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“You won’t tell me who wants me dead?”
“I think you might have already figured that out.” Then she looked at me as if we were having a conversation. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a police officer as relentless as you.”
“You gave me plenty of motivation.”
“You could’ve always taken your family and gone into hiding.”
“There was another reason why I couldn’t let you slip away.”
She looked intrigued as she said, “And what could that reason possibly be?”
“Antrole Martens.”
“Excuse me?”
“He was my partner who was killed by a hand grenade. Or do you not even pay attention when innocent people are killed?”
“I feel it. After my work is done.”
“His wife and two children feel it every day. And now continue to struggle. Maybe the rest of their lives. There’s no way I could ever run from someone like you.”
The woman shrugged and said, “Too bad. It would’ve saved a lot of heartache for everyone.”
I gave her a hard stare and said, “Will you talk to me? We might be able to do some good.”
She shook her head and said, “I’m afraid I can say nothing more until after I speak to my attorney.”
It was over. I felt a wave of emotion rock through me. I managed to say, “You’re under arrest.”
She just nodded. Then, after a moment, she said, “How did you know where I would run to?”
I saw a patrol car down the street racing toward me. I gave her a little smile. “I’m a New Yorker. I know where the tourists will head.”
Chapter 98
Two weeks after the shoot-out in Brooklyn, the entire family attended a ceremony for Father Alonzo at Holy Name. He had only been out of the hospital for a week, but the city seemed desperate to honor a brave citizen.
The local media had produced dozens of stories about the “hero priest” who’d risked his life. Even the young doctor who’d treated him at the hospital had gained some notoriety, interviewed by the Today show and Fox News.
The media coverage, as well as his storied career in the Colombian national police, attracted visitors from near and far. All the bigwigs from the NYPD, as well as the Catholic archdiocese, sat just behind us with the mayor, though he had a rocky relationship with the police department.
There were a dozen members of the Colombian national police who came to pay their respects. They seemed pleased that they could make a claim on the priest who had helped capture a killer.
Father Alonzo was not required to speak to the crowd, only to stand and accept an acrylic plaque from the police commissioner. He looked stiff and had told me he was a little sore from the bullet.
Seamus sat next to Alonzo during the short ceremony. He was beaming as if he had trained Alonzo in his fighting skills. I knew he had some remarks to make.
I noticed that he sat during the entire service, and it made me worry about his health and stamina. But when the time came, he stepped to the microphone and was the picture of solemn dignity.
He looked down and smiled at his great-grandchildren, just as he did whenever he gave the sermon during the regular Sunday service.
He cleared his throat and had every person in the room staring at him.
Seamus started slowly at first. “Alonzo Garcia makes a difference in the world. How many people can say that? He was a respected police officer in Colombia until God called him to service in the Church. No matter how you look at him—as a cop, as a priest, or as a man—he is an inspiration.
“I can tell you personally, few people have meant more to me in my life.” He looked down at Juliana, and a tear ran down his cheek.
Then I found a tear running down my cheek. Though I’d never admit it to Seamus.
