The Gate House

by Nelson DeMille

  I turned and left the room.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Felix Mancuso was still in my office, and he was on his cell phone. I remained standing until he finished, and I said, “Mrs. Sutter is not feeling well, so we should reschedule this.” I offered, “I can come to your office tomorrow, if that’s convenient.”

  He looked at me, then asked, “Is everything all right?”

  I replied, “She’s upset.”

  He nodded and said, “This is very stressful for her. But I do need ten more minutes of your time.” He added, “And I’ll need to speak to her when she’s ready.”

  I replied, “I don’t think there’s much more she can add to what I’ve said, or to what you already know, but that’s your decision.” I suggested, “You can phone her.” I sat at my desk and said, “Please continue.”

  He looked at me again, then began, “First, you should know that Anthony Bellarosa seems to have disappeared.” He explained, “We’re not sure if that has anything to do with this problem or problems of his own, or with John Gotti’s death, or if it’s just one of his normal disappearances.” He explained, “Many of these people just disappear for a time. Sometimes it’s business, but more often it’s pleasure.”

  I wasn’t fully attentive to Felix Mancuso, because my mind was still on Susan, but I did manage to ask, “Could he be dead?”

  Mr. Mancuso replied, “He could be. But we’re not hearing that, and according to Detective Nastasi, Bellarosa’s wife, Megan, didn’t seem to be particularly upset that he left with no explanation other than business.”

  I suggested, only half jokingly, “Maybe she also wants him dead.”

  Mancuso did not respond to that, but said, “The police would have liked to speak to him, to put him on notice that you’d made a complaint, and to let him know he was being watched. And of course, they’d have liked him to make an incriminating statement so they could place him under arrest. But unfortunately, for reasons unknown, he has disappeared.”

  Ironically, if I had been his consigliere, I’d have advised him to make himself available to the police, and politely tell them that he refused to answer any questions without his attorney present. In my world, this is what you do—but in his world, you didn’t play along with the cops. So, yes, disappearing, before the police instructed you to keep them informed of your whereabouts, was a very street-smart move. Plus, it’s not illegal to leave home. I did ask, however, “Can you or the police get a warrant for his arrest?”

  He replied, “We’re working on several ways to present this to a state or Federal judge, but other than the fact that he is wanted for questioning, based solely on your complaint, we don’t have a lot to convince a judge.” He added, “But we’ll give it a try.” He further informed me, “I’m discovering, since 9/11, that my new job with the Terrorist Task Force is easier in regard to what the courts and the law allow, but Anthony Bellarosa is not a suspected terrorist. He’s an old-fashioned mobster, with all his civil liberties intact.”

  I said to Mr. Mancuso, “Did I mention that I saw a signed photograph of Osama bin Laden in his den?”

  Mr. Mancuso smiled and continued, “In any case, Anthony Bellarosa’s disappearance, while not unusual, is troubling in regard to this problem, and perhaps interesting in regard to his problems in the organization.”

  I asked, “Do you mean problems with Salvatore D’Alessio?”

  “Perhaps.” He said, “We’ll see if Anthony Bellarosa surfaces for John Gotti’s funeral.”

  “Well,” I said, “I hope someone finds his body so I can get a good night’s sleep.”

  Mancuso asked me, on that subject, “Do you own a gun?”

  I replied, “We have a shotgun.”

  “Do you know how to use it?”

  I replied, a bit curtly, “You put a shell in each chamber, take it off safety, aim, and pull the trigger.” I added, “I was in the Army, and Mrs. Sutter was a skeet and bird shooter. It’s her shotgun.”

  “All right.” He advised me, “Neither the FBI nor the police encourage civilians to confront an intruder, or to own or buy a weapon for the purpose of—”

  “Mr. Mancuso, I understand. Rest assured that neither I nor Mrs. Sutter is going to ambush Anthony Bellarosa on his front lawn, but if anyone enters this house with intent to do bodily harm, then we will take appropriate action.” I reminded him, “I know the law.”

  “I know you do.” He continued, “If Anthony Bellarosa returns to his house, or if we discover his whereabouts, then someone from the Bureau or the local police will advise you of that.”

  “I hope so.”

  He went on, “I’ve confirmed with the Second Precinct that their patrol vehicles have been alerted regarding this situation.” He further informed me, “The Bureau may also have a presence in the area.”

  I nodded, and he continued on to a few more points, and also asked me to clarify or expand on a few of my previous statements. He seemed to have good short-term recall for everything I’d said, and I already knew that he had a good long-term memory for events that happened ten years ago. In that respect, we had something in common.

  I was still not quite myself after what happened with Susan, and though I was relieved that I’d finally gotten that off my chest, I realized that digging it all up, yet again, had put me in a bad mood. And in addition to my full confession to Susan, I had to revisit my humiliation at being America’s Number One Cuckold of the Week.

  “Mr. Sutter?”

  I looked at Mancuso.

  “I asked, is anyone else living in this house?”

  “No . . . well, an old family friend has just passed away—Mrs. Allard—and we’re expecting house company for the funeral.”

  He inquired, “And who will that be?”

  I replied, “Our children, Edward and Carolyn.” I gave him their ages, and he made a note of that. I continued, “And possibly Mrs. Sutter’s parents, William and Charlotte Stanhope, though they may stay elsewhere.” I added, “Also, Mrs. Sutter’s brother, Peter, may be here for Father’s Day.”

  He nodded, and said, “That’s right. It’s this Sunday. Hard to believe the month is going so quickly.”

  “It’s not for me.”

  He didn’t respond to that and continued, “Is anyone living in that small house I saw near the gates?”

  I explained, “That is the gatehouse, where the recently deceased lady, Mrs. Allard, lived, and where I was living until Sunday.”

  “I see. Is anyone there now?”

  “The gatehouse has passed into the possession of Amir Nasim on the death of Ethel Allard.”

  “She left it to Amir Nasim?”

  It would have taken too long to explain to Mancuso about Ethel Allard fucking Augustus Stanhope, and life tenancy, and all that, though as a lawyer himself, Mr. Mancuso would understand the legal concept; but as an ex-seminarian, he wouldn’t be happy to hear that the wages of sin were sixty years of free rent. In any case, I said to him, “Mrs. Allard was a life tenant.” I added, “It’s my understanding that Nasim wants to beef up his security, so he may put some people in there.”

  Mr. Mancuso nodded and inquired, “Do you know anything about the situation in Nasim’s house?”

  I replied, “I know the house has fifty rooms, and it would take an assassin a week to check them all out.” To be less flippant, I added, “As far as I know, he lives there alone with his wife, but there could be live-in help. I saw one female servant.” I advised him, “You can ask Mrs. Sutter. She’s more familiar with the domestic situation at Stanhope Hall.”

  Mr. Mancuso noted that, then asked me a few questions about our living habits, our travel plans, if any, and so forth. He suggested, “You might consider an alarm system and a dog.”

  “We’re working on that.”

  He also advised, “If you have the resources, you should seriously consider engaging the services of a personal security company.”

  I suggested, “How about Bell Security?”

>   He forced a smile and replied, “That might be counterproductive.”

  I said to him, “It sounds to me as though we may be in great danger.”

  He thought about that and replied, “At this point, I’d say the danger level is yellow, and moving toward orange.”

  “But not red?”

  He replied, “Let’s not become too focused on threat levels.” He added, “There is a threat, and I will speak to the police again, and to the appropriate people in the Bureau, and we will evaluate the situation and keep you posted.”

  I nodded, then asked him, “Why did you say to me on the phone that you thought the threat was not imminent?”

  He didn’t reply for a few seconds, then said, “It’s a bit complicated, but it has to do with John Gotti’s death, and with Salvatore D’Alessio, and with some changes that may occur in the next few weeks.”

  “In other words, Anthony Bellarosa is occupied with other things.”

  “Basically, that’s the situation.” Mancuso further explained, “Anthony Bellarosa has some security concerns of his own, and that may be the primary reason for his disappearance.” He let me know, “The word is that one of them—Bellarosa or D’Alessio—will be retired within a few weeks. Traditionally, there is a moratorium on vendetta during the period of a wake and funeral.”

  “That’s a very civilized custom.” I asked, “Does that include any vendettas against the Sutters?”

  “No. But it does give Anthony and Sal a quiet week in regard to each other.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” I asked, “Why wasn’t this settled ten years ago?”

  He replied, “Again, it has to do with Gotti’s death, and the truce that was brokered by him after the incident at Giulio’s.” He further explained, “Organized crime is about making money—it’s not about gang wars or making headlines and color photos on television that upset the public. And that is why Anthony and his uncle have coexisted in an uneasy truce for all these years. But now . . . well, as with your situation, Mr. Sutter, the chickens are coming home to roost.”

  I didn’t reply.

  Mr. Mancuso added another, agricultural image to his explanation. “What we sow, we reap.”

  That wasn’t exactly what I wanted to hear from Felix Mancuso, who I thought of as a white knight, not the Grim Reaper. But maybe he was referring to only Anthony and Uncle Sal, not Susan and me.

  Mancuso concluded his explanation of the present state of affairs by saying, “You and Mrs. Sutter are not Anthony’s first priority, and maybe not even his second. But after he takes care of his other business with his friends and family—or they take care of their business with him—then he has to settle the score with Mrs. Sutter. That’s personal, but it’s also business in regard to his image.” I thought he was going to ask, “Capisce?” but he said, “That’s the situation as we believe it stands now.”

  “I see.” I thought a moment, then said, “But you could be wrong.”

  “Possibly, so you should not relax your guard.”

  “I had no intention of doing that.”

  “Good. And I’ll say this . . . if Salvatore D’Alessio disappears, or is murdered, then that should be a signal to all of us that Anthony Bellarosa is alive and settling some scores.” He added, “And if it’s Anthony who is found dead, then you, and Salvatore D’Alessio, and some others, can breathe easier.”

  “I understand.” I told him, “I’m rooting for Sally Da-da.”

  Mr. Mancuso did not comment.

  I thought about all of this and said, “Well, as a practical matter, we need to be here this week, but—”

  “I would advise you to go about your normal business this week.” He added, “You’ll have company, and you’ll be around people for this wake and funeral, and as I said, Anthony Bellarosa and his uncle need to settle their differences first. That’s the only strategy that makes sense.”

  “Right.” But I was sure no one ever accused Anthony of being as logical or intelligent as his father. I asked Mancuso, “So, you don’t think there is any danger to my houseguests . . . my children?”

  “I can’t say that with a hundred percent certainty, but I seriously doubt if Anthony Bellarosa would do anything that would shock the public consciousness, or bring down the full weight of the law on his head, or most importantly, anger his friends and associates to the point where they’d turn on him.” He added, “And your daughter is an assistant district attorney. That makes her bulletproof.” He reminded me, “It’s Mrs. Sutter that he wants, and possibly you as well, and that’s the license he has gotten from his organization.” He reminded me, “Whoever put out the contract on Frank Bellarosa—let’s say it was his brother-in-law—did not want you, or Mrs. Sutter, or Mrs. Bellarosa harmed, which is why you’re here now.” He concluded, “These are professionals—not street gangs.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” So maybe I should offer William and Charlotte our bedroom, and I’d loan William my raincoat and hat.

  I said to Mr. Mancuso, “Mrs. Sutter and I may leave the area next week, after our guests depart.”

  He replied, “That’s your decision. But if you do leave, keep your destination to yourselves.” He added, “Don’t even tell friends or family, and don’t write postcards home until you’ve moved on to a new destination.”

  “Understood.” But, as of fifteen minutes ago, I wasn’t sure if Susan and I were going anywhere together.

  Mr. Mancuso concluded his briefing by saying, “I know that you, and I’m sure Mrs. Sutter, as good, law-abiding citizens, can’t quite believe this is happening to you, and you may be thinking that the forces of law and order should be doing more to protect you, but rest assured, we are doing everything we can to see that no harm comes to you, and that we are treating this very seriously, and also know that your problem is being addressed as part of our larger issues with organized crime.”

  I could have commented on several points in Mr. Mancuso’s standard speech, but I said only, “Thank you.”

  We both stood, and I walked him to the front door. I asked him, “Are you going to call on Amir Nasim?”

  He replied, “That would make sense while I’m here.”

  I said, “I don’t know if he’s in, but he usually is.”

  Mr. Mancuso informed me, “He’s in.”

  I didn’t ask him how he knew that, because he certainly wasn’t going to tell me. He did say, however, “I’m going to inform Nasim that you and Mrs. Sutter have some security issues, as he does, and I’ll ask him to contact the local police if he sees anything unusual or suspicious.”

  “He asked me to do the same for him.”

  “Good. This should be a very safe compound.”

  I never thought of Stanhope Hall as a fortified compound, but I replied, “We can provide mutual security. Maybe we should sign a treaty.”

  Mr. Mancuso smiled and said, “Just be good neighbors.”

  I asked him, “Do you have anything in your files on Amir Nasim?”

  “I can’t comment on that.”

  “I know, but you can tell me, as his neighbor, if there is any credible threat against him.”

  Mr. Mancuso thought a moment, then said to me, “In confidence, I will tell you that Amir Nasim plays a dangerous but lucrative game of providing information and logistical resources to anyone who can afford his services. So he’s made a lot of friends, but also a lot of enemies, and his problem is he can’t tell one from the other.”

  I inquired, “Why don’t you arrest him?”

  Mr. Mancuso did not reply, but he gave me a final heads-up. “When you leave this estate, be extra cautious and do not hesitate to call 9-1-1 if you feel you’re being watched, followed, or stalked.”

  I nodded, and thought about buying a personal defense weapon for the road.

  Mr. Mancuso further briefed me, “It won’t be Anthony Bellarosa— you understand that.”

  “I understand, but . . . in this case, it’s so personal that I wonder if he wouldn’t�
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  “Not in a million years. And if something happens to his uncle, Anthony won’t be within a thousand miles of the hit, even though that, too, is personal.”

  I asked, “Whatever happened to personal vendetta and family honor?”

  He replied, “It exists, but now it’s outsourced.”

  He gave me two of his cards, and we shook hands and I thanked him for coming. He asked me to say goodbye to Mrs. Sutter, and asked, too, that she call him when she was up to it.

  I watched him get into his gray government sedan, and continued to watch as he went down the connecting driveway to the main drive and turned toward Stanhope Hall.

  Well, I had a few balls up in the air—wake, funeral, in-laws and children coming, an Iranian double-dealer in the main house, the police, the FBI, and last but not least, Anthony Bellarosa, who was negotiating a contract on me and Susan. All things considered, the pirates off the Somali coast were a lot less of a problem.

  And then, of course, there was Susan. I was feeling more protective toward her, and that made me realize that I was in this for the long haul. But I had no idea what she was feeling at this moment, so I should go upstairs and find out, or I should get in my car and take a drive to clear my head and stock up on armaments.

  I went back into the house and climbed the stairs to the second floor. The door to the family room was closed, and I hesitated, then opened it.

  Susan was still sitting on the couch, but she was now curled up in the corner of the couch, surrounded by throw pillows. I know what that position and that body language means, and it doesn’t mean “Come here and give me a big hug and a kiss.”

  I said to her, “I’m going to the sporting goods store.”

  She didn’t reply.

  “Is that store in Glen Cove still there?”

  No reply.

  I was instantly annoyed, which is one of my many personality flaws, and I said to her, “I’m staying in the house, but if you’d like, you can move my things into a guest room, or I’ll do it myself.”