No Stone Unturned: A Lexi Carmichael Mystery, Book Eleven

by Julie Moffett

  “You said I was like a son to you. If that were true, you would tell me.”

  “You are a son to me,” Father Armando protested. “And I’ve been as honest as I can and still protect you. You have to believe me.”

  “I don’t know what I believe anymore.” Slash held up a hand, stopping the father before he could say something else. “Please, don’t explain further or try to find me. I need time to think about this.” He headed for the door.

  “Wait, Nicolo,” Father Armando pleaded. “Please don’t go like this. I beg you.”

  Slash paused, then, without looking back, opened the apartment door and walked out into the night.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Lexi

  I was jet-lagged, had a stomachache and my teeth felt as though something fuzzy was growing on them as the taxi pulled up in front of an enormous stone church. I turned my phone around for the taxi driver to see and pointed to the address.

  “Cathedral of San Lorenzo?”

  “Si.” The taxi driver pointed vigorously at the church.

  I peered out the open window in the blinding sun at the Romanesque structure. The façade was made of black-and-white stripes of marble with three arched entrances, the one in the middle larger than the others. Each entrance had towering double doors. Two stone lions guarded the church front on the opposing banisters of the stone staircase. My research had indicated the Cathedral of San Lorenzo was the seat of Father Emilio Armando, Archbishop of Genoa, and exactly the person I’d come to see. Whether he’d agree to see me was the tricky part, because I wasn’t sure he knew who I was. But that wouldn’t stop me now. I’d flown over four thousand miles to see him, and I hated flying. I was on a mission.

  “Okay.” I swiped my credit card in the taxi’s machine, and virtually signed on the dotted line, adding a decent tip. “Grazie.”

  The taxi driver dipped his head at me. “Prego.”

  I grabbed my backpack and laptop bag and climbed out. Tourists streamed in and out of the church. I fought my way through the crowd, trying to get to the entrance, but as I reached the main doors, someone in a suit blocked me and said something in Italian.

  I shook my head. I’d been learning some Italian, but he spoke quickly, and I was too tired to understand it. “Ah, sorry. I didn’t catch that.”

  The man switched to English. “You may not enter the church with the backpack or luggage.”

  Terrorism. Duh.

  “Oh, I get it. Okay.” Unfortunately, now I had to figure out what to do with my stuff or I’d never get into the church.

  I headed back down the stairs toward a priest who stood on the steps talking to someone. I waited until they finished and then I approached the priest.

  “Excuse me. Do you speak English?”

  “Yes,” the priest replied with a smile. “How can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for Archbishop Emilio Armando. Do you know where I can find him?”

  “I’m sorry. You must make an appointment to see the archbishop. He is a very busy man.”

  “I’m sure he is, but could you let him know that Lexi Carmichael is here, on the steps of the church, all the way from America? If you could mention I’m a friend of a person named Slash. He’s a family friend of the archbishop.” I sincerely hoped Slash had mentioned my name at least once when he talked to Father Armando or things were going to get tough really fast.

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that,” the priest said.

  “Please, I know this is an unusual request. You don’t have a clue who I am. But could you ask him this once, please? If he says no, I’ll leave right away. I promise you, it’s very important. I think he’ll see me.”

  I’m not sure if my disheveled appearance, the note of desperation in my voice or whether divine intervention stepped in, but the priest told me to wait and disappeared into the church. I waited on the steps, trying to stay in the cool shadows as much as possible. I was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, but I was sweating like crazy from the sun and humidity. The security guy kept an eagle eye on me, too, which made me uncomfortable, but at least he didn’t take me down. I guess as long as I didn’t try to approach the door again with my backpack, we were cool.

  While waiting, I took the time to study the church. I wondered what the banners stretched across the front of the church said. There were photos of a good-looking man and woman on the banners, complete with crosses and text. Religious figures of some kind, I presumed. There were lots of tourists taking photos of them, and I heard a few of them speaking English, so I asked a guy with a big camera around his neck what the deal was with the banners.

  “The pope will be reviewing the sainthood of the two individuals this weekend,” he said, snapping a couple more photos of the façade. “People are showing their support for the candidates. There’s a big parade here in town tonight, and parades all week long throughout Italy.”

  “Really? You mean people can support candidates for sainthood? Like voting?”

  The guy laughed, clearly thinking I was an idiot. Maybe I was. My knowledge of sainthood procedures was exactly zero.

  “No, not voting,” he said. “The Vatican is not a democracy. The pope has the final say on who is and isn’t a saint. But the people can show their support and admiration for those under consideration, to help the pope decide.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Well, that’s fascinating.” I guess I’d have to read up on the sainthood thing.

  The guy moved on and still I waited. After what seemed like forever, but was probably only thirty minutes or so, the priest returned. “Please, Ms. Carmichael, can you come with me?”

  I breathed a sigh of relief as the priest said something to the security guy. After a cursory glance in my backpack and laptop case, he let me pass. I took off my sunglasses as soon as we entered the dimly lit church. Thankfully, the air was significantly cooler inside.

  “Wow, it’s beautiful,” I said in a hushed voice, stopping for a minute to admire the dark wooden pews and gorgeous stained-glass windows.

  “The side altars, nave, dome and apse were built in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries,” the priest explained. “The cathedral itself was finished in the seventeenth century.”

  “It’s stunning.” I tried to take in everything at once. “The ceiling fresco is exquisite.”

  The priest smiled. “Did you know San Lorenzo also preserves the ashes of St. John the Baptist, which arrived here at the end of the First Crusade? He is the patron saint of our city.”

  “I didn’t know that. So much fascinating history here.”

  “I hope you will enjoy your stay.”

  He led me down the left side of the church. He unlocked a door and ushered me into an annex. We walked farther down a corridor lined with more breathtaking paintings before stopping in front of a door. After a knock, I heard a voice from inside say something in Italian. The priest opened the door and ushered me in.

  A tall man rose from behind an ornate desk. He was dressed in a black cassock with a cross around his neck and had thick, dark hair. Suddenly I realized I had no idea of the protocol for greeting an archbishop, not to mention a cardinal. I probably should have changed clothes or something, but that hadn’t occurred to me until this exact moment. Panicked, I curtseyed—probably the most awkward curtsey in the universe—then bowed, and finally knelt in the middle of the room, still wearing my backpack and laptop bag. Hopefully, I’d covered all the bases.

  “Archbishop, esteemed Father, thank you for seeing me.” I stayed on my knees.

  He strode toward me, his eyes twinkling with amusement. Apparently the kneeling had been a step too far. “Please, call me Emilio. So, you are Lexi.” He took my hand in his and lifted me to my feet. “It is an honor to finally meet you.”

  “Thank you for seeing me. I guess that means Slash mentioned me.”

  “Of course.
You’re the girl who won his heart.”

  A tiny bubble of happiness surfaced inside me. It meant a lot to me that Slash had told Father Armando about our relationship. I figured the priest would be grateful to hear the same words. “Slash talks about you, too, Father. You’re very important to him.”

  For some reason, instead of happiness, my comment caused a sad expression to cross his face. Before I could wonder why, he gently took my bags from me, setting them on an empty chair.

  “Come, Miss Carmichael, let us take a walk in the garden.”

  I thought it an odd request, especially since it was beyond hot outside and he was in a heavy cassock, but I was so grateful he’d agreed to see me, I’d go wherever he wanted. Taking only my purse, I followed him down the hallway toward a wooden door at a side entrance to the church. As we stepped outside, I blinked in the harsh light and slipped my sunglasses back on.

  We wandered deeper into the garden before the priest spoke again. “I apologize for the abrupt change of location. I wanted to be able to speak confidentially with you, and my office is not the place to do it.”

  I looked at him in surprise. “You can’t speak confidentially in your own office?”

  “Unfortunately, I cannot.” He didn’t offer any more explanation and I wasn’t brave enough to pry further. “Would you like to sit or walk?”

  “Walk.” I rolled my neck and shoulders, trying to get the kinks out. “I’ve been sitting for hours on an airplane.”

  “Then walk we shall.”

  The garden was fragrant, and several trees offered us shade from the relentless rays of the sun. The garden path was made of stone and wound through perfectly symmetrical box hedges, past benches, stone birdbaths, and flowers like roses and hydrangeas.

  We were both silent as we strolled. I was trying to figure out how to ask him what I wanted to know, and he seemed to be waiting on me to speak. Thankfully, he didn’t rush me. It was hard for me, not only because I’m an extreme introvert who sucks at small talk, but because I’d never spoken with an archbishop before.

  “The garden is lovely,” I finally said.

  “It is well loved by both those who work here and those who come here for a moment of peace,” he answered.

  “I imagine you come here often.”

  “I do.” He stopped and turned to face me. “Forgive me. I completely forgot to congratulate you on your engagement. It is the most wonderful news.”

  “Oh, thank you.” He looked down at my hand, and I held it up so he could see the ring.

  The father examined the ring with interest. “A blue diamond. A rare stone. Did you know the blue diamond is believed to foster rebirth?”

  “I hadn’t heard that before.”

  “It’s a bit of cultural trivia. The setting is beautiful. Antique, certainly.”

  “It was Slash’s grandmother’s. The proposal came as a surprise to me.”

  He smiled. “I’ve never known Nicolo to be rash about anything in his entire life. Although it may seem sudden to you, I’m sure the decision was considered quite carefully on his end.”

  “You called him Nicolo. His friend from the Vatican, Tito, calls him Nico. His adopted mother calls him Romeo, and everyone in the States calls him Slash. Why do you call him Nicolo, if I may ask?”

  “I named him Nicolo after he was left at my church. Nicolo was my father’s name, so it was to honor him. We were together for three days before child services came to take him away. That’s a long time to call a baby nothing but bambino. I do not know why his friend calls him that, but I suspect it’s because he used the name Nicolo at the Vatican.”

  “He did?”

  “He did.” Father Armando’s face stretched into a smile. “He asked to be called Nicolo when he entered the seminary because the name Romeo, combined with his exceptional good looks by the time he was an older teenager, resulted in quite a bit of teasing.”

  It made sense, but it was yet another thing I hadn’t known about Slash. How long would I be peeling away the layers of the man I was going to marry?

  We strolled for a bit more before the father spoke again. “So, Miss Carmichael, what brings you to Genoa?”

  I guess he’d gotten tired of waiting for me to get to the point. I figured I’d better take the opening. Archbishops were likely very busy people.

  “I’m worried about Slash,” I blurted out. So much for my plan to ease into my questions.

  “I’m worried about him, too,” the father said. “Right now he is deeply confused, conflicted and hurt.”

  “Why? What’s happening?” It pained me to have to ask someone else, since I was supposed to be the person closest to him. My cheeks burned, but either Father Armando didn’t notice or was too nice to point it out.

  “There are people who are trying to hurt me through him. Unfortunately, in the process, I’ve hurt him, too. I’ve made mistakes I can’t undo.”

  “Oh.” I fell quiet a moment. “I suppose you can’t tell me any more than that.”

  “I’m sorry. I cannot.”

  I fiddled with my sunglasses, summoning the courage I needed. “Father, maybe you can help me with something else. I have a couple of important questions. I understand the confidentiality thing, so you can always decline to answer. But will you at least entertain my questions?”

  “Of course.”

  We stopped beneath the shade of a tree, facing each other. Sweat trickled down the back of my neck from the humidity. “I want to go back to when you found Slash. He told me he was abandoned at your church when he was a few days old. Is that correct?”

  “It is.”

  “Is it common in Italy to leave babies at churches?”

  “It’s not commonplace, but it’s not rare either. In rural areas it happens more often than you might think.”

  “Where was the church located?”

  “San Mauro Cilento, a small hamlet with less than a thousand residents.”

  “You never saw who left the baby?”

  The priest fell silent. I waited, but he didn’t answer. In a way, that was an answer in itself. I had to think about that later, but for now I continued. “How long was it before child services showed up?”

  “We had terrible weather that night. It was the worst storms and flooding Italy had seen in decades. Until the representatives from Salerno were able to reach us, I took care of him. We spent almost every moment together. He was a good baby. Angelic. I could always soothe him with music, especially music from a particular pianist—a favorite of mine.”

  “Hai Tsang.”

  “Yes. He told you.” The father smiled, his face softening. “I’m glad.”

  “He did. We saw Tsang perform in New York City several months ago. He was amazing. Slash still listens to his music, and now, so do I.”

  “I used to play Tsang’s music for him on the organ. He was remarkably soothed by the melodies.” He cleared his throat. “I will tell you a heartfelt truth. I fell in love with that baby. It was an instant bonding orchestrated by God. I have no other explanation for it. I can’t tell you how much it broke my heart to give him up.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Child services took him to Salerno, and he was taken in by a foster family. To this day, that remains my greatest regret.”

  “Is fostering the normal route, as opposed to an orphanage or something?”

  “It’s quite normal. Some people believe giving the baby to the church is their only way to save them. They don’t always understand, or have the luxury of caring, that the church has to turn the children over to the state.”

  “What happened after the foster family took charge of Slash?”

  “They vanished for seven years.”

  “Vanished? How could that happen?”

  “Somehow, the information on the forms had been falsified, and
it went undiscovered until after they disappeared. By the time it was discovered, they were long gone with Nicolo.”

  “Did you ever meet this foster family?”

  He shook his head, regret heavy in his voice. “I did not.”

  “Wasn’t there a background check?”

  “Several, but the falsification was done well, and Nicolo fell through the cracks. I searched for him every day for seven years and begged God over and over to let me find him alive—to try and make amends. I eventually found him in a Sperlonga hospital. Thankfully, he’d been fingerprinted as part of the foster process, so when he arrived at the hospital, not able to speak, they ran his prints. I went to him immediately, but Nicolo had been traumatized, rendered mute. The experts weren’t sure what was wrong with him, other than that he’d been beaten. At first, they thought he was on the autism spectrum, but that was eventually ruled out. He’d been traumatized and he’d adopted similar techniques to calm himself. After that first year, the doctors and psychologists realized his silence was self-imposed.”

  Just hearing this story again, in more detail, hurt more than I could say. I couldn’t imagine him as a small boy, so alone and afraid, with no one to turn to for help. I wondered if he felt that way right now, and it made me even more determined to find him and let him know he didn’t have to face any of this alone.

  “Nicolo was terrified of strangers, so I stayed back. But there was a nurse there, tending him. He responded to her.”

  “Juliette,” I supplied. The only mother Slash had ever known, and the woman who had opened her heart and home to a scared little boy.

  “Si. She fell in love with him, much as I had. She quickly requested permission to adopt him, which was unusual, as she was a single mother herself. But people are drawn to him. He’s a blessed child.”

  I was sure Slash wouldn’t have considered himself blessed, given all he’d been through. I pushed my sunglasses to the top of my head so I could look at Father Armando with an unfiltered view. “So, Juliette adopted him, and he grew up in Sperlonga with his new family.”