Ambush (Michael Bennett 11)

He looked to be a few years older than I was and in excellent shape. I detected a slight accent and looked past him to find my grandfather. I said, “I’m Michael Bennett, Seamus’s grandson.”

A smile spread across the priest’s face as he said, “The detective with an army of children.”

“That’s me.”

“I’m Alonzo Garcia. I’m the new priest here.”

“You’re the priest Seamus is mentoring?”

“The very same.”

I blurted out, “But you’re…” I managed not to say the word old aloud.

A smile spread across his face as he said, “Much more handsome than you expected?”

We both laughed.

Father Alonzo said, “I’m new to the priesthood. The church thought a man like your grandfather, who had a similar experience, might be of some use.”

“You owned a bar, too?”

He chuckled. “Hardly.”

I was hoping for some elaboration, but I let it go. For now.

I followed the priest back into the spacious offices, which had boxes stuffed in every corner. He picked up a cup of hot tea he had been brewing and set it on the desk in front of Seamus.

My grandfather said, “I see you two have met.” He coughed, then blew his nose.

Father Alonzo put a plate with a sliced orange on it in front of my grandfather before he could say anything. I liked that.

We’d all been worried about Seamus’s health in the past few months. He had lost weight since his heart attack, and he tended not to look after the details of his life, such as needing to drink enough fluids and eat enough fruit.

We all chatted for a few minutes, and Father Alonzo invited me out to the athletic fields to look at the soccer game going on in the back. He was clearly proud of teaching some of the students at Holy Name new ways to approach the most popular team sport in the world.

As soon as we were outside, he turned to me and said, “Your grandfather can be quite a stubborn man.”

I let out a snort. “No”—then I remembered who I was talking to—“kidding.”

Father Alonzo said, “He stays up too late, doesn’t get any rest during the day, and doesn’t eat nearly as much as he needs to.”

Now we were talking as we circled the soccer field. My grandfather had come out separately from us and was on the sideline.

It was a spirited and competitive game. I was impressed. I had seen a lack of enthusiasm about soccer for years here at the school.

Two boys, about ten, got into a shoving match after a ball had rolled out-of-bounds. I was impressed with Alonzo’s casual intervention as he sent one boy running to the goal and the other to the opposite side of the field.

Then my grandfather shouted after them in Spanish. I had never heard him speak any Spanish before, despite the fact that almost a third of the students were Hispanic.

Seamus looked at me and smiled. “I showed Alonzo some of the important aspects of leading a flock, and he’s been teaching me Spanish. It seems to be working out well for both of us.”

I had to agree.

Chapter 22

Two days later, at exactly nine in the morning, I entered the office building that housed Manhattan North Homicide. It was on Broadway near 133rd Street, across the street from an elevated number 1 train. There was nothing to indicate that the building, owned by Columbia University, housed specialized units of the New York City Police Department, including Homicide and Intel.

We sometimes joked that Intelligence was where the really smart cops went—smart enough to go there so they wouldn’t get in fights or be shot at.