Nothing but Trouble_ A Kevin Kerney Novel - Michael Mcgarrity [70]
When the award was presented to Coughlan, the audience gave him a standing ovation, which included thunderous clapping by Fitzmaurice. As people filed out of the hall, Sara lost sight of Paquette.
“Don’t worry,” Fitzmaurice said, “I’ve a man on her. She’s off to a private reception for Coughlan, along with all the other glitterati who were here tonight.”
“He’s a brand-new writer to me,” Sara said.
“You’ve not read him?”
Sara shook her head.
“Well, you should,” Fitzmaurice said. “I mean no offense, but you Yanks spend far too much time beating your own literary drums, and not enough time listening to other voices.”
“None taken,” Sara replied. “He’s on my to-be-read list effective immediately. I think you would have come here on your own tonight if I hadn’t asked to have a look at Paquette.”
Fitzmaurice grinned. “You’ve caught me fair and square. I’m a big fan of Coughlan’s work.”
On the ride back to her hotel Sara’s enthusiasm for Dublin waned a bit. The late-night traffic was awful, and some of the neighborhoods they passed through looked no more inviting than the typical urban sprawl found in any major city.
Fitzmaurice parked at the curb in front of the hotel, and through the open car window Sara watched a group of talkative young people hurry down the quay toward a pub where a laughing, cigarette-smoking crowd stood on the sidewalk in front of the entrance.
“I bet you’re bored stiff with this assignment,” she said.
Fitzmaurice shifted in his seat and looked at her. “It’s been less than exciting, although I have enjoyed knocking around a bit with high society.”
“Can you arrange to get me into Paquette’s hotel room?”
“With or without the blessings of the court?” Fitzmaurice asked.
“Without, preferably.”
“It’s been on my mind to ask you,” Fitzmaurice replied slowly, “why all the bloody secrecy about a Yank soldier who made a fortune smuggling and then went missing from Vietnam so many years ago?”
“Spalding’s not the only target of the investigation,” Sara answered.
“And would that target be some lofty member of your government?”
“You have a suspicious nature, Mr. Fitzmaurice.”
“ ’Tis because of you that I’ve taken to speculating. What would possibly bring a Yank colonel to our shores with a diplomatic passport to hunt down a lowly soldier? Am I now part of some clandestine military operation?”
Sara smiled. “You’re making far too much of it. I would rather move cautiously until we have more of a fix on Spalding.”
“Yes, you more or less said that before. But quite possibly, talking to Paquette could bring him into our sights.”
Sara shook her head. “She could easily deny doing anything more than having bought a seaside villa with Spalding’s money. Once we pull her in for questioning, we will have played our hand.”
“An offer of immunity might loosen her tongue.”
“Let’s wait,” Sara said. “Can you get me into her hotel room?”
“Most likely I can,” Fitzmaurice answered as he started the engine. “I’ll let you know in the morning.”
Sara opened the car door. “You’re a prince, Detective Fitzmaurice.” “Not quite,” Fitzmaurice said with a chuckle. “On my mother’s side of the family we were never more than landless, impoverished earls.”
On her second day in Dublin, Sara rose to a cheerless early morning, which didn’t depress her in the least. Through her hotel-room window a low sky pressed down upon the city, and the still-dark buildings across the Liffey were soft shapes in the mist that had rolled in from the bay. Along the quay only a few people were out. Several university students toted book bags on their way to Trinity College, an early-rising couple were consulting their tourist guides, and a middle-aged man in a pin-striped suit hurried by with briefcase in hand.
Sara showered, dressed, and went outside, where a clearing sky and Detective Fitzmaurice greeted her. He nodded, reached into a pocket, and handed her a slip of paper with a number written on it.
“That’s Paquette