The Gate House

by Nelson DeMille

  He probably wondered how she could be any less helpful than last time, but he replied, “I’m glad to hear that.” He informed me, “My personal feelings, Mr. Sutter, have never interfered with my professional conduct.”

  To keep it honest, I said, “You know that’s not true.” I pointed out, “But that could be a positive thing. For instance, I appreciated your personal concern about my involvement with Frank Bellarosa.” I suggested, “Mrs. Sutter could also have benefited from your advice.”

  He thought about that, then replied, “You make a good point. But quite frankly . . . well, that was your job.”

  “Also a good point. And I’ll go you one better—she should have insisted that I not get involved with Frank Bellarosa, but instead she encouraged me to do so.”

  He did not seem surprised at that revelation, probably having long ago deduced the dynamics of the John-Susan-Frank triangle. He did say, however, “There was a point when . . . well, when it was no longer simply some taboo fun or whatever it was for the both of you. It was at that point when you both needed to save each other, and your marriage.”

  “And don’t forget our souls. But by the time we realized that, Mr. Mancuso, it was far too late.”

  “It usually is.”

  I gave him some good news. “Mrs. Sutter was vehemently opposed to my even speaking to Anthony Bellarosa.”

  He responded, as I knew he would, “I’m glad someone learned their lesson.” He smiled, and I was treated to that row of white Chiclets that I remembered.

  I reminded him, “We’ve all learned our lessons.”

  The intercom on the phone buzzed, and I picked it up. Susan asked, “Shall I make my grand entrance?”

  I was glad I hadn’t hit the speaker button, nor would I ever with Susan on the line. I replied, “Yes, and please have one of the servants bring coffee.”

  “The last servant left thirty years ago, but I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thank you. About five minutes.” I hung up and said to Mr. Mancuso, “We’re out of servants at the moment, but Mrs. Sutter will bring coffee.”

  Again he smiled, then took the opportunity to say, “I never understood how two people from your world could have gotten involved in Frank Bellarosa’s world.”

  I thought about that and replied, “Well, if that’s a question, I don’t have an answer.”

  He suggested, “Part of the answer may be that evil is seductive. I think I told you that.”

  “You did. Add to that a little restless boredom, and you have at least part of the answer to your question.” I added, “I’m speaking for myself. I’m not entirely sure what motivated Mrs. Sutter to do what she did.”

  “Did you ask?”

  “Not directly. But you can ask her if it’s bothering you.” I added, “It might possibly have to do with sex.”

  He didn’t seem shocked by that, though he would have been shocked if I’d told him it was also about love. But that was none of his business.

  He thought a moment, then replied, “Adultery is a symptom of a larger problem.”

  “Sometimes. But to paraphrase Freud, sometimes adultery is just adultery.” I asked, “And what difference does it make now?”

  “Because, Mr. Sutter, to know and to understand is the first step toward real reconciliation. More importantly, it is absolutely critical that you know who you are, who she is, and what you are forgiving.”

  I could see that Mr. Mancuso was still practicing psychology and still giving spiritual advice. Plus, he’d added marriage counseling to his repertoire. I asked him, “I don’t mean to be . . . disrespectful, but do you have any professional training outside of the law and law enforcement?”

  He didn’t seem insulted by the question, and responded, “As a matter of fact, I spent two years in the seminary before deciding that wasn’t my calling.”

  I was not completely surprised. I’d actually known a number of Catholic lawyers and judges and a few men in law enforcement who’d once been seminarians. There seemed to be some connection there, though what it was, was only partially clear to me. I asked him, “What made you decide that the priesthood was not your calling?”

  He replied, without embarrassment, “The temptations of the flesh were too great.”

  “Well, I can relate to that.” I thought about suggesting that he become an Episcopalian and give the priesthood another try, but he changed the subject and said, “If I may make a final observation about what happened ten years ago . . . in all my years of dealing with crime, organized and otherwise, I have rarely come across a man with the sociopathic charm and charisma of Frank Bellarosa. So, if it makes you feel any better, Mr. Sutter, you, and your wife, were seduced by a master manipulator.”

  “That makes me feel much better.”

  “Well, I offer it for what it’s worth.”

  Felix Mancuso seemed to believe that the history of the human race could best be understood as a struggle between good and evil, with Frank Bellarosa being Satan incarnate. But that did not explain Frank Bellarosa’s all too human feelings of love for Susan Sutter, and his final good and honorable deed toward me that caused his death.

  To move on to the present problem, I let him know, “Anthony Bellarosa is not as complex or as charming, or even as intelligent, as his father.”

  Mr. Mancuso replied, “No, he’s not. And that’s why he’s far more likely to resort to violence whenever he’s frustrated or when anyone challenges him.”

  “Right. He is not Machiavellian. He’s more like Caligula.”

  Mr. Mancuso smiled and nodded. He informed me, “His unofficial nickname is—not to his face—Little Caesar.” He speculated, “I think it’s the word ‘little’ that would set him off. Not the word ‘Caesar.’”

  I confessed, “Anthony and I had a few conversations about the decline and fall of the Roman Empire.”

  He had no comment on that, which I thought was a little odd, so I continued, “Over dinner at a Chinese restaurant in Glen Cove.”

  Again, he had no comment, so I inquired, “Did we have company there?”

  He informed me, “I had the opportunity to read the statement you gave to the police.”

  “I see.” But I never mentioned that detail in the statement.

  Well, it must have been the waitress. Only a government worker could have been so incompetent. Joking aside, I wasn’t thrilled to think that there may have been a bug in my wonton soup. But Mr. Mancuso wasn’t confirming or denying—he was taking the Fifth.

  So I changed the subject and said, “Your remark to me that Susan should be frightened caused me to have a sleepless night.”

  “Well, I didn’t want you to take this lightly.” He added, “I hope I didn’t upset Mrs. Sutter.”

  “She’s blissfully unaware that Anthony Bellarosa is, or may be, a psychopath. I’d like you to raise her level of concern . . . without overdoing it.”

  “I understand.” He added, “What I don’t understand is why she’s not properly concerned now.”

  I replied, “It’s her nature, and also her upbringing.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It’s a bit complex, but basically, she’s led a sheltered and privileged life—sort of like . . . well, a dodo bird on an isolated island—and therefore she doesn’t know what danger looks like, sounds like, or smells like.”

  He thought about that, processed it, then observed, “We had a whole country like that until September of last year.”

  “Interesting analogy.”

  Mr. Mancuso informed me, “I actually had the opportunity to read the Justice Department’s psychiatric report on Mrs. Sutter as well as the analysis offered by her family-retained psychiatrists, and it’s . . . interesting.”

  I was sure of that, though I knew he wasn’t able to elaborate. I did say, however, “Her mental state ten years ago is not my concern. My concern is her present attitude toward the obvious danger she is in—and the problem there, I believe, is more her personality than an
y psychological conflicts or subconscious . . . whatever. And what I’d like you to do is to wake her up.”

  He nodded and replied, “I’ll give her the facts and also my opinion on the threat level.”

  “Good. Give it to me now.” I suggested, “Use our new color-code system if that’s easier for you.”

  He forced a smile, then said, “I’ll need to hear what you and Mrs. Sutter have to say before I come up with a color.”

  Susan hadn’t made her entrance yet, so Mr. Mancuso confided in me, “You may be interested to know that I’ve lectured on this case at the Academy.”

  “Really? I hope you weren’t too hard on the Sutters.”

  He didn’t respond directly, but said, “The audience always had more questions than I had answers.”

  “Me, too.”

  He looked at me and said, “I welcome this opportunity to revisit some of these issues and questions.”

  “Well, Mr. Mancuso, I don’t, but that’s what’s happened.”

  He agreed, “The chickens are coming home to roost.”

  Before I could reply to that statement, Susan opened the door and said, “One more chicken.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Felix Mancuso and I stood, and I said, “Susan, you remember Special Agent Mancuso.”

  She smiled pleasantly, offered her hand, and said, “Of course I do. Thank you for coming.”

  He replied, “I’m glad to be of service again.”

  I didn’t think Susan was so happy with his service last time, and they both knew that.

  The pleasantries out of the way, Susan motioned to Sophie, who was at the door with a serving cart, which she wheeled in, then left and shut the door.

  Susan invited us to help ourselves, which we did, then she sat on the couch, and Mr. Mancuso and I returned to our seats.

  Susan was dressed modestly in a traditional native outfit of tan slacks and a white blouse, over which she wore a tailored blue blazer. I would have liked to see a cross around her neck, but that might be overkill.

  I mean, maybe we were both overreacting to Felix Mancuso’s middle-class, Catholic morality, and his opinion of Susan’s past adultery, and murder, and me working for the mob; but Felix Mancuso seemed to be genuine in his beliefs, and I was certain that Susan and I shared many of his moral convictions, as well as his low opinion of our past behavior. But it was time to move on to new problems.

  Susan inquired, “Did I miss anything important?”

  I replied, “Not really. We were just rehashing the subject of how you and I screwed up our lives.”

  She replied, “Well, I’m glad I didn’t miss anything too important.”

  We all smiled.

  Mr. Mancuso said to her, “I wish you and Mr. Sutter good luck and happiness in your future marriage.”

  Susan replied, “Thank you. That’s very kind of you.”

  Susan, I could tell, was in her full Lady Stanhope mode, which may or may not have been the right thing to do with Felix Mancuso. Susan, however, could have been reacting to the last time she’d seen Special Agent Mancuso—she’d been wearing a nice riding outfit, but also wearing handcuffs, which seriously diminished her stature. Not to mention she’d been crying, and a female police officer was bossing her around, and her lover’s body was splattered on the floor in full sight of everyone. So, yes, this reunion with Special Agent Mancuso was difficult or embarrassing for her, which was probably why she’d showed up as Lady Stanhope.

  Felix Mancuso said to Susan, “As I explained to Mr. Sutter on the phone, I am no longer with the Organized Crime Task Force, but because of my prior involvement with the case that has led to this possible threat, and because Mr. Sutter called me directly, I have been assigned to evaluate this matter and make a recommendation regarding how the Bureau will proceed.” He added, “This appears to be a state matter—a personal threat with no direct link to organized crime, other than Mr. Bellarosa’s alleged involvement in organized crime—but rest assured, the Bureau will offer the local authorities any support or information they need or ask for.”

  I thought I should tell him, “Someone from the county police told me that the FBI wouldn’t tell him if his ass was on fire.”

  Mr. Mancuso actually smiled, then reassured me, “Regardless of that perspective, we’ve opened up many lines of communication since 9/11.” He further assured me, “We all have the same goal here, which is to put Anthony Bellarosa behind bars for the rest of his life, and personally, I don’t care if he spends his life in a Federal or a state prison.”

  But, of course, a Federal prison would be Mr. Mancuso’s first choice. My first choice was to see Anthony dead. I reminded him, “Our primary goal is to ensure that nothing happens to Mrs. Sutter.”

  “That goes without saying.”

  Susan, the subject of this conversation, said, “For the record, I’m concerned, but not paranoid.” She added, “My goal, if you’re interested, is to live a normal life.” She said to Mr. Mancuso, “As with terrorism, if you’re frightened, and if you change the way you live, then the terrorists win. Well, they’re not going to win. He is not going to win.”

  Felix Mancuso looked at Susan Sutter appraisingly, then said to her, “I admire your courage.”

  Susan didn’t reply, so Mancuso moved on to another subject and said to us, “As I’ve mentioned to Mr. Sutter, I’ve had the opportunity to review the statements you’ve made to the police, so I have a general idea of what’s transpired in the last few weeks, and I have an understanding of why you are both concerned.”

  I reminded him, “You yourself seemed concerned.”

  He nodded, and replied, “I have done some investigative work on Anthony Bellarosa’s criminal enterprises over the years, and while I’ve never had direct contact with him, I have had direct contact with a number of his associates, and also a number of people who I believe were victimized by him and his organization.” He added, “And I’ve spoken to a number of my colleagues who have had direct contact with Bellarosa, and the picture that emerges is of a man who is violent, but careful.”

  I offered my opinion and said, “I think he’s a hothead, so he won’t always be so careful about what he does.”

  He nodded, then informed us, “Anthony Bellarosa represents the new, middle-class, suburban Mafia. These men are third- and fourth-generation Italian-Americans, and some of them are not even a hundred percent Italian, and many of them are marrying non-Italians, as did Anthony Bellarosa. So, what I’m saying is that the stereotype does not always fit, and the level of violence is down, but it’s there under the surface, and it’s always an option with these people.” He added, “Especially when it’s personal.”

  I understood all of that, and I thought again of Anthony as a young tiger cub, three or four generations removed from the wild, apparently domesticated, but still reacting to some primitive instincts when he smelled blood. I said to Mancuso, “The police said they don’t have a rap sheet on him.”

  Mr. Mancuso replied, “We think he’s had at least fourteen people beaten, but we can’t connect him, directly or through contract, to any homicides.”

  Recalling some Mafia lore, I inquired, “So, he hasn’t made his bones?”

  Mr. Mancuso replied, “I’m sure he has, or he wouldn’t be where he is in the organization, but it’s never come to our attention, and he doesn’t make a habit of it.”

  Susan said, “I think I missed something. About the bones.”

  I left it to Mr. Mancuso to explain, “That means to personally commit a murder. As opposed to contracting for a murder.”

  Susan said, “Sorry I asked.”

  Felix Mancuso drew a notebook out of his pocket and said to us, “I’d like each of you, in any order you wish, to tell me anything you may not have said in your statement to the police.” He instructed us, “What you tell me can be opinions, impressions, and feelings, in addition to observations and details that may not have seemed important to you, but which may mean something to me in a
larger context, or could become important later.”

  That seemed to give me a lot more latitude than I’d had with the police, and it opened the possibilities of having a little fun with my descriptions of Sunday at the Bellarosas’. On the other hand, this was a serious matter, plus I didn’t want Mr. Mancuso to get the idea that I thought his paesanos were unintentionally funny. Susan suggested that I go first, so I began at the beginning with the knock on my door, and Mr. Anthony Bellarosa crossing my threshold.

  I concluded with, “Anthony was on a mission, which was to recruit me, so he brought up the subject of Susan to use later as a bargaining chip.” I added, “The deal was always going to be that she stayed alive as long as I worked for him.”

  Mr. Mancuso didn’t comment on that and said, “Please proceed.”

  So I poured more coffee and continued the story of John and Anthony, going next to the dinner at Wong Lee’s, meeting Tony, formerly known as Anthony, and relating my phone conversation with Anna, and even repeating Anthony’s jokes about Mom, which caused Mr. Mancuso to smile, perhaps remembering his own mother.

  I went on to Anthony’s rudeness to the Chinese waitress, to give everyone a less amusing image of Anthony Bellarosa. I continued on to the rest of the conversation with Anthony, about his father, and related matters, and I concluded with my abrupt and angry departure. I asked Mr. Mancuso, “Am I giving you too much information?”

  He assured me, “There is no such thing as too much information when you’re in the information business.” He further informed me, “We build personality profiles on these people, and anyone, like yourself, who has had intimate contact with a person such as this can provide valuable insight into how they think, act, talk, and react.”

  “Okay.” So, I told him Anthony’s jokes about Chinese women, but he didn’t smile. Neither did Susan, who said, “Disgusting.”

  That may have crossed the too-much-information line, so I moved on to the details of my chance encounter with Anthony on Grace Lane, and my ride to Oyster Bay. I kept the narrative honest, and as Mancuso had suggested, I editorialized now and then.