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.”