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I headed south to lower Manhattan, past Little Italy. The FBI office was in Federal Plaza, on the corner of Broadway and Worth Street. The towering glass-and-metal building was a typical federal structure without much flair or imagination. Subtle two-foot-high decorative metal barriers surrounded it to thwart any potential suicide bomber in a vehicle.
Three NYPD Suburbans carrying armed SWAT team members sat outside the building as an off-duty security detail. They were there twenty-four hours a day.
I needed to keep my visit as quiet as possible, so I had made a phone call first. I never did a favor for someone and expected it to be repaid. But in this case, I had to at least ask.
Three years ago, when Marion Wan’s estranged husband kidnapped their five-year-old son, she did what any smart FBI analyst would do and went to the NYPD immediately. I happened to be speaking with one of my old friends in the 105th Precinct, near Floral Park, in Queens, when Marion came in, nearly hysterical.
I was able to short-circuit some of the paperwork and figure out that her estranged husband, who worked for the New York City fire department, listed an emergency address on Long Island. It was the girlfriend he had left Marion for.
An hour after Marion had come into the NYPD, I was honored to see a tearful reunion between Marion and her son.
That’s why she came out the front door of the office building and walked with me to the McDonald’s across the street. After we had coffee and caught up for a few minutes, Marion read my anxious glances at her notes.
She gave me a sly smile and said, “Okay, I guess you want to talk about your best friend, Alonzo Garcia.”
I said, “You may think you’re being sarcastic, but right about now he is my
best friend. The son of a gun saved my life. But he did it with skill and experience. I’m just worried about where he might have gotten that skill.”
Marion pulled open her notes and said, “I did all the usual stuff. Public records. Searched media databases in Colombia and New York. No arrests, and he’s here on a work visa through the Catholic Church.”
“Huh. Never even occurred to me that he’d have to have an immigration status. I guess I assumed the Catholic Church could fix anything.”
Marion said, “I had to go an extra couple of steps. I called our legat office in Bogotá. The FBI has more than a dozen agents there. One of their senior people knows Garcia personally.”
“You have my complete attention.”
“The agent in Bogotá knew Alonzo because he was a captain in the Colombian national police. Early in his career, he fought the FARC rebels—some people call them the People’s Army. Then he focused his attention on narcotics. He worked closely with our DEA and has a ton of commendations.”
“How does a guy like that end up in the Catholic Church?”
“He was engaged. They were the power couple of the Bogotá social scene. Then she dumped him. She dumped him for a bigwig in the Medellín cartel.
“The agent in Bogotá said it shattered Alonzo. He sort of disappeared, then a year later turned up as a priest. Apparently the Catholic Church was worried about someone taking revenge on him, so they transferred him out of the country.”
“So he really was trained in self-defense and tactics.”
Marion looked at me and said, “He is a certified badass.”
I chuckled. “And he saved my ass.”
“From what I hear, it’s not the first time he’s saved someone’s ass.”
“Thanks. I owe you big-time.”
Marion reached across and held my hand as she shook her head. “No. We’ll never be even. I owe you my whole life. And this didn’t even violate policy.”
I felt my face flush as she leaned across the table and kissed me on the cheek.
Chapter 43
I stopped by the administrative office at Holy Name. For the first time ever, I wasn’t there to talk to my grandfather. I wasn’t even there to check on my kids. I was there to speak with Alonzo Garcia, former captain in the Colombian national police, recipient of countless commendations for bravery and hard work.
I led Alonzo out into the courtyard between the church and the school, knowing we would get some privacy there. He wore his clerical collar with a whistle dangling from his neck.
Once we sat on the hard cement bench, I said, “I did some checking and know your history and what you did before the priesthood.”
Alonzo said, “I wasn’t trying to hide anything. I’m just trying to move on with my life. I’m glad I was in a position to help when it mattered.”
