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.”
“When will you be able to secure the writ?”
“By day’s end, I would hope.” Fitzmaurice leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and smiled broadly. “But there’s also another avenue we can pursue that may surely get your blood racing. If you’re right about Spalding wanting to settle here permanently, free to come and go as he pleases, he might well have either started or completed the process to claim Irish citizenship by virtue of descent. To accomplish it the documents would need to be in perfect order, but it would be well within the realm of possibility for him to do it.”