news of the day after dinner, when the children were asleep.
Lynette Burke, Riley’s pregnant widow, had agreed to take over the cutting horse enterprise with the understanding that the animals owned jointly by the partnership would be moved to Jack and Irene Burke’s spread. None of the Burkes was ready to spend a lot of time at the ranch where Riley had been gunned down.
Kerney leased some pastureland to a local organic beef producer, who wanted to finish a few head each month on native grass before taking the animals down the road to a small slaughterhouse in Moriarty, a short distance away. He offered State Police Sergeant Russell Thorpe free rent to stay in the guest quarters in return for looking after his remaining horses and keeping an eye on the place. Thorpe jumped at the chance.
Back in London, Kerney was not only glad to be reunited with Sara and Patrick, he also felt surprisingly more at ease in the city than he had before. A growing familiarity had something to do with it, but he also found himself enjoying all the amenities that one of the world’s most important cities had to offer.
After recovering from jet lag and spending a weekend running errands and grocery shopping with Sara and Patrick, Kerney pulled Patrick out of preschool for a week to make up for all the time they’d missed together while he’d chased down Craig Larson. During a glorious run of sunny, mild weather that had Londoners out in droves, the two of them rode horses in Hyde Park, took hikes along the River Thames, visited the children’s zoo at Battersea Park, watched an impromptu softball game played by expat Americans living in London, went boating in Regent’s Park, and explored neighborhoods adjacent to where they lived.
At the end of one afternoon jaunt, they met up with Sara and shopped for the required school uniforms Patrick needed when he entered private school in late August. Running a little late, Sara came rushing into the clothing store to join them, dressed in a black pantsuit and looking strikingly beautiful. Passersby on the street and shopgirls in the store would have never guessed her to be a highly decorated, combat-wounded career military officer.
Patrick didn’t like the summer uniform of rust-colored corduroy shorts and beige short-sleeved shirts, arguing that he should be allowed to wear blue jeans and cowboy boots like he did back at the ranch. Ganged up on by both parents, he quickly lost the squabble.
Because he was growing so fast, they decided to wait until fall to buy his winter school uniforms. Kerney paid the bill, still a bit shocked by what things cost in England compared to the States.
Packages in hand, they took a bus to within a short walk of the embassy for a prearranged tour and visit to Sara’s office. Kerney and Patrick had only seen the building from the outside, during one of their safaris around the city. It was a starkly functional structure except for a huge gilded eagle perched on the parapet and a statue of General Eisenhower anchoring a corner plot outside the building.
According to the embassy staff, in the aftermath of 9/11, the building had been surrounded by portable wire fencing with concrete-and-marble bollards to keep car bombers away. Armed police foot patrols had roamed the grounds and a temporary guard shack served to process visitors.
It had all rather offended the locals, who resented an armed fortification set in the middle of tranquil Mayfair, and they lampooned it as a failure of American aesthetics. Now the embassy was no less well protected, but the portable chain link barrier was gone, replaced by an attractive iron fence, the closed-off road in front of the building had been nicely landscaped, and new entry pavilions had been created to process the steady stream of visitors and visa seekers.
Sara took them through the pavilion reserved for American citizens, where Kerney and Patrick presented their passports and military dependent identification cards to a security clerk who checked their names against a list of authorized visitors. They walked through a formal reception area with a soaring ceiling and walls of bronze plaques to a bank of elevators and went up to a suite of offices housed behind a locked door.
Holding Patrick’s hand, Sara gave them a tour and introduced them to the one-star navy rear admiral who was her boss, and a few of her army, marine, and air force colleagues. Her own large, handsome office overlooked the lush lawn and majestic trees in Grosvenor Square.
Patrick immediately climbed into the chair behind the big desk and started asking his mother questions about the maps and pictures on the walls, the books and papers on the desk, all the people he’d just met, and what they did.
Sara sat with Kerney on the couch and patiently answered Patrick’s questions as he swiveled in the leather desk chair. When he stopped swiveling, he admired the framed desk photograph taken at the ranch, of himself on his pony, and asked his mother where the glass jar filled with seashells had come from.
“Your father and I gathered those seashells on beaches in western Ireland when we were first married,” she replied, remembering a honeymoon that now seemed so distant, given all that had happened over a few short years.
Patrick eyes widened. “I’d like to go to the beach and see the ocean again.”
“How about next weekend?” Sara proposed as she squeezed Kerney’s hand.
Patrick waited for Kerney’s response.
“The beach and ocean it will be,” Kerney replied.
Patrick beamed and resumed swiveling.
Kerney turned to Sara. “I got a call from Andy Baca today.”
“Really? What did Andy have to say?”
Sara’s telephone rang and she took the call before Kerney could reply. A concerned look quickly crossed her face as she reached for pen and paper and scribbled notes.
After thanking the caller, she hung up, gave Kerney a glum look, and said, “I’m going to have to cut our visit short.”
“Problems?”
“You could say that.” Sara scooted behind the desk and plucked Patrick out of the chair. “In the words of the Royal Army major who just called, one of my chaps has gone missing.”
Kerney raised an eyebrow as Sara passed Patrick to him. “That’s not good news.”
“No, it’s not,” Sara said in agreement. She gave Patrick a kiss on the tip of his nose. “I’ll walk you out. What did Andy want?”
Kerney set Patrick down on the floor. “Nothing that can’t wait,” he said.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Michael McGarrity is the author of the Anthony Award- nominated
Also by Michael McGarrity
