“Fuckin’ garbage truck. Asshole decided to take up half the street to grab a cup of coffee.” He glanced in the rearview mirror, meeting Grant’s eyes. “Bet you Brits wouldn’t stand for this kinda shit.”

“Absolutely not,” replied Grant, putting on his best faux upper-crust Bond Street accent. “We’d guillotine the tosser in the middle of Trafalgar Square.”

“Seriously?”

“We’d sell tickets too. All in the good name of the Queen’s Trust.”

“You’re shitting me now, right?”

Grant smiled. “A smidge.”

“You know, if you don’t like the way we do things here, you should just go back to where you fucking came from.”

Welcome to New York City, thought Grant.

When making rushed arrangements that morning, Grant had searched for places to stay near Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. It seemed like Divine Providence when a certain hotel popped up, so he chose it as a home away from home.

“Welcome to the London,” greeted the doorman as he swung open his charge. Grant was taken aback—not just by the friendly smile (after enduring over an hour of expletives and Brit bashing) but the dark suit the man wore. He had expected to find employees of a hotel with such a moniker wearing something more Anglo-Saxon—if not a Beefeater’s uniform, at least a traditional morning suit.

Thus began the Americanization of Austin Grant. The lobby with massive jutting abstract pieces someone called “art” was as far removed from the tea-serving sanctuaries he and Allison had taken Rachel to every Sunday in her youth as Grant’s cabbie was from applying for a British passport.

Grant approached the reception desk, where he was handed a registration slip along with a hot towel dipped in a “mixture of regenerative herbs.” Grant dabbed a cheek gently, then gave the towel back to the female receptionist who could double for a flawless mannequin in one of Harrods display windows.

“You’ll be staying with us for a week?”

“I’m not quite sure,” Grant replied. “I might be leaving tomorrow or I might have to extend. Can we leave it open-ended?”

She worked the keyboard with perfectly violet-manicured fingers. “I’m afraid that might be difficult, sir. It’s actually our busiest season with Christmas rapidly approaching. And the New Year immediately after.”

“So, what happens if I need to stay longer?”

“I’m afraid you’ll need to make other arrangements. We can help you find another accommodation, but I wouldn’t wait long. The city gets crowded this time of year. Perhaps your business will wrap up before your departure date.”

For all Grant knew, the killer was upstairs in his room waiting for him, wrapped up in a pretty bow, ready to confess. Along with Father Christmas. Grant sighed inwardly, signed his name, and took the key.

“We’ll have to see. Thank you.”