Patrick was still adjusting to living in London, and Kerney wasn’t all that much ahead of him. The city was a marvelous place, vibrant, chock full of things to do and see, and they hadn’t even scratched the surface. But what father and son both loved best was those afternoons after school when they hurried to the Knightsbridge station, took the tube to Lancaster Gate, walked a few short blocks to Bathurst Mews, and rented horses to ride in Hyde Park.
Tucked on a cobblestone lane in an upscale neighborhood, the mews was a hidden-away combination of stables and small houses converted from stables. Before Kerney and Patrick were allowed to ride in the park without an escort, both had had to show that they were proficient on horseback, which they demonstrated with ease for the certified riding instructor, who’d voiced serious doubts about Patrick’s ability to handle the spirited pony he’d picked out.
At the school, Kerney gave Patrick a hug, turned him loose, and watched as he skirted the group of children who had already arrived in favor of a quiet corner where storybooks were arranged on a row of low shelves. According to the school’s director, Patrick had to be urged to join in group activities and play, and Kerney was beginning to worry some about his usually very gregarious son. When he turned four in a few months, he’d attend a nearby private junior school with an excellent reputation that charged a hefty quarterly tuition. His curriculum as a beginning student in what was called the Small School Department, for children ages four to six, would include English, mathematics, reading, and handwriting, along with exposure to history, geography, French, art, music, religious studies, and sports.
It was a far cry from the early education Kerney had received at the elementary school in Truth or Consequences, New Mexico, when he was growing up on the west slope of the San Andres Mountains near the White Sands Missile Range boundary. He hoped time would help Patrick adjust to his new school and surroundings.
Kerney walked home, his thoughts returning to the murder of Riley Burke. Although it wasn’t logical, he felt partially responsible for Riley’s death. If he hadn’t asked him to look after the ranch, the young man might be alive today. Kerney knew it made no sense to feel that way, since their partnership required Riley to be at the ranch routinely to care for, exercise, and train the cutting horses. Still, guilt gnawed at him.
He needed to get back to Santa Fe as soon as possible, both to pay his respects and to give whatever support he could to Jack and Irene and Riley’s wife, Lynette. But before he could book a flight, he had to let Sara know what had happened, and he had to arrange for a nanny to care for Patrick until Sara returned from southeastern England the day after tomorrow. Fortunately, there was a housing board at the U.S. Embassy that could speedily secure the services of a nanny on short notice.
Kerney stopped in front of the house the U.S. government had leased for them. He’d been amazed to learn they were not required to pay rent or utilities for the property. Instead, Sara’s housing allowance went into a special government pool used to lease quarters for all U.S. personnel living in the UK.
The house they’d been assigned was part of a nineteenth-century mansion block that came with its own private communal gardens accessed through a locked gate. A redbrick building with tall casement windows, it had a steep pitched roof, a tall brick chimney, and a completely updated interior on three floors. On the open market, the house would easily rent for much more than what an army colonel could afford under any circumstance.
In the living room—what the Brits called the lounge—Kerney called Sara’s cell phone, got her voice mail, left a message about Riley Burke’s murder, and started checking the Internet for available flights. It was the height of the tourist season and every outgoing flight to the states was fully booked until tomorrow, and even then only business-class tickets were available.
He made a reservation on the earliest flight out of Heathrow, and arranged through the embassy for a nanny to take care of Patrick until Sara returned. He was about to call Clayton when Sara called.
“What terrible news,” she said. “What else do you know about it?”
“Not much,” Kerney replied. “Clayton said Riley was shot twice in the chest at close range and that the perp was an escaped fugitive. Clayton, Grace, and the kids discovered Riley’s body at our front door.”
“Wendell and Hannah saw Riley’s body?”
“Of that I’m not sure.”
“Grace surely wouldn’t have allowed it. I’ll call her as soon as I can. When are you leaving for Santa Fe?”
“You know me too well,” he said. He gave Sara his flight information and told her he’d arranged for a nanny until her return to London. “I’m meeting with the nanny early this afternoon. If she’s not suitable, I’ll asked the embassy to refer another.”
“Have you told Patrick that Riley is dead?” Sara asked.
“I don’t have the heart to do it.”
“Best leave it to me. When will you be back?”
“I don’t know. Sometime soon after the funeral services, I would guess. In a week at the most.”
“Don’t raise my hopes with false promises,” Sara said.
“What does that mean?”
“It means that unless this homicide is solved quickly, I don’t see you walking away from hunting down Riley’s murderer. You don’t have that kind of temperament.”
“I’m not a law enforcement officer anymore.”
“I’m sure Andy Baca will gladly correct that minor technicality.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Lynette, Jack, and Irene deserve to have Riley’s killer caught—”
“Dead or alive,” Sara said.
“My sentiments exactly,” Kerney said.
“When the funeral services are set, let me know right away. If I can wrangle emergency leave, Patrick and I will fly over. We should all be there to pay our respects.”
“I’d like that. So would the Burke family.”
“It’s all about family, Kerney. Give my boy big kisses and hugs for me.”
“I’ll do it.”
Before calling Clayton, Kerney spoke first to his old friend Andy Baca at the New Mexico State Police.
“Have you caught the dirtbag?” he asked when Andy came on the line.
Andy snorted in disgust. “Not yet. He seems to have gone to ground.”
“Can you break away from the office, drive to Albuquerque, and pick me up when I arrive?”
“Of course I can, I’m the chief. Give me the particulars.”
Kerney read off his flight number and arrival time and Andy said, “I’ll see you then.”
Kerney’s call to Clayton went unanswered, so he left a message on his voice mail, went upstairs to the master bedroom, and started packing for his flight the next day.
Although Riley Burke’s murder was more than enough motivation to return to Santa Fe, Kerney knew his eagerness to leave also came from the feeling of being a total outsider in London and among the families of the military officers and enlisted personnel assigned to the embassy. It was a small, tight-knit group, and none of them, including the civilian support staff, knew what to make of the only male spouse in the crowd, not to mention one who was an ex-police chief to boot.
He was beginning to doubt his ability to be a retired, stay-at-home parent in London over the next thirty-four months and counting, and he felt shitty about his deteriorating attitude. Sara and Patrick deserved better.
After preschool in the afternoon, Kerney had promised Patrick a boat ride on the Regent’s Canal and then a visit to the London Zoo. Until then he would surf the Internet to see what he could learn about the investigation into Riley Burke’s murder. By now, there had to be news reports about it. He sat at the desk in a small upstairs bedroom that he’d outfitted as a home office and powered up the laptop.