Nothing But Trouble

by Michael McGarrity

  Joséphine Paquette listened as Hayden LaPorte, the Canadian artist she had just finished interviewing, prattled on, mentioning for the third time that the Canadian ambassador to the Irish Republic would be attending the gallery opening of his one-man show on Friday night.

  Bright overhead lights glared against bare walls where paintings were stacked, waiting to be hung. One of them was a large triptych of a band of Inuit, moving camp across the frozen tundra in a snowstorm, a work that captured the harsh beauty of the Artic. The gallery was uncomfortably cold in spite of the warm September day and the bright interior lights, as though a hundred or more Dublin winters had seeped through the stone walls and created a permanent chill that would never go away. The triptych only served to heighten the effect.

  LaPorte, a stocky, bearded, nervous, distractible man in his sixties, hadn’t been easy to interview, but Paquette had managed to keep him on track by stroking his ego and directing the conversation back to his work as an artist.

  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 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, Joséphine, 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, Joséphine,” 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.”

  “Didn’t you think it strange that if his legal problems were behind him, he would want you to buy an Irish seaside villa for him in your name?”

  “He said he wanted to move on with his life and start over in Ireland without drawing any attention to himself.”

  “How did George arrange for you to meet him in Paris?”

  “He sent a letter to me at work asking for my assistance.”

  “Do you have that letter?”

  “No.”

  “Why didn’t you call the police when the letter arrived?”

  “I saw no reason to doubt him. He wrote that he was no longer in trouble with the law and could prove it to my satisfaction, if I was willing to help.”

  Sara rose, walked to Paquette, and looked down at her. “How could he have possibly known when you would be traveling to Ireland?”

  “I didn’t think to ask him that.”

  Sara stayed silent for a moment, letting the tension build. “Explain to me why George would buy the villa under your name and then hire a solicitor to prepare a conveyance to transfer the deed to him by the end of the year.”

  For the first time during the interrogation Paquette’s composure wavered. Her mouth tightened and she gave Sara a stormy look. “If he’s still a criminal, why don’t you just go arrest him and ask him these questions? I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  Sara walked behind Paquette’s chair and looked at her in the one-way mirror. “I wonder what a polygraph would tell me.”

  “Would you not stand behind me, please,” Paquette said.

  Sara stayed put. “You could avoid further difficulties by telling me now how much George promised to give you if you went along with his scheme.”

  Paquette craned her neck to look at Sara. “It’s not a scheme. I simply agreed to help out a friend.”

  “I’m confused, Joséphine. If this was all on the up and up, why would you pose as George’s lover when the two of you met with the architect and builder?”

  Paquette looked away. “I did no such thing. They must have formed a mistaken impression about our relationship.”

  Sara patted Paquette gently on the shoulder. “That could well be the case. People make faulty assumptions about others all the time.”

  “Which is exactly what you’re doing with me,” Paquette said pointedly as she looked at her wristwatch. “I really must go.”

  “Not yet.” Sara moved to the table, sat on it, and smiled down at Paquette. “I’m still a bit confused.”

  “About what?”

  “Your secret meeting with George on his yacht at the Dún Laoghaire Marina.”

  “There wasn’t anything secret about it.”

  “Then why was it the one and only time since you’ve been in Dublin that you didn’t use your car and driver?”

  Paquette nodded and paused an extra beat. “I needed some time by myself without having to listen to my driver’s incessant chatter.”

  Sara reached for the folder and thumbed through it. “Your driver, Martin Mullaney, told us that you informed him early in the day you wouldn’t be needing him that evening. It doesn’t appear that your need to take a break from a chatty driver was all that spontaneous.”

  “Believe what you like. I’m telling you the truth.”

  Sara sighed and plucked a sheet of paper from the folder. “Joséphine, everything we’ve learned points to the fact that George is paying you to be his intermediary.”

  “I’ve been helping out because he’s been spending most of his time cruising on his yacht.”

  “We know that your magazine is about to be sold,” Sara said as she scanned the paper, “and your chances of staying on as the editor are slim to none. We know that you’ve been actively job hunting for the past three months and have had no offers. We also know you are strapped for cash and carrying a lot of debt.”

  Sara returned the paper to the folder. “The point is, no matter how often you tell this story, we can show that you have colluded with a known fugitive and that money was your motive. You can be charged as an accessory.”

  “I have nothing more to say.”

  “What do you think could happen to a person who did something like this?”

  Paquette put her hands on the table and clasped them tightly together.

  “People make mistakes,” Sara continued as she returned to her chair. “I understand that. Now is your chance to set things right. I’ll listen to anything you want to say.”

  “Where would that get me?” Paquette asked.

  “It could be very advantageous to you. Once we have George in custody, we’ll learn the truth about your involvement and any chance you have to extract yourself from this situation will be gone.”

  Paquette picked some imaginary lint from her pleated silk Louis Vuitton blouse and shook her head. “I feel so stupid.”

  “Don’t, Joséphine.” Sara leaned forward and smiled sympathetically. Although Paquette probably didn’t know it, she’d just admitted guilt. “George Spalding has spent a lifetime using people. He’s a master at it. You are simply one of his victims.”

  Paquette smiled weakly in return.

  “Why don’t you tell me everything,” Sara said.

  “If I do, will I be arrested?”

  “Not if you give a full and truthful account,” Sara replied, sidestepping the fact that the half a million euros Paquette expected to receive at the end of the year had just evaporated.

  Paquette took a deep breath and started talking. When she finished, Sara had all the particulars of the scheme, but most important she now knew that Spalding would be at the villa tomorrow afternoon to have one final look at his new home before starting his qualifying cruise for his ocean yachtmaster certificate.

  She cautioned Paquette to cooperate fully with the Garda in all possible ways, made her surrender her passport, and turned her over to the detective waiting outside the door.

  Within a minute Fitzmaurice stepped into the room with a big smile spread across his face. “Well done,” he said. “You got her to lie to you right from the outset. It’s all been recorded on digital video and sent to the server. I made a diskette copy.”

  He tucked it into the chest pocket of his suit coat. “A detective will take her written statement.
We’ll keep a close watch on her from now until tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Are you smiling because you think I should have questioned her sooner rather than later?” Sara asked.

  Fitzmaurice shook his head. “Not at all. She never would have broken unless you had the facts at your disposal.”

  “Then why the big grin?” Sara asked.

  Fitzmaurice laughed. “Because I had no idea you were the product of an Irish diplomat’s marriage to a Norwegian shipping heiress, and a Garda detective authorized to grant foreign citizens immunity from prosecution.”

  Sara grinned and handed Fitzmaurice the passport. “I said nothing about a shipping heiress. You’re a terrible embellisher, Mr. Fitzmaurice. She almost had me there. Did you really want to arrest her?”

  “No, but now I’m more convinced than ever that you’re a far cry from an ordinary lieutenant colonel.”

  “You just won’t quit, will you?”

  Fitzmaurice shook his head. “Is it time for us to start uncovering and freezing Mr. Spalding’s assets?”

  “Is that possible?” Sara asked.

  “Indeed so,” Fitzmaurice replied. “His bank in Galway serves only private clients, and it is justifiably concerned that it not be a party to any illicit dealing. The rumours of that may not be good for business, and a scandal in the courts might frighten off prospective clients. I’ve asked for a writ from the court under the Proceeds of Crime Act. It should be signed shortly and then we can be on our way to Galway. We’ll travel by helicopter.”

  On the flight to Galway, Fitzmaurice gave Sara a short history of the Garda Criminal Assets Bureau. The bureau had been established in 1996, after drug dealers murdered Veronica Guerin, an investigative reporter who’d exposed the extent of drug trafficking in Dublin and the wealth of the drug lords who controlled it. The public outcry that resulted from her death had led to the creation of the bureau, which was given the authority to identify, freeze, or confiscate assets and other wealth derived directly or indirectly from criminal activity.

  During that time Fitzmaurice had been an undercover narcotics officer working the tough, drug-ridden north-side Dublin neighborhoods, and he had participated in the investigation that brought Guerin’s killers to justice.