ve got work to do.”

“Thank you,” Sara said.

On the way to the car Fitzmaurice’s phone rang, and after a brief exchange with the caller he told Sara the owner of Celtic Sailing would meet them at his pierside business establishment in fifteen minutes. The phone rang immediately again and Fitzmaurice broke into a smile when he took the call.

“Just a minute, luv,” he said, winking at Sara, “let me ask her. My wife wants to know if you’re still beguiling me.”

Sara smiled. “Tell her I am doing no such thing.”

“The good colonel refuses to take any responsibility for her flirtatious ways,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. He paused to listen and then turned to Sara. “Would you be up to having a late meal with us?”

“That would be lovely,” Sara replied.

Fitzmaurice glanced at his wristwatch. “Give us two hours, luv,” he said to his wife before disconnecting.

At the Bray pier Desmond Phelan, the owner of Celtic Sailing, waited for them under the shop’s Boats for Hire sign. In his thirties, Phelan was a small-boned man with light-brown hair, a wide forehead, and an aquiline nose. Inside the shop two young boys, no more than four and six years old, sat on stools at a customer-service counter, drawing pictures on scraps of paper.

Phelan told the boys to stay put and led Fitzmaurice and Sara to a small back room that served as both office and a storage room. He nodded at the photograph Fitzmaurice placed before him on his cluttered desktop.

“George McGuire,” Phelan said. “A genial fellow, quite the eager student. I couldn’t imagine why a Garda would come to my house at suppertime to ask me to talk to you. I surely didn’t think it had anything to do with Mr. McGuire.”

“We need to locate Mr. McGuire,” Sara said, “to inform him of a family emergency. Do you know where he might be?”

“On the water this fine evening in a smooth sea. You should be able to reach him by marine radio.”

“When did you last see him?”

“He sailed this morning.”

“Going where?” Sara asked.

“He didn’t say. He came down from Dun Laoghaire five days ago and retained me to tutor him on celestial navigation techniques so he could prepare for his yachtmaster ocean certification, which requires making a passage without the use of electronic aids. He did the shore-based class-work in the mornings and then we went out later in the day for his practice exercises.”

“Was he planning to do his qualifying trip for his certification right away?” Sara asked.

Phelan perched on the corner of the desk. “He said nothing to me about it.”

“How did he pay for your services?” Sara asked.

“By credit card.”

“Could we see the charge slip?”

“Of course.”

Sara stood on the Bray pier looking out at the horseshoe bay while Fitzmaurice made phone calls on his mobile to learn if the writ had been approved to access Paquette’s Internet account, and to arrange for a detective to speak to the solicitor who’d prepared the conveyancing documents for the sale of the villa. A paved promenade ran along the shoreline just behind a rock barrier where waves lapped at a slender ribbon of beach. A hilly spit of land rose up at one end of the bay, and the quiet sea, as pale gray as the evening sky, seemed to absorb the fading light.

At Sara’s back pitched-roof buildings crowded Bray’s waterfront high street. The shoreline curved toward the spit of land where a new residential development stood and the houses, all with matching red tile roofs in an Italianate style, climbed up the hillside to take in views of the bay.

Phelan had said it was a fine evening with a smooth sea, and indeed it was so. Sara wondered where Spalding might be out on the water. Was he anchored in some nearby cove or at an offshore island? Or cruising slowly southward in St. George Channel? She was less than a day behind Spalding now, but catching him remained no easy matter. They could probably reach him by ship to shore radio, but doing so could easily raise his suspicions.

Fitzmaurice motioned to her, and she walked back along the pier to the car where he waited. He told her the solicitor would be interviewed first thing in the morning and the order to inspect Paquette’s Internet account and e-mail records had been served.

“Do we have her picked up?” he asked.

“I’d rather wait until we know Spalding’s exact location,” Sara replied.

“I’ve put in a query to his credit-card company,” Fitzgerald said. “We’ll have him the next time he uses it.”

On their return to Dublin, Fitzmaurice avoided the motorway and drove through the coastal towns of Shankill, Killiney, and Dalkey until they reached Dun Laoghaire. Sara fell silent, gazing out the car window at the glimpses of the sea and the plots of pastureland that dotted the inland side of the coastal hills. Along a winding, narrow road bordered by hedgerows they passed by granite cliffs covered in yellow shrubs, huge estates on promontories overlooking the water, and a seaside park along an inlet with rock outcroppings and tall trees that were dark green against the backdrop of gray sky and water.

In the towns they passed by weathered cut-stone churches with towering spires, an old castle with high turrets and parapets, and rows of Victorian and Georgian houses behind stone walls on finely tended lawns.

Although Fitzmaurice had said nothing about taking her on an impromptu Cook’s tour, Sara appreciated his thoughtfulness and said so as they drove through Rathfarnham, a suburb of the city nestled against the foot of the Dublin Mountains several miles south of St. Stephen’s Green.

So this is his semidetached, she thought, as Fitzmaurice pulled to a stop in front of a two-story modern town house in an established subdivision. It had brick facing on the ground floor, a plastered exterior wall above with several windows that looked out on the street, and a pitched, shingled roof with shallow eaves. A common lawn in front of the building had separate walkways leading to the two ground-floor entrances.

Fitzmaurice pointed to his side of the semidetached before killing the engine. “Here we are, then,” he said. “Clan Fitzmaurice’s castle, wherein the lady of the house awaits along with my infant son, should he be home from university.”

Sara climbed out of the car. “It’s sweet,” she said.

Fitzmaurice shut the door and locked the car. “And within a very short distance of a real castle, where my grandfather worked as a groundskeeper when the Jesuits owned it. Sometime back they found secret tunnels at the castle, one of which runs to the golf course where I spend many pleasant afternoons slicing balls into the rough. We have megalithic tombs on the mountaintops and are home to the abbey where Mother Teresa of Calcutta first entered the religious life.”

“History is all around you,” Sara said as they walked toward the house.

“That it is,” Fitzmaurice said with a laugh. “We also are home to the first McDonald’s drive-through in Europe, for which, of course, we are eternally grateful.”

“Is that true?” Sara asked.

Fitzmaurice nodded and grinned. “We’re planning to raise a statue to Ronald McDonald on the town green to commemorate the historical event.”

Edna Fitzmaurice met them at the door. Green eyed, with laugh lines at the corners of a broad mouth, she was a tall full-figured woman dressed casually in jeans and a short-sleeve pullover top.

“So you are the woman who’s kept my husband from hearth and home,” she said, after greeting Sara warmly. “Come inside and tell me how he’s been misbehaving.”

In the living room Edna sat with Sara on a couch facing a fireplace, while Fitzmaurice opened a bottle of wine at the sideboard in the adjacent dining room. The small living room, comfortable and inviting, had scaled-down furnishings that created a feeling of spaciousness, and built-in shelves filled with books. From the kitchen came the aroma of roasting lamb with a hint of garlic. Footsteps on the stairway from the second floor announced the arrival of Sean Fitzmaurice, who rushed into the room and smiled at Sara with a toothy grin.

“Finally we get to meet,” he said, shaking her hand. “At the award ceremony I was warned to stay away. Garda business and all that. Are you really an American army officer?”

Sara smiled back at the boy. “I am.” No more than nineteen or twenty, Sean had his father’s wide shoulders, large hands, and blunt fingers, and his mother’s eyes and mouth.

“Leave her alone, Sean,” Fitzmaurice called out as he carried in the wineglasses. “The colonel is a married woman. Wife and mother, to be exact.”

After a glass of wine Sara helped Edna put the finishing touches on dinner, while Sean and Hugh set the table. Father, mother, and son were convivial company. Edna had bought the lamb-done to perfection-from a butcher who raised and slaughtered his own sheep on a farm in County Roscommon. A bowl of fruit topped off the meal, and it was then that Sean asked her if she’d read the works for which Brendan Coughlan had been honored at the National University.

“I have not,” Sara replied. “But he’s now on my personal short list of writers to read.”

Sean nodded with great seriousness. “He has a lyrical flair and a wonderful way of describing characters and settings. Did you ever hear of Finley Peter Dunne, a late-nineteenth-century Irish-American journalist?”

Sara’s eyes widened in surprise. For an American Studies class at West Point she’d written a research paper on Dunne, a Chicago columnist who had created a comic Irish saloonkeeper named Mr. Dooley, a character with strong anti-imperialist tendencies who tenaciously criticized the Spanish-American War.

“Did you know he was great friends with Teddy Roosevelt, in spite of his opposition to the Spanish-American War?” Sara asked.

Sean beamed with pleasure. “I did. What was Mr. Dooley’s given name?”

Sara laughed. “I don’t remember.”

“Martin,” Sean replied. “And the customer who most often had to endure Dooley’s social commentary was named Hennessy.”

“That’s right,” Sara said. “Did you know that before he moved to New York City, Dunne wrote articles on women’s issues for the Ladies’ Home Journal magazine?”

Sean nodded. “He was one of the most popular muckraking reformers of his day.”

“How did you come to discover him?” Sara asked.

“I’m reading Irish-American Literature at Trinity,” Sean replied. “Do you know Thomas Flanagan’s works?”

“I’m afraid not,” Sara said with a shake of her head.

“You’re missing one of America’s great writers. He wrote a trilogy set here that reads like the work of a native son. Would you like me to write the titles down for you?”

“Yes, please.”

“Enough about books,” Fitzmaurice said as he pushed his empty fruit bowl away, “otherwise we’ll be sitting at this table long into the wee hours of the night.”

After the table had been cleared, Sean retreated to his room to study, and Sara helped Edna scrape and stack the dishes in the galley kitchen. As they stood at the sink, Edna turned to her and said, “I do hope you don’t think I invited you over to see if my husband was planning to take you away on a dirty little weekend.”

“I think he’ll be glad to see the last of me,” Sara replied with a smile.

“You’re welcome in this house anytime you decide to return.”

Impulsively, Sara hugged Edna as though she were an old and dear friend.

Fitzmaurice arrived to find the two women chatting like magpies, which continued over coffee in the living room. When he was finally able to suggest that it was time to take Sara back to her hotel, she reluctantly agreed.

She left Edna on the front stoop with thanks for a scrumptious meal and a promise to visit again, then climbed into Fitzmaurice’s car and waved good-bye.

Fitzmaurice started the engine, beeped the horn, and drove away. “The text messages Spalding sent to Paquette’s computer don’t help us one bit,” he said. “They were all about small changes he wanted the builder to make to the architect’s blueprints.”

“That’s it?”

“Afraid so.” He glanced at Sara. “I think we need to agree upon a plan of action in the morning. I can’t keep the number of people assigned to the case working any longer than that. Orders from the higher-ups.”

“Okay,” Sara said. “We’ll figure something out in the morning.”

At the hotel she thanked him for the wonderful evening, complimented him on his delightful family, and took the lift to her room, wishing Kerney and Patrick had been with her to meet Clan Fitzmaurice.

It was eleven p.m. in Dublin, and four in the afternoon in Santa Fe, but Sara was too drained to call Kerney or even check her e-mail for messages. She got ready for bed, her thoughts firmly fixed on Spalding and what to do about catching him come morning.