Nothing but Trouble_ A Kevin Kerney Novel - Michael Mcgarrity [71]
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 café 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