Nothing but Trouble_ A Kevin Kerney Novel - Michael Mcgarrity [88]
When LaPorte stopped talking, Paquette smiled, closed her notebook, stood, and smoothed her skirt, a Jean Muir creation, silky brown with a slightly flared hem at the knee, which she’d bought on a one-day shopping trip to London. “I’ve taken far too much of your time.”
LaPorte nodded absentmindedly, stared at the empty walls, and sighed. “So much to do.”
After assuring LaPorte that she and the freelance photographer she had hired would see him at his opening, Paquette stepped outside into the warmth of the day. Her waiting car was parked on the narrow cobblestone street, in front of a yellow building where a vendor stood behind a ground-floor window selling coffee to a man with several bundles under his arm.
As she stepped toward the car, a young, pleasant-looking man in a business suit approached her and displayed police credentials.
“Ms. Joséphine 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 façade. 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 Joséphine?”
“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