“I wouldn’t change a word.”

“Really?”

“Cross my heart.” She just hoped he could deliver it. She knew she couldn’t.

She leaned over and gave her father a kiss good night.

“Good night, Daddy.”

“Sleep tight, Rach.”

She started for the door, then turned back. “Dad?”

“Hmmm . . .?”

“I totally understand if you think John and I should be slowing things down.”

“Not so much slow down, Rachel. It’s more like I just want you to be careful.” He turned and stared out the window. “I think we all need to be extra so right now.”

She knew in that moment he was no longer talking about John Frankel.

And it scared the hell out of her.

Chapter 24

24

During his tenure with the New York Police Department, Frankel had attended the funeral of a fallen comrade on more occasions than he cared to recall. When a cop died in the line of duty in one of the five boroughs, all of his colleagues showed up to pay their last respects.

The send-off for Sergeant Stanford Hawley of Scotland Yard was sadly no different. The turnout was simply staggering.

The snow had stopped falling, but the temperatures refused to climb above freezing on a cloudy Christmas Eve. The flakes had stuck to the ground and with a touch of morning glare poking through gray skies, the streets of London glistened just enough to leave the impression someone was watching from above.

In a procession that began at the Palace of Westminster and traveled over two miles until it reached Southwark Cathedral, the streets were lined with mourners, well-wishers, and curiosity seekers.

Frankel had no idea how many women and men composed the Metropolitan Police service (the territorial force that patrolled Greater London), but imagined it must be at least ten thousand and all seemed to be present. Many were in uniform—some accompanying the carriage carrying the sergeant’s casket, others marching in orderly fashion, and the rest standing in formation on every corner the procession passed—not to keep peace in the streets but to say goodbye to one of their own.

Rachel, walking beside Frankel, basically read his mind. “We Brits actually take it as a personal affront. These sorts of tragedies are not commonplace here.”

Frankel knew the statistics supported her claim. England’s abolishment of handguns since the mid-1990s had resulted in fewer officers meeting violent ends.

But those numbers had failed to help Sergeant Hawley.

He had been cut down by going the extra yard when he was actually off duty. Stanford Hawley’s biggest fault had been that he was just too damn good a detective.

Something Grant spoke directly to as he delivered the man’s eulogy to those fortunate to gain admittance into the Southwark sanctuary.