The Gate House

by Nelson DeMille

  Mr. Mancuso nodded a few times and raised his eyebrows at appropriate points in my story to show me he disapproved of my possible interest in being Anthony’s consigliere, notwithstanding my prior explanation about my concern for Susan. Now and then, he jotted a note.

  When I finished with the Oyster Bay episode, Susan commented, “Well, he certainly picked the right person to tell him when his head was getting too big.”

  That was supposed to be funny, so I chuckled, and even Mr. Mancuso smiled. I suggested, however, “Why don’t we leave the opinions to me, darling, until it’s your turn?”

  Mr. Mancuso urged me to continue, and I picked up the narrative on Sunday morning, and my visit to Susan, to establish the time frame when we’d reconciled. I laid it on a little thick here, mentioning Susan’s remorse for what she’d done, and assuring Mr. Mancuso that Susan, like Mary Magdalene, had achieved an understanding of her sins, leading to her full redemption and possible sainthood.

  Well, I didn’t really go that far, but I wanted Mr. Mancuso to understand that Susan Sutter, sitting here now, was not the same fallen woman she’d been ten years ago, and that she was worth saving. Felix Mancuso needed to put aside any subconscious thoughts he might be harboring about the wages of sin being death, or that if something happened to Susan, she had it coming. Special Agent Mancuso was a professional, but he was also a man who had been deeply shocked and professionally wounded by what happened ten years ago. Nevertheless, he’d do his job, but he’d do it even better if he believed he was on the side of the angels.

  He interrupted my canonization of Susan and said, “If I may be personal . . . I’m not following how you reconciled so quickly after a ten-year separation.”

  Well, Susan Stanhope Sutter is one of the great lays of my life. No—the greatest.

  “Mr. Sutter?”

  “Well . . . it was as though this dam had burst, letting loose a decade of anger, hurt, disappointment, betrayal, and stubbornness. And after that flood subsided, what was left was a deep, placid lake of . . . well, love.”

  I thought I heard Susan groan, but Mr. Mancuso nodded and said, “Please continue.”

  I recounted my drive to Alhambra, including Bell Security Service at the gate, and my meeting Megan Bellarosa, and my reunion with Anna. It was here that I could get into trouble with Mr. Mancuso if I made fun of an Italian mother, so I downplayed Anna’s bossiness toward her son, and I emphasized her positive qualities of love, warmth, hospitality, and good cheer. I concluded that segment of the story with, “I wish I had a mother like that.” I realized that I wasn’t being totally insincere, so it came out all right, and Mr. Mancuso smiled.

  I was doing pretty good so far, having gotten past the tricky stuff about Anthony and me talking about a new career for me, and from here on, the story put me in a favorable light, but more importantly, I was leading up to the barely concealed threats on Susan’s life.

  I informed Mr. Mancuso, “Salvatore D’Alessio, a.k.a Sally Da-da, was on the back patio with his wife, Marie.”

  Mr. Mancuso didn’t seem to react to that, so I inquired, “Are you watching his house?”

  Mancuso said, “That was in your statement to the police. Please continue.”

  “All right.” I related the details of my chance reunion with Uncle Sal, and shared with Mr. Mancuso my thoughts and observations regarding the relationship between Sal and Anthony, then I moved on to my continuing employment interview with the CEO of Bell Enterprises, emphasizing here that Anthony was too dense to understand that I wasn’t leaping at his offer. I also mentioned my thought that the women in Anthony’s life did not treat him like the padrone. Mr. Mancuso smiled at my use of the Italian word, and nodded. I mentioned, too, about telling Anthony that my daughter was an assistant district attorney in Brooklyn.

  Mr. Mancuso commented, “So, you have a member of the family in law enforcement.”

  Susan, proud mom, chimed in, “She loves her job, and she works twelve-hour days.” She added, “I’m very proud of her.”

  Mr. Mancuso smiled, probably thinking, At least one member of this family has gone straight.

  We were all bonding now, and I was in the home stretch and way ahead, so I moved on to Anthony’s den and my phone call to Elizabeth and Susan. I would not have even mentioned the phone call to Elizabeth, except that Mr. Mancuso had probably already listened to the tape recording of that call, along with mine to Susan. And, as a lawyer, I know that when you leave something out, or lie to the law, even about a small thing, it calls into question your veracity about other things.

  Mr. Mancuso seemed interested that I was in Anthony Bellarosa’s private den, and he asked me to describe it.

  So to add a few details to Anthony Bellarosa’s personality profile, and to further justify my social call on him, I said that Anthony kept his father’s books from La Salle Military Academy on his shelves, and that Anthony had a collection of books written by, or about, the Romans.

  Mancuso nodded and said, “As I mentioned before Mrs. Sutter joined us, Anthony Bellarosa may have a Caesar complex.” He smiled and added, “Many of them do.” He said to me, “Please continue.”

  I was going to move on from the subject of the Romans, but I found it interesting that a man who was basically uninteresting and uncomplicated had this other side to him, and I suggested, “Some of his admiration for the Romans may have to do with what I mentioned before—Anthony is henpecked, and . . . well, the Romans were macho.”

  Mr. Mancuso nodded politely, but I had the feeling he thought I was getting carried away with myself, so to make my point and also to continue my description of the den, I said, “Over the fireplace, he has a reproduction of Rubens’ Rape of the Sabine Women.” I added, in case Mr. Mancuso wasn’t familiar with the classical tale, “The Romans raped the women of the Sabine tribe.”

  Mr. Mancuso nodded, and Susan assured me, “I think we understand. Can we move on?”

  “All right.” I finished my description of the den, and I was now at the point in my story where I had to tell about seeing Susan’s oil painting of Alhambra in Anthony’s den, and slashing it to ribbons. I hadn’t put this in my statement to the police, and Susan didn’t know about this, and I couldn’t guess at what she’d think or say. Also, I couldn’t determine if this destructive act made me a tough guy or a nut job. So, without putting any spin on it, I simply said, “There was an oil painting on an easel in Anthony’s den, and I recognized it as the painting Susan had done of the palm court at Alhambra—”

  Mr. Mancuso interrupted and said to me, “You put your fist through it that night.”

  “I did.” I added, “Someone had it restored.”

  Susan, who never knew I’d smashed her painting, looked at me, but said nothing.

  I got to the point and said, “I took a letter opener and slashed the painting to shreds.”

  No one had anything to say about that, so I poured another cup of coffee for myself.

  Finally, Mr. Mancuso asked, “Why?”

  Good question. I replied, “It was a symbolic act with deep psychological overtones, coupled with a primal belief that my enemy should not possess anything that was associated with, created by, or even touched by my once and future wife.”

  Mr. Mancuso seemed deep in thought, as though he were making mental notes for a psychological profile on me.

  Susan, I sensed, was looking at me, so I made eye contact with her.

  I realized my explanation was a little weird, so I tried a simpler explanation and said, “I was just pissed off at him, and I guess I wanted to leave him a message.”

  Felix Mancuso said to me, “Well, I’m sure he got the message, Mr. Sutter. And knowing his type, I’m also sure he has a return message for you.”

  “I’m sure he does.”

  I concluded my account of Sunday with Anthony by relating, almost word for word, as I’d done with Detective Nastasi, our confrontation on his front lawn, and my telling him that his father was a stool pigeon and was
selling out his friends and family in exchange for immunity from prosecution. I did not, however, reveal to Mr. Mancuso, or to Susan, that I’d told Anthony that his father and my wife were in love, and were prepared to run off together—and would have, if Frank hadn’t owed me a favor.

  I ended with something I hadn’t said to Detective Nastasi, and hadn’t really focused on before. I said to Felix Mancuso, “Anthony Bellarosa’s eyes, his face, and his tone of voice . . . If we weren’t standing on his own front lawn, and if he’d had a gun, I think he would have killed me.”

  Susan stood, came up beside me, and took my hand.

  Mr. Mancuso had no comment, but he also stood and said, “I think it’s time for a break.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Felix Mancuso remained in my office, and Susan and I took our break in the upstairs parlor, long ago converted to a family room, where we would gather to watch television when Edward and Carolyn were young. I don’t know what the prior owners had done with this room, but Susan had faithfully reproduced the feel, if not the actual furnishings, of the room, including some old movie posters that I remembered, though The Godfather seemed to be missing.

  Susan opened two bottles of spring water and gave one to me. We remained standing, and I looked out the window at the rain.

  Susan said to me, “I have a much clearer picture now of what happened between you and Anthony Bellarosa.”

  I replied, “More importantly, I hope you have a clearer understanding of the threat he may pose to you.”

  “And to you.”

  I replied, “He’s angry at me, and maybe disappointed. But he’ll get over it. This is about you.”

  She said to me, “He threatened you, John.”

  I didn’t reply.

  She asked me, “Why in the world did you slash that painting?”

  “I told you.”

  “But . . . why would you want to make him even more angry?”

  I looked away from the window and replied, “If you really want to know, Susan, that fucking painting brought back to me your time spent at Alhambra, your affair with—”

  “All right. I think you overreacted, but—”

  “That was why I put my fist through it ten years ago, and this time, no one is going to have it restored.”

  She stayed silent for a moment, then said, “I understand.”

  Neither of us spoke for a while, then Susan said, “But what I don’t understand is . . . I’m not understanding what caused Anthony Bellarosa’s explosive rage . . . he apparently liked you, and thought highly of you . . . and then he turned on you and threatened you.” She asked, “Why?”

  I finished my water and replied, “As I said to Detective Nastasi, and as I just said to Mancuso—I told Anthony that you and I were back together, and that he and I were through.” I added, “Think of it as . . . well, a romantic triangle.” I wanted to say, “You know about that,” but I said instead, “He’s not used to being scorned.” I added, “And what really set him off was me telling him that his father was singing his heart out to the FBI.”

  She nodded, but I could see that she still seemed unsatisfied with my explanation. Susan, for all her aloofness and intermittent nuttiness, had an uncanny ability to spot bullshit. Especially when it came from me.

  She looked at me and asked, “Are you telling me everything?”

  I turned the question around and asked her, “Are you telling me everything? About you and Frank?”

  She looked me in the eye and replied, “I did. I told you I loved him, and that I killed him because he told me it was over, and told me that he used me, and never loved me, and that he was going to Italy with Anna. And I also told you that I didn’t kill him for us—that was a lie. What more can I tell you?”

  I took a deep breath and replied, “Nothing.”

  She asked me again, “Are you telling me everything?”

  We both stayed silent for a while, and I realized that the time had come—actually, I never intended for this time to come, but this was still bothering me more than I realized, and she’d been honest with me, so I needed to do the same, and if she reacted badly, then we’d both learn something new about each other.

  I suggested we sit, but she remained standing, so I did, too. I said, “All right . . . here’s the missing piece—here’s why Anthony lost control of himself.” I let her know, “I told Anthony that you and his father were in love, and that you were both planning to abandon your families and go to Italy together.” I added, “He didn’t believe me, and insisted that his father was just—quote, sport fucking. But I convinced him that his father was ready to say arrivederci to his wife and sons.”

  She nodded, and I could have left it there because that explained Anthony’s sudden change of heart toward John Sutter, the messenger of this unwanted news. But having begun, I needed to finish, so I said to her, “There’s more. And it’s not something you want to hear.”

  “I’m used to that by now.”

  “All right.” So I began by telling her what I’d already told Anthony—that Frank Bellarosa offered me any favor that it was in his power to do, in exchange for me having saved his life. Then I told her, “The favor I asked him was . . . to tell you it was over, Susan, and that he never loved you, and that he was using you to get to me, and that he was not taking you to Italy with him.” I added, “And, obviously, he did that. For me.”

  I looked at her, and we made eye contact. I could see she was having trouble grasping this, but then she understood that everything that Frank Bellarosa had said to her that night came from my mouth, not his heart. And so she’d shot the man she loved, and who still loved her.

  Susan sat on the couch and stared blankly at the wall.

  I said to her, “I told all this to Anthony—that his father would have abandoned him, his mother, and his brothers, and the only reason he didn’t was because his father owed me his life.” I added, “I didn’t need to tell Anthony that, but . . . I was angry at him, and I wanted him to know that his sainted father was not only a government stool pigeon, but also not such a good father and husband.” I was also trying to divert some of Anthony’s attention away from Susan, and toward me, but if I said that, it would sound self-serving, so I concluded, “That is why Anthony went into a rage and threatened me.”

  Susan kept staring at the wall, and I couldn’t read anything in her face.

  I now needed to tell her something I hadn’t told Anthony, and something I’d never really come to terms with in my own mind. I said to her, “When I asked Frank to tell you it was over, I thought, or hoped, that you would get over him . . . but maybe subconsciously I thought you would get even with him.” I took a deep breath and continued, “But maybe that occurred to me afterwards because . . . well, when you killed him, I couldn’t be sure in my own mind if that was something I wanted or hoped for when I set this in motion . . . I wasn’t sure if I should be taking credit for his death, or if I felt guilty and was taking some of the blame . . . and even today, I’m not sure about that.”

  Susan looked at me, and there was still no expression on her face.

  Then I said to her, “I wanted you back, and I wanted you not to love him . . . though I’m not sure I wanted him dead. But if I did, then you were right about that—I should have killed him myself.”

  She remained seated, and I could see she was past the shock, and I was sure she was thinking about her killing a man who still loved her, and who did not really betray her, but who was just following my offstage direction—as a matter of honor—to repay a favor.

  I couldn’t even begin to guess how she felt now about what she did, or how she felt about me.

  There wasn’t much left to add, but I did say, “I’m not sure I need to apologize to you for asking him to lie to you—you both lied to me often enough—and I’m certainly not asking you to forgive me. But I do want you to know that I take some of the blame for what happened.”

  She spoke for the first time and said, “I killed him. No
t you.”

  “All right. But . . . when you think about all of this—”

  She said, “I think he loved you more than he loved me.”

  “He owed me a favor.”

  She took a deep breath and continued, “He was always talking about you, and that made me uncomfortable, and . . . angry . . . and—”

  “All right. I don’t need to hear that.” I said to her, “You have a lot of thinking to do before you decide . . . how you feel. I’m going to finish up with Mancuso. You don’t need to join us.”

  I turned and headed toward the door.

  “John.”

  I looked back at her, and she asked me, “Did you really want me back?”

  “I did.”

  “Then why didn’t you take me back after he was dead?”

  “I changed my mind.”

  “Why?”

  “Because . . . I realized afterwards that . . . I wanted you to leave him because you wanted to leave him—I wanted you to come back to me because you loved me more than him . . . so, him leaving you, and him being dead, was not quite what I wanted.”

  She didn’t reply.

  I was about to turn and leave, but she again said, “John.”

  “I need to go.”

  “You need to tell me why we didn’t get back together after I killed him.”

  “I just told you.”

  “No you didn’t.”

  As I said, Susan knows me, and I can run, but I can’t hide. So I said, “All right. I was . . . humiliated. In public. When your affair with him was just between the three of us—and, of course, the FBI—I could have forgiven you. But when it became national news, and the subject of tabloid humor and locker-room jokes, then . . .” I looked at her and said, “And you wonder why I got in my boat and got the hell out of here?” I asked her, “What kind of man do you think I am?”

  She put her hands over her face, and I could see she was crying. I wasn’t sure what she was crying about—her murder of Frank Bellarosa, which she’d just discovered was less justified than she’d thought, or maybe she was crying because she finally understood the havoc she’d unleashed on everyone around her. Or possibly she realized that I was having second thoughts about us being together again.