No Stone Unturned: A Lexi Carmichael Mystery, Book Eleven

by Julie Moffett

  “We do not.”

  “Why not?”

  “They did not stay in his office, but went outside to the garden.”

  “That’s unfortunate.”

  “Also unfortunate is we’ve lost our surveillance capability at Cardinal Armando’s home. It’s no longer working.”

  He didn’t like what that implied. “That can’t be a coincidence. He must know.”

  “I don’t think so, Your Eminence. I believe it to be a malfunction. He’s neither removed nor reported the one in his office. I have someone working on replacing the one in his home now.”

  Jacopo thought for a moment. He didn’t like the fact that they had gaps in surveillance. “When did we lose contact at Father Armando’s apartment?”

  “Shortly after Slash arrived to speak with him. So, we heard nothing of their conversation.”

  Jacopo gritted his teeth. Was he the only intelligent one in a sea of idiots? It couldn’t have been sheer coincidence that the bug stopped working just as Slash arrived. Yet, Father Armando had not reported it, nor had he found or removed the one in his office. Why? Was there a purpose, a strategy for that? Disinformation? A lure? He had strategies in place if the bugs were found, so he wasn’t worried about that, but if Slash had found them, why hadn’t he done anything about it? He’d have to think that through, but for now, he had other pressing matters with which to deal.

  “Where’s the fiancée now?” he asked.

  Father Koenhein straightened his two guests’ chairs. “I presume still in Genoa. We weren’t expecting her, so she got away before we could put a tail on her. We’re not sure where she is at this point, but we’ll find her.”

  “Good. When will the DNA results be in?”

  “Soon. Forty-eight hours, possibly earlier, is the window we were given. We requested the highest level of expediency, of course.”

  “The sooner the better.”

  “Understood. But, sir, what if Slash doesn’t cooperate?” Father Koenhein’s voice was tenuous, worried. “What will we do?”

  Jacopo gave his clerk a reassuring smile. He was a powerful man, and he knew when he held all the cards. “He’ll cooperate. For the first time in his life, he has something important to lose. He’ll do it, and even if he doesn’t, we’ll have what we need to crush him if he gets in our way. I will not risk the future of this church to a man like him.”

  “Yes, of course, you’re right, Your Eminence.”

  Jacopo smiled. “By the grace of God, I always am.”

  Lexi

  I woke a few hours later feeling significantly better. Slash slept beside me, his arm draped over my hip. I shifted slightly, wanting to look at him but not wanting to wake him. The curtain was blowing from the open balcony door, and the gentle breeze felt good. Dusk was falling. There was still enough light to see his face, the long column of his throat, the dark smudges under his eyes, and raspy cheeks. His chest rose and fell with each breath. The fact that he slept so deeply likely meant he hadn’t been sleeping well. I understood that.

  Still, even in exhaustion, he was a beautiful sight. Father Armando was right, Slash was extraordinarily handsome. Midnight-black hair and a face nearly perfect in its symmetry—a generous mouth, aquiline nose and square jaw. I ran my fingertips down a well-muscled biceps to his long, strong fingers. Classic and strong features from the ancient Roman tradition. I wondered if his shoulders ever wearied of the burdens he carried.

  I watched Slash sleep for a few more minutes, then slipped out from beneath his arm and headed to the bathroom. I grabbed my backpack as I went, making sure I had a toothbrush, shampoo and a clean change of clothes.

  When I came out of the bathroom, Slash was awake, dressed and sitting on the side of the bed. He was putting on his shoes and smiled when he saw me. It lit up his whole face.

  “Better?” he asked.

  “Significantly.” I dropped my backpack on the bed. “But I’m starving.”

  “Luckily, I’ve got dinner all planned.”

  “I hope it involved lots and lots of incredible Italian food.”

  “It does. It also involves that surprise I was telling you about earlier.”

  I looked down at my stretchy blue cotton sundress and flat sandals. “Is this good enough in terms of the dress code? I didn’t pack anything fancier.”

  “It’s perfect. Let me shave and we’ll go.”

  Surprisingly, we didn’t go far. He led me up the hotel stairs to a rooftop terrace restaurant. There were about twenty-five small tables. Small torch lights ringed the roof. Candles flickered on tables covered with crisp white tablecloths. It was still warm, but with the sun having set and a nice breeze stirring the air, it was almost pleasant.

  Slash had reserved a table for two in one corner and we followed the maître d’ to our seats.

  “This is really nice,” I said as we were seated. “You can see all of Genoa from up here.” Lights twinkled below us while cars made noises on the streets as they passed.

  “I knew you’d like it. You can’t see all of Genoa, but most of it. There’s the bell tower of the Cathedral of San Lorenzo, where I presume you met with Father Armando. You can see the people gathering there for the candlelight vigil in honor of the saints-to-be.”

  “An English tourist told me about the sainthood thing. I take it that’s a big deal in Italy.”

  “It is, indeed.”

  The waiter arrived at our table and asked us if we wanted anything to drink. Slash asked me if I preferred meat or fish for dinner so he could base the wine selection from that.

  “I’m going to let you choose,” I said. “Wine and food.”

  “Okay.” He dipped his head, studied the menu, then spoke to the waiter in Italian. The waiter asked him a few questions and then left.

  “What are we having?” I asked.

  “Creamed baccalà, which is a salt cod made with potato and parsley. I selected a local Ligurian wine to go with it. Genoa sits at the center of Liguria’s largest wine-producing territory, the Liguria Riviera di Ponente. Excellent wines are made here. My favorite is a white wine made from albarola grapes, which will go well with our dinner. Do you approve?”

  “It sounds delicious. I can’t wait to try it.”

  He reached across the table and took my hand, linking our fingers and holding tight. “I can’t tell you how much it means to me that you’re here.”

  “I should have come with you from the start.”

  “That you’re here with me now is enough.” He lifted my hand to his lips, turned it over and pressed a kiss on the inside of my wrist. “Thank you.”

  The waiter returned, carrying a bottle of wine. He poured us each about a third of a glass, waiting for us to try it. I took a sip and let it roll around on my tongue. It was light and refreshing without a heavy taste or sweetness.

  “It’s wonderful,” I told him. “Not overpowering, complementary. I like it.”

  Slash nodded to the waiter, who set the bottle on the table and departed. I decided to keep the conversation on a neutral topic for a few more minutes as we settled.

  “So, how does the sainthood process work?” I asked. “Someone performs a miracle and boom, they’re a saint?”

  Slash leaned back in his chair, sipping his wine. “It’s not nearly as simple as that. It’s actually a long and complicated process.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “Well, first you have to be dead for at least five years before you can be recommended for sainthood.”

  “That’s totally unfair,” I protested. “You’d die not knowing you’ve been nominated.”

  He seemed amused by my comment. “Saints live a life of extraordinary grace and kindness, not expecting a reward.”

  “Still.” I set my wineglass on the table.

  He chuckled. “You have to be considered a true serv
ant of God, and the person must be nominated for sainthood by a bishop, cardinal or the pope himself. After that comes the beatification, followed by the canonization or blessing.”

  “That’s a lot of requirements.”

  “Oh, that’s the easy part. The final steps are the hardest. Saints must perform at least two miracles in front of credible witnesses. A lengthy investigation by church officials is conducted to prove the validity of the miracle before it can be considered valid and true.”

  “Two miracles? Well, then I guess it’s a miracle—pun intended—anyone ever gets approved for sainthood.”

  Slash chuckled. “The pope, of course, may decide to waive one or any of these requirements as he sees fit. There have been a handful of cases where he’s done just that.”

  Before I could respond, the waiter brought us two small glasses filled with an unknown liquid and a plate of thick, crusty bread served with several types of cheese.

  “What’s this liquid?” I asked, examining the glass.

  “Prosecco.” He took a sip. “It’s excellent. The cheese and bread are the antipasto.”

  I’d forgotten the Italians ate several courses before and after the main dish. “God, I love this country.” I broke off a piece of bread and took a chunk of cheese, pairing them together. I took a bite, closed my eyes, and may have hummed or purred aloud. Hard to say, as I could hardly hear myself over all the chewing.

  When I opened my eyes, Slash was watching me with a smile. I finished chewing and wagged a finger at him. “Italians are the masters of food magic.”

  “So you’re saying we are sorcerers?”

  “Food sorcerers?” I corrected him. I liked the way the hard lines of his face had finally softened and relaxed. Had I helped him in that way? If I had, I wanted to keep him engaged. “Tell me more about these saints. Who are the people up for sainthood? The banner on the front of the Cathedral of San Lorenzo had a photo of a man and a woman.”

  “Si, Sister Ana-Paula Núnez from Uruguay and Cristian Descantes from right here in Italy.”

  “What miracles did they perform?”

  “Sister Ana-Paula of Uruguay had two healing miracles back in the 1970s using a relic, which in this case was a bone fragment, from another saint, Padre Pio. Pio had also performed several healings before he was designated a saint. The sister is believed to have cured a little boy from a rural town in Uruguay of brain cancer. The child had undergone three surgeries to remove an aggressive tumor. One of those surgeries had badly damaged part of his brain, rendering him unable to speak or walk. But his parents refused to give up. They contacted Sister Ana-Paula, who traveled out to the countryside to pray for the healing intercession of Saint Pio and rubbed the relic against the boy’s skin. Within one week, the tumor suddenly vanished. Even more astonishing, the damaged part of his brain was also healed. Nine days after the intercession of Sister Ana-Paula, the child woke up, walked around and has been in perfect health ever since. An investigation by the Vatican, including several medical doctors and neurologists, confirmed the healing was rapid, complete and lasting, but most importantly, utterly inexplicable in light of current medical science.”

  “That’s incredible,” I said. “Surely there had to be some explanation.”

  “There was none. They examined the X-rays, the medical documentation, and there was no logical explanation for the recession or the healing.”

  “Wow.” That was all I could think of to say. “What was her second miracle?”

  “Using that same relic, she cured a child of blindness. Completely. The child can now see perfectly...even though she had no transplant and has no cornea in either eye.”

  “Get out! That’s not possible.”

  “Exactly. Thus the miracle.”

  Slash pulled off a chunk of the bread and paired it with a piece of yellow cheese. “Sister Ana-Paula passed away in 1987. There were reportedly other miracles, although they were not investigated since the required two were already verified.”

  I nibbled on a delicious fig, wondering about the scientific viability of the miracles. “Did the other guy up for sainthood do healing miracles, too?”

  Slash shook his head. “No. Cristian Descantes is a saint of another sort. Popularly known as the Savior of Salerno, he singlehandedly saved nineteen children and their driver when their school bus plunged into the Mediterranean Sea.”

  “Whoa. Not to denigrate that amazing feat, but it seems more heroic than miraculous.”

  “Except that the bus driver and the children reported that Cristian lifted, bent and snapped pieces of the wreckage with his bare hands to free them.” Slash sipped his wine and speared a piece of melon. “This was later confirmed when the bus was retrieved.”

  “Isn’t it more plausible to presume the structural integrity of the bus was weakened by the crash to permit him to break things?” I suggested.

  “The wreckage was intensely scrutinized. There were several breaks that could not be explained away by the accident trajectory. However, of a more miraculous nature, the bus driver and three of the children were underwater for more than fifteen minutes. There was no air trapped in the bus, as the bus split upon impact, yet all the passengers survived, with not a single one of them suffering any lasting damage from the accident.”

  “Okay, now that’s impossible.”

  “Except the timing was confirmed by the rescue crew, who arrived exactly twelve minutes after the accident. Three minutes after that, they witnessed Cristian surfacing with the last three children from the bus wreckage. He then went down one last time and saved the bus driver, who also fully recovered after being underwater for fifteen minutes. And there you have it.” Slash pulled off a piece of the bread and ate it, watching my reaction.

  I was floored. “Wow. What was his second miracle?”

  Slash refilled our wineglasses and handed me mine. “The second one is much more tragic, and not a miracle, really. Once again, it involved children. In 1979, an anti-Semitic group calling themselves the Combattenti Della Libertà Ariana, which roughly translated means the Aryan Freedom Fighters, occupied a Jewish day school in a small town near Milan.”

  “Oh, no. What happened?”

  “Cristian had become profoundly affected by his experience saving the children and the bus driver. Like the others, he believed he’d been chosen by God to perform a miracle and perhaps spread the word. As a result, he joined the priesthood. He was widely beloved in Italy. He offered himself in exchange for the children. This group hated the Catholics almost as much as they hated Jews. Since Cristian was a popular and much revered figure in Italy, they agreed. They released all the children and most teachers, except for the headmaster and two rabbis who were connected to the school.”

  “I’m afraid to ask what happened next,” I said.

  “They blew up the school, killing themselves and everyone inside. Cristian saved seventy-four children and sixteen adults that day but lost his own life in the process.”

  I looked down at my wine. “Okay, that counts as a miracle in my book.”

  “I agree. Since the pope, at his discretion, can waive the requirement of a second miracle, people are hoping that’s what he’ll do in this case.”

  “I hope he does, too.”

  The waiter brought the cod and took away the now-empty plate that once held the bread and cheese, as well as our empty aperitivo glasses.

  I took a bite of the fish. I closed my eyes, savoring the taste. “I don’t know how the Italians make the most exquisite food, but I could die happy after every meal.”

  “You’d better not die anytime soon,” Slash warned.

  “Trust me. I’m not planning on it. I’m hoping for a long life so I can eat my way through Italy for years to come.”

  He grinned and we finished our dinner, sitting back in our chairs completely satiated.

  “Best dinner ever,
” I said.

  “You say that about every meal in Italy,” Slash pointed out.

  I rubbed my stomach and beamed. “True, except every meal seems to be better than the last. Except for Nonna’s. That is cooking on an entirely different level.”

  “That it is.”

  After the waiter cleared the dishes, we sipped the last bit of our wine. Slash’s face became serious as he set his glass down on the table. “So, cara, are you ready to talk?”

  I’d been dreading this moment because I wasn’t. I sucked at relationship conversation, and I was worse at confrontation. But it was time we cleared the air, and we both knew it.

  Steadying myself, I set my fork down and mustered a smile. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Slash

  He hated the space that had grown between them—the chasm he’d created—separating them in ways he never imagined. Even as he told her they had to talk, he wasn’t sure how he’d fix this with her. But he was going to try.

  “Let’s start with Father Armando.” He wasn’t ready to broach the hacking matter. He might never be ready to deal with that. Small steps first. “I never anticipated you’d meet him without an introduction from me.”

  She looked down at her plate. “I was lucky he agreed to see me. He’s a busy man.”

  “He knows all about you. I told him of our engagement, but I’d mentioned you long before that. I told him how special you are to me.”

  She seemed embarrassed by my comment, the color rising in her cheeks. “I’m not sure I made the best of impressions showing up at the church unannounced in jeans and a T-shirt, looking for you. I curtseyed, bowed and knelt to make sure I covered all bases.”

  A smile touched his lips as he pictured that. He could see her marching up the steps of the church, insisting the archbishop see her. She’d likely made a lasting impression on the archbishop, and if he knew Emilio, a good one at that.