Nothing but Trouble (22 page)

“When will you be able to secure the writ?”

“By day’s end, I would hope.” Fitzmaurice leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and smiled broadly. “But there’s also another avenue we can pursue that may surely get your blood racing. If you’re right about Spalding wanting to settle here permanently, free to come and go as he pleases, he might well have either started or completed the process to claim Irish citizenship by virtue of descent. To accomplish it the documents would need to be in perfect order, but it would be well within the realm of possibility for him to do it.”

Sara leaned forward. “I’m all ears. Explain to me how it would work.”

“Anyone born outside Ireland can qualify for citizenship by submitting proof that at least one grandparent was born in Ireland. It requires making an application and including all the necessary birth, marriage, and death certificates to support the claim. Once everything has been confirmed, the applicant is entered into the Irish Register of Foreign Births and is eligible to apply for an Irish passport.”

“How can we find out about this?” Sara asked.

“Foreign-birth citizenship applications must be made through an Irish embassy or consulate in the country where the person resides,” Fitzmaurice said. “Inquiries have already been made to our French and English embassies, asking if a George McGuire has applied, and we’re querying all the others through the Department of Foreign Affairs. But remember, Spalding may not have started the process. He could be still at the point of trying to find someone willing to sell, for an agreeable sum of money, a dead grandparent’s name he could use, or paying an intermediary to do it for him.”

Sara smiled at an elderly couple who nodded a greeting as they trailed the hostess to an empty table. “Now that we know about Spalding’s earlier visit, shouldn’t we do a search of birth-certificate requests made during the time he was here?”

Fitzmaurice finished his tea. “Yes, of course, but it may be a while before we learn anything. Requests for birth certificates can be made either through the Registrar General’s Office here in the city, or directly to one of the county offices.”

Sara motioned for the waitress to bring the check. “How many counties are there in Ireland?”

“Twenty-six in the Republic and six in Northern Ireland. But the records of Irish ancestors born in the north before 1922 are kept by the Registrar General’s Office, which is nearby. We’ll make a quick stop on our way to Dun Laoghaire and ask them to get cracking on it.”

Sara signed the charge slip and stood. “Although a hint of a brogue is in your voice, sometimes you sound more British than Irish.”

“Do I, now?” Fitzmaurice said with a chuckle as he walked Sara through the lobby. “I suppose it’s because I come from one of those Anglo-Irish families that embraced Catholicism and drew Oliver Cromwell’s ire. In his zeal to transform Ireland into a Protestant colony of the British Empire, he either reduced us to poverty or drove us into exile. It’s taken us a few hundred years to work our way back into polite society.”

Sara laughed. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re excellent company to keep, Hugh Fitzmaurice.”

“As are you, Colonel Sara Brannon, although it pains me to know so little of your real reason for being here.”

“I’ll try not to cause you any trouble,” Sara said as she slid into Fitzmaurice’s unmarked Garda car.

The short drive from Dublin to Dun Laoghaire reminded Sara of the sprawl of large American cities where suburban towns and once rural villages, now surrounded by commercial and residential development, had been absorbed and become virtually indistinguishable from one another.

Granted, there were differences between Dublin and the States: The architectural styles of the spreading residential subdivisions paid homage to a Georgian, Palladian, Victorian, and Irish cottage heritage, and in many cases the houses were smaller and squeezed onto tiny lots. There were lovely old buildings scattered about in parkland meadows cut by cobblestone drives, and the new commercial buildings had a distinctly European minimalist flair. The Irish Sea, the coastal hills, and the remaining open space soothed the eye, but there was construction everywhere. Roads, subdivisions, shopping centers, and business parks were eating away at the edges of the intact village centers and gobbling up the land.

When Sara mentioned this to Fitzmaurice, he railed against the development, pointing out that the old family-run bakeries, fish-and-chips takeaways, butcher shops, grocery stores, and ice cream parlors were nigh on gone, swept aside by fast-food franchises, gimmicky tourist enterprises, and big-box shopping malls with huge car parks that catered to the relentless consumption of a nation gone mad with consumerism.

“The whole bloody Republic is being turned into an Irish theme park,” he added with a huff.

Sara smiled sympathetically but said nothing. Fitzmaurice sounded just like Kerney complaining about the changes in Santa Fe and northern New Mexico. If the two men ever had a chance to meet, she thought they would hit it off immediately.

They arrived in Dun Laoghaire, which, according to Fitzmaurice, had been a sleepy village in the early nineteenth century until the railroad arrived and a harbor had been dredged to accommodate mail ships that crossed the Irish Sea to Holyhead in Wales. Now it was not only a popular day-trip destination for tourists staying in Dublin, but also home to the largest ferry crossing to and from the UK, a retreat for the wealthy who maintained vacation homes in the area, and a bedroom community for people who worked either in the city or in the resort towns that ran along the southeast coast.

The area promoted itself as Dublin’s Riviera, compared itself to Naples, Italy, and had no industry other than tourism, which was offered up, as Fitzmaurice put it, to all those gullible people who came looking for the charm of Old Eire while turning a blind eye to the neighborhoods where the poor resided and street gangs roamed.

From the road the villa Paquette had bought looked like nothing more than a cottage painted a soft pastel blue. But from the end of the line of houses that followed the curve of the bay, Sara could see that it extended four stories down a cliff face to a rocky beach and a slipway where pleasure boats rocked gently against a pier. Terraced gardens of palm trees and brilliant flowers flowed down the cliff almost to the shore.

The view across Killiney Bay was stunning, with low hills and a distant mountain sheared off at the top standing on a headland under a gun-metal cloud bank.

“It’s glorious,” Sara said.

“Certainly a place where one could settle in and live comfortably,” Fitzmaurice replied.

Sara laughed at Fitzmaurice’s sarcasm. “Let’s make sure Spalding doesn’t get that chance.”

The storefront office of the auctioneer and estate agent who’d handled the sale of the villa was closed. A note attached to the door said that the agent, a man named Liam Quinn, was off showing property and would be back in the afternoon.

Fitzmaurice tried Quinn’s mobile telephone number, got no response, and left a brief voice message asking him to ring back when he returned to the office.

“While we’re waiting for Quinn to call, let’s ask around for Mr. Spalding at some of the hotels, guesthouses, and inns,” he said.

Working from a tourist guide of area accommodations, they stopped at the few downtown hotels before widening their search to self-catering apartments, short-term rental units, and bed-and-breakfast establishments. Just as they were about to give up canvassing and head off for a quick lunch, the estate agent rang Fitzmaurice on his mobile and said he was on his way back to his office.

“Let’s hope he has something to offer,” Fitzmaurice said as he clipped the phone to his belt. “Otherwise we’ll need at least two more days and many more officers to query every innkeeper and hotelier in the area.”

“Have you met or spoken to Quinn before?” Sara asked.

Fitzmaurice shook his head. “No, I sent one of my detectives around to see him.”

“So he doesn’t know you’re a peeler.”

Fitzmaurice’s eyes lit up. “Are you thinking we should present ourselves as prospective clients?”

Sara nodded. “Let’s string him along and see where it leads.”

“You’re a gifted schemer, Lieutenant Colonel Brannon.”

Sara laughed. “With a willing accomplice, Detective Inspector Fitzmaurice.”

Fitzmaurice found a car park within easy walking distance of Quinn’s storefront office and they passed along a street of two- and three-story stone buildings with brightly painted trim work that housed retail shops featuring Irish crystal, linens and woolens, posters and prints, Celtic jewelry and trinkets, and souvenir T-shirts and hats, all geared to the tourist trade.

Although the architecture and landscape were different, the area reminded Sara of the shops on the Santa Fe Plaza, where the store clerks assumed all their customers were from out of town. Kerney and Fitzmaurice, strangers living two continents apart, were right to complain about theme-park mentality and crass consumerism. It was everywhere and it sucked.

Liam Quinn greeted them with a smile and a hearty handshake when they entered his office. In his mid-thirties, he had a ruddy complexion, red hair cut short and brushed forward, and a narrow nose that ended abruptly above thin lips. He wore a white shirt and striped tie, a light wool tweed sport coat, and dress slacks. The office was nicely furnished with an antique desk and an old-fashioned wooden chair on casters, a credenza with a desktop computer, printer, and fax machine on top, several comfortable easy chairs, and a round conference table with four matching straight-backed chairs. One wall featured flyers with photographs and descriptions of available properties. Hung on the opposite wall were several framed posters of area attractions.

They sat at the conference table, and Fitzmaurice, who had introduced Sara as his wife, took the lead.

“We’ve fallen in love with those Italian-style villas on Coast Road,” he said. “Surely someone might be tempted to sell.”

Quinn shook his head. “They rarely become available. I had a gentleman stop by earlier in the summer asking for the same inquiry to be made on his behalf, and it all came to naught.”

“Yet a resident we spoke to said one had sold recently.”

“Yes, to a client of mine,” Quinn replied, looking quite pleased with himself.

“To the gentleman you mentioned?” Fitzmaurice queried.

“No, to a woman. She’s hired a builder to refurbish it completely, once the planning council approves the architect’s plans. It’s a protected property, and nothing can be done until then. But I have other properties equally as charming you might wish to consider.”

“But nothing on Coast Road?” Fitzmaurice asked.

“Sadly, no,” Quinn said, with a shake of his head.

“That’s too bad,” Fitzmaurice said. “I suppose it’s all a question of timing, isn’t it?”

Quinn nodded in agreement. “The villa came on the market unexpectedly and I had a ready buyer.”

“A woman, you say?”

“Yes.”

“Tell us about the gentleman who inquired about the villa earlier in the summer.”

Quinn cocked his head and gave Fitzmaurice a sharp look. “What is this about?”

Fitzmaurice took out his Garda credentials, laid them on the table, and passed a photograph of George Spalding to Quinn. “Is this the gentleman in question?”

Quinn shifted his gaze from the photograph to Fitzmaurice and then to Sara.

“Please answer the question,” Sara said.

“Yes.”

“What name did he use?” Sara prodded.

“George McGuire.”

Fitzmaurice plucked the photograph from Quinn’s hand. “We know he purchased the property in Josephine Paquette’s name, yet you said his inquiries came to naught.”

Quinn’s ruddy complexion deepened. “There is nothing improper about purchasing property to benefit another person.”

Fitzmaurice smiled as he slipped his Garda credentials into his pocket. “It’s just as you say, indeed. You’ve a keen sense of right and wrong, Liam. A very fine quality in an estate agent. But why did you lie to us?”

“I merely maintained a confidence. Mr. McGuire wished to preserve his anonymity by having the deed registered in Ms. Paquette’s name. He wishes to move to Dun Laoghaire without drawing attention to himself. That is not so uncommon as you might think. Some of the wealthy have an obsession with privacy.”

“Why didn’t you tell the police about McGuire?” Sara asked.

Quinn tugged at the collar of his shirt. “It didn’t seem to be of any consequence.”

Fitzmaurice glanced at the framed photograph on Quinn’s desk of a woman holding a chubby-cheeked infant. “Is that your family, Liam?”

Quinn nodded.

“It must be difficult to make your way as an auctioneer and estate agent and a family man running a business all on your own in such a competitive market. As I understand it, independents such as yourself constantly risk being either driven out of business or absorbed into the big national estate companies.”

“It’s been a very good spring and summer for sales,” Quinn replied stiffly.

Fitzmaurice leaned forward across the table. “Made even more profitable for you by a sum of money in your pocket not reported to the taxman?”

Quinn stood up. “I resent that.”

“Sit down, Mr. Quinn.” Fitzmaurice waited a beat for Quinn to comply. “What if I were to tell you that McGuire is an international fugitive who used ill-gotten gains to buy the villa?”

“I know nothing about that.”

“Of course not,” Fitzmaurice said, staring hard at Quinn. “The thought never entered your mind that McGuire might be attempting to hide criminal assets.”

“It is not my responsibility to determine the source of a client’s wealth,” Quinn replied sharply.

“I’m sure we can clear this up easily to everyone’s satisfaction,” Sara intervened with a smile. “Tell us about your dealings with Mr. McGuire.”