Stone Barrington 06-11

law, and I didn’t know anyone else to call.”
    “Of course; how can I help you?”
    “You’ll recall that, before my sudden departure from Venice, Dolce and I went through some sort of civil ceremony at the mayor’s office.”
    “I do.”
    “But I had to leave Venice before the ceremony at St. Mark’s.”
    “Yes, yes.”
    “My question is, does the civil ceremony, without the church ceremony, have any legal force?”
    “Not in the eyes of the church,” Bellini replied.
    “How about in the eyes of the Italian government?”
    “Well, it is possible to be legally married in Italy in a civil ceremony.”
    Stone’s heart sank.
    “Can you tell me what this is about, Stone? Is something wrong?”
    “I don’t want to burden you with this, Your Eminence,” Stone said.
    “Not at all,” the cardinal replied. “I have plenty of time.”
    Stone poured it all out—Arrington; Arrington and Vance Calder; Dolce; everything.
    “Well,” the cardinal said when he had finished, “it seems you’ve reconsidered your intentions toward Dolce.”
    “I’m afraid I’ve been forced to.”
    “Then it’s fortunate that this occurred before you took vows in the church.”
    “Yes, it is. However, I’m concerned about my marital status under Italian law. Is it possible that I am legally married?”
    “Yes, it is possible.”
    Stone groaned.
    “I can see how, given the circumstances, this might concern you, Stone. Before I can give you any sort of definitive answer, I’d like to do a bit of research. I’m leaving Rome tomorrow morning for a meeting in Paris, and it may be a few days, perhaps longer, before I can look into this. Let’s leave it that I’ll phone you as soon as I have more information.”
    “Thank you, Your Eminence.” Stone gave him the Centurion number, thanked him again, and hung up.
    He started the car and drove slowly back to the studio. When he reached the cottage it was dark, except for a lamp in the window. Betty had gone.
    Stone rarely drank alone, but he went to the bar and poured himself a stiff bourbon. What had he gotten himself into? Was he married? If so, the Italians didn’t have divorce, did they? He had not wanted to question a cardinal of the Church about a divorce. He collapsed in a chair and pulled at the bourbon. For a while, he allowed himself a wallow in self-pity.

Twenty-eight

    S TONE WAS SIGNING DOCUMENTS FAXED TO HIM FROM New York by his secretary when Betty buzzed him.
    “Rick Grant on line one.”
    Stone picked up the phone. “Hi, Rick.”
    “Good morning, Stone. I had a chat with Durkee about this missing Mexican gardener, and I have to tell you that he and his partner don’t seem to have the slightest interest in him.”
    “I suppose they’re not interested in the footprint they found outside the house, either.”
    “Not much. It’s a Nike athletic shoe, size twelve, right foot, with a cut across the heel. I got that much out of Durkee.”
    “Can you get me a copy of the photograph of the footprint?”
    “I think you’re better off asking for that in discovery.”
    Rick obviously didn’t want to get more involved than he already was. “Maybe you’re right.”
    “I thought of something, though.”
    “What’s that?”
    “I told you how tough it was to get suspects out of Mexico, but there might be something you can do.”
    “Tell me.”
    “I know a guy named Brandy Garcia. Brandy is a Latino hustler, does a little of everything to make a buck. He’s been a coyote, running illegals across the border, he’s run an employment agency for recently arrived Latinos, he may even have smuggled some drugs in his time, I don’t know. But he’s well connected below the border, especially in Tijuana, where he’s from, and he might be able to find this guy, Felipe Cordova, for you.”
    “Sounds good.”
    “Trouble is, Cordova is not a suspect, so even if you found him and the Mexicans were willing to extradite him, nobody would arrest him.”
    “That’s discouraging,” Stone replied.
    “I know. But you might try to talk to him, if Brandy can find him.”
    “How do I get hold of Brandy Garcia?”
    “I left a message on an answering machine, giving him your number. He may or may not call; I don’t know if he’s even in the country.”
    “Okay, I’ll wait to hear from him.”
    “Good luck.”
    “Thanks, Rick.” Stone hung up.
    Twenty minutes later Betty buzzed him. “There’s somebody on the phone, who says his name is Brandy Garcia; says