No Stone Unturned: A Lexi Carmichael Mystery, Book Eleven Read online

  “He wouldn’t have told you where I usually stay when I’m in Genoa if he didn’t like you.” He lifted the wine bottle to pour more wine into their glasses.

  “He calls you Nicolo.”

  “He named me that at the church when I was left there. It was also one of the names I used when I worked at the Vatican...to honor him and his father.”

  “Is that why Tito calls you Nico?”

  “It is.”

  She fell silent, while he poured the wine. When he was finished she reached for the glass, her fingers wrapping around the stem, but she made no move to drink it. “Slash, can you tell me what’s going on with you and Father Armando? He wouldn’t say much, just that you two had a falling out of sorts. What happened?”

  Slash didn’t see any sense in keeping her out of what had happened so far, as long as it didn’t move into a discussion of other things he couldn’t, wouldn’t, discuss with her. Lowering his voice, he told her about his lunch with Tito, the summons to Cardinal Lazo’s office and what Father Armando had told him about the night he was brought to the church. He omitted only the meeting with Pacini and anything connected to the issue of the Congo.

  She listened intently without interrupting. When he was finished he sat back and watched her think. It felt surprisingly good to tell her, and he waited to see what she would think of it. He’d missed this, her thoughtful perspective on things. She was analyzing and sorting every word he’d said, sifting through the information he’d dumped on her. He understood, because that’s exactly how he processed information.

  “So, it wasn’t true you were found under the organ at the church?” she finally asked. “Someone brought you in and he met them?”

  “That’s the new story.”

  “But you don’t know who brought you, and he won’t tell you.”

  He looked at the twinkling lights of the city, ignoring the tightness in his gut. “Something like that.”

  Her fingers drummed on the tabletop. “Slash, there’s something I need to ask you. It may help me make sense of things. If you can’t tell me, say so, okay?”

  He visibly tensed, unable to stop himself. He had no idea what she’d ask, and whether by denying her any answers he’d widen the gap between them. However, when she finally spoke, it wasn’t the question he’d been expecting.

  “Do you remember when you became a naturalized US citizen?”

  “What?” He frowned, rearranged his thoughts. “Naturalized?”

  “Yes. When did you become a US citizen?”

  He thought back. “It was shortly before I started work at the NSA. I filled out some forms and they came back rather quickly—in about three weeks, if I recall correctly. I was told it had been expedited.”

  “Didn’t you have to take a test and have a ceremony where you recited your pledge of loyalty to the country or something like that?”

  “No.”

  “Well, that’s interesting because I asked Gray to help me with some stuff I was looking at to help you figure out what’s going on. At my direction, she did some digging around and called in some favors to friends at the CIA. She discovered you weren’t naturalized as a US citizen.”

  He stared at her for a long moment. Grayson’s research was always meticulously sourced, but this time she was incorrect. “That’s impossible. It must be classified. I have a passport and a security clearance at the highest level. I’m the Director of IAD at the NSA. It’s incomprehensible that I wouldn’t be naturalized.”

  “I know, right?” She spread her hands, then pressed her palms against the tablecloth. “But that’s not all. Here’s the kicker. Gray found out you weren’t naturalized because you already had American citizenship.”

  “What?” Astonishment, disbelief swept through him. “That’s not possible. I was born in Italy.”

  “Are you sure? Then how have you had American citizenship since birth?”

  “I haven’t.”

  “But Gray says you do.”

  “Did she see my so-called American birth certificate?”

  “She didn’t. But her source told her it’s there, and it’s legit.”

  He considered the implication and how soon he could get hacking to confirm this. “Maybe the birth certificate is manufactured. Doctored.”

  “Why? What would be the point?”

  He lifted his shoulders, unsure. He really had no idea what would be the point. He’d had plenty of manufactured passports and identity documents made for him, but none had been under his real name.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted.

  They both fell silent and she put her hand on top of his, linking their fingers. “Slash, I didn’t bring this up to upset you. Obviously neither one of us has the answers. But the more data we have, the closer we can get to the truth. If we ever want to get to the bottom of this, we need to start at the beginning. The very beginning.”

  He studied her thoughtfully. “Are you thinking the church at San Mauro? Where I was brought as an infant?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m thinking. In case you didn’t already know, there are no digital records of the church online. I checked. But maybe we could find something useful in the documents there, if there’s a library and the priests would be willing to let us take a look.”

  “It’s a good idea, cara. The church will likely have handwritten books of visitors, major events, and possibly birth and death records. It’s a decent starting point.” He considered location, time and comfort, then made a decision. “It’s too far to drive from Genoa to San Mauro Cilento. It would take us about eight hours. We can fly to Salerno in the morning, rent a car at the airport and drive to San Mauro. It will be much faster.”

  She hated flying, but she didn’t balk at accompanying him. Instead she thought ahead. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and find something in the church records. Or someone will remember you being brought there.”

  “Someone does remember me being brought there,” he said, a trace of bitterness creeping into his voice. “But he’s not helping.”

  She looked down at her plate and Slash cursed himself for his sharp comment. That wound was still too close to the surface, and it wasn’t fair of him to put her in the middle. He wondered what he could say to smooth it over, but she spoke first.

  “I can’t pretend to understand the dynamic between you and Father Armando. But if he took a vow or heard a confession, he can’t tell you that information, Slash. No matter how important you are to him or he is to you. You know that.”

  He did know that, but he remained silent. There was more than a just a vow at stake here, there were feelings of betrayal and broken trust from which he wasn’t sure they could recover.

  He picked up his wine. She thought she didn’t read people well, but she was becoming scarily accurate at reading him. Most men would consider it a sign of the strength of their relationship—but he wasn’t used to having to work so hard to keep things from anyone. He didn’t like hiding things from her, either. She was too smart and had too much integrity to take that kind of crap from him. He added this issue to the long-term problem compartment of his brain to work on later.

  Perhaps realizing she wasn’t going to get anywhere with that line of discussion, she didn’t pursue it further. Instead she asked, “What time do you want to head out in the morning?”

  Tension uncoiled in his gut, replaced by relief for the temporary reprieve. “As soon as possible,” he said. “I’ll make the reservations as soon as we get back to the room. We need answers.”

  “We do,” she said. “And I firmly believe it’s in our best interest to get them as soon as possible.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Lexi

  We’d spent the night looking through the records at the NSA for Slash’s supposed American birth certificate.

  As a high-ranking official of the NSA, Slash didn’t n
eed to hack to get the information. The problem was the birth certificate that was supposed to exist confirming his American citizenship couldn’t be found. It had either been deleted, moved or fabricated by Gray’s contact, because we couldn’t find a trace of it. Equally as disturbing, no record of his naturalization could be found either.

  Another Slash mystery without easy answers.

  I yawned, bleary-eyed and exhausted as we headed to the airport. My body was completely out of sync with Italy. I’d had a hard time falling asleep and a hard time getting up. I was hungry when I wasn’t supposed to be and full when I should be hungry. Still, I put my game face on and tried to wake my tired brain.

  Slash dropped off his rental car at the airport, and we headed to our gate. On the way we bought coffee and a loaf of warm crusty bread, pairing it with taleggio cheese and cacciatore salami—a perfect breakfast. I dozed on the plane, my head resting on Slash’s shoulder, our hands linked. Last night we’d only scratched the surface of the issues that lay between us, but that was okay...for now. I was fine going at his pace. Hopefully, he’d share when he was ready, and I was willing to give him more time to get there.

  We landed at the Salerno Costa d’Amalfi Airport at about eleven thirty in the morning. Slash rented a sleek convertible, set the GPS on his phone, and we headed out for San Mauro.

  “Tell me what you know about the church,” I said as we drove.

  He had the top down and the sun was warm on my shoulders. I’d carefully slathered my white skin with suntan lotion. I was wearing the same cotton sundress I’d had on last night and Slash had bought me a wide-brimmed straw hat in the hotel lobby to keep the blistering sun off my face. It had a long white ribbon that kept whipping around and getting in my eyes and mouth, but I held on to the hat with both hands, grateful its wide brim was keeping my fair skin from getting sunburned.

  Slash had his sunglasses on and his dark hair was also blowing in the wind. “The Church of San Mauro Martyr is located in the town of San Mauro in the region of Cilento,” he explained. “It’s an ancient village surrounded by a national park. The village sits on a high hill with a breathtaking panoramic view of the surrounding forest, the mountains and stunning beaches below.”

  He sounded like a brochure, and it was just too early. “Oh, no. Not the beach,” I groaned.

  I had a history with beaches. While I didn’t particularly enjoy the setting—too hot, too many people and too much sand in places better not mentioned—many of the most transformative moments of my life seemed to happen at the beach.

  Slash grinned as we took a tight curve. “The village has been historically divided into two parts, Casalsoprano and Casalsottano. The church is located in the Casalsottano part of the village. It dates back to the twelfth century. The Chapel of the Holy Spirit was added on in the fifteenth century.”

  “So, a medieval church.”

  “Beautiful, simple and holy.”

  We didn’t talk much after that, both of us enjoying the scenery as we drove into the mountains. When we got closer to the town, I spotted several quaint houses nestled closely together at the top of the hill. Slash followed the directions into town, but it wasn’t hard to spot the spire of the church.

  Pretty stone houses and flowerboxes peppered the street as we wound our way through the town. Slash pulled up near the church and we got out of the car. There were a few people walking around, but it was hardly a crowd like it had been in Genoa.

  Slash read my mind. “San Mauro Cilento is largely untouched by tourism. The population remains small, less than one thousand residents.”

  Before we went inside, I took a minute to study the outside of the church. It was a simple stone structure made of three interconnected buildings. Slash pulled open a heavy wooden door on the largest structure. The door squeaked and groaned, but he motioned for me to enter, so I stepped inside.

  Inside, the church was stunning, with heavy wooden pews, exposed beams, medieval paintings and thick stained glass. Slash had started his life here, possibly spent time near that gorgeous antique organ that sat to the right of the altar.

  “Wow,” I whispered. There was a quiet reverence, beauty and holiness to the old structure.

  “That was my first impression, too,” Slash said. He dipped his fingers into a small bowl near the entrance and crossed himself. “It’s exquisite in its simplicity.”

  “So, you’ve come back since you were an infant?” He seemed familiar with the church and its layout.

  “Si. I’ve driven through the town a few times over the years and checked out the church. Curiosity, I guess. I never spoke with any of the staff, though. Father Armando had already left his post here.”

  He put his hand in the small of my back, guiding me forward. The church was dim, with lighted candles beneath several statues and small altars off to the side. A gorgeous medieval tapestry of a battle hung on one wall and, although faded, provided lovely splashes of gold and red. The church itself was empty except for a sole priest dressed in a black cassock, who was moving items around on the altar.

  Slash dipped his head toward the priest, so I headed in that direction. The priest saw us coming and lifted a hand in greeting.

  “Buon pomeriggio,” he said with a smile. He had wiry gray hair, his skin dark and wrinkled from the hot Italian sun.

  Slash responded to him in Italian and soon they were deeply involved in conversation. Since I couldn’t understand what they were saying, I wandered toward one of the apses where a lovely display of fresh flowers and flickering votive candles had been placed beneath a framed photograph of a woman. I recognized her from the banner in Genoa. It was Ana-Paula, the Uruguayan woman up for sainthood.

  A few minutes later Slash walked up behind me as I was studying the photograph. “Are you intending to become an expert on sainthood?” Amusement was in his voice.

  “I might. Why are people already praying to them?” I pointed to the lit candles and the padded kneeling bench in front of the framed photo. “Shouldn’t they wait until they’re officially saints?”

  “Ah, cara, many people consider them already blessed, official sainthood or not. Requesting their assistance and intercession with a problem or prayer is quite normal.”

  I didn’t get it, but I refrained from saying so aloud. Instead I glanced over at the priest who had resumed rearranging items on the altar. “Did you find out anything interesting from him?”

  “I did. His name is Father Adam Bianachi. He’s worked at the church for the past thirty-six years. He and Father Armando are friends. He knew who I was. Well, not me exactly, but the baby. He remembers when I was brought in during the great storm, and how I stayed with them for three days until the regional child services were able to reach here.”

  “That’s promising. Did Father Bianachi happen to see the person who brought you in?”

  “Unfortunately, he did not. The first he saw of me was when I was already in Father Armando’s arms.”

  Slash pulled out his wallet and slipped some bills into an offering box near several unlit votive candles. He picked up a couple of matches and struck one to flame before lighting two wicks.

  “So, did he say anything else?” I asked.

  Slash straightened. “Father Bianachi says that it wasn’t just he and Father Armando who were working here at the church when I was brought in. There were two others. One was an associate priest by the name of Father Daniel Opizzi, and the other was a young acolyte from Rome who was visiting for the summer. Father Bianachi doesn’t know if Father Opizzi is still alive, he recalls him being in his forties, which would put him in his seventies now.”

  “What about the acolyte?” I asked.

  “He doesn’t remember the kid’s name, but says he was an extraordinarily handsome young man who happened to leave a few weeks after I arrived at the church.”

  “That’s interesting. Did Father Bianach
i know how we can reach Father Opizzi? Maybe he’ll remember something about that night or, at the very least, the acolyte’s name.”

  “That would be ideal. Unfortunately, Father Bianachi does not know how to reach him, but we should be able to track the father down online if he’s still alive.”

  “What happens if Father Opizzi doesn’t remember the acolyte’s name?”

  “I already thought of that. Father Bianachi has granted us access to the church library for a few hours to see if he’s mentioned anywhere in the records. How about we split this task up? You do a search online to see if you find Father Opizzi, and I’ll go through the ledgers and journals to see if I can locate the acolyte’s name.”

  “Deal.” Finally we had two good leads. Maybe we could get some answers to Slash’s past.

  “That was nice of Father Bianachi to give us access to the library,” I said. “Would he have done that for just anyone?”

  “Without the personal connection to Father Armando, I doubt it.”

  “Well, then, let’s not waste any time. We don’t want him to change his mind.”

  “And this is why I love you, my single-minded woman. Let’s go get your laptop. You can use your hotspot to work, as it’s doubtful they’ll have decent wifi here.”

  After we returned from the car with my computer, Slash introduced me properly to Father Bianachi. The priest shook my hand and welcomed me to the church in broken English. I thanked him in broken Italian before he led us through a door to the right of the altar, revealing a stone corridor. We followed him down the passage until he stopped at a door. Using a key on a keychain attached to his belt, he let us into a small room with a thick stained-glass window that didn’t allow in much light. Leaning over, he switched on a lamp sitting in the middle of a round wooden table with four chairs. The walls were lined with bookshelves and crammed with books, ledgers, papers and boxes.

  The priest said something to Slash in Italian and then left, keeping the door slightly ajar.

  The minute he left, I started sneezing. “Wow, it’s dusty in here.” I looked at all the books and papers. “Where in the world do we start?”