The Gate House

by Nelson DeMille

  Jenny finished her reporting and her commentary, then said to the anchor, “Back to you, Chuck.”

  A young anchorman came on the screen, and in what was supposed to be a spontaneous question to his reporter, he asked, “Jenny, what are your sources saying about the motive for this killing?”

  Jenny replied, as scripted, “Sources tell me that if Tony Bellarosa was behind this hit, then the obvious motive is revenge for what happened ten years ago when his father, mother, and another couple—”

  And she still didn’t mention me by name. Was she protecting me, or torturing me?

  Chuck commented on ten years being a long time to wait for revenge, and Jenny explained to him and her viewers about patience in the world of La Cosa Nostra, long memories, and vendetta.

  Chuck inquired, “So, do you think this killing will lead to more killings?”

  Jenny replied, “It’s quite possible.”

  I thought so, too.

  Well, it seemed to me that Anthony—formerly Tony—had gotten himself in a pickle—or, worse, a jar of hot pepperoni. I mean, did that idiot—that mamaluca—think that no one was going to connect him to the murder of his uncle Sal? Well, obviously, that’s what he thought he wanted, as his message to the mob that he’d carried out a family vendetta—but I’m sure he hadn’t wanted to fire up the media and the forces of law and order. Unlike his father, Anthony did not think ahead. Anna said it best. “You don’t think, Tony. Your father knew how to think.” Stonato. Moms know.

  And speaking of Anna, how was Anthony going to explain to Mom about having Uncle Sal clipped? Well, for one thing, Anna wouldn’t believe the lies that the police and the news media were making up about her son. She hadn’t even believed that her husband, the martyred St. Frank, had been involved with organized crime. And the same denial applied to her brother-in-law, Sal, and so forth.

  Of course, Anna knew all this was true, but she could never admit any of this to herself, or she’d lose her jolly disposition, and her sanity. Still, Salvatore D’Alessio’s funeral was going to be a tense family affair, especially if Anthony showed up, and Marie didn’t play the game that the boys had invented long ago.

  Jenny was now talking about Anthony Bellarosa, and it seemed to me that she was winging it. In fact, she said, “Very little is known about Frank Bellarosa’s son, and he seems to have kept a low profile since his father’s death. But now, with his uncle’s death, and his alleged, or rumored, involvement—”

  I turned off the television and ate Susan’s leftover cake.

  Well, I could give Jenny a little more information about Tony, beginning with his name change.

  Anyway, I thought, it was looking better for the Sutters. Stupid Anthony had unwittingly—half-wittedly—unleashed a media storm; the Father’s Day Rubout—and that was good for Susan and me. Also the TV coverage was nothing compared to tomorrow morning’s blood-splattered tabloid photos. Hopefully, before the police arrived at Giovanni’s, someone had taken a few pictures of Salvatore D’Alessio lying on the floor with his head in shreds, and those pictures would be worth a lot of money to some lucky people who had taken their cameras to dinner for Father’s Day photos. And sometimes, the NYPD themselves leaked some gory photographs to the press to show the public that La Cosa Nostra was not really an Italian fraternal organization. That would be a good public relations counterpoint to John Gotti as a man of the people. I could imagine some photographs of Marie splattered with her husband’s blood, brains, and skull. I knew how that felt. If nothing else, there’d be some color photos in the tabloids of the post-whack scene—the table, blood on the floor, the vomit. No, no vomit. Blood was okay, but never vomit. Children could see it.

  I finished Susan’s cake, then went downstairs and rechecked the doors, windows, and exterior lighting, after which I went upstairs to the bedroom.

  Susan was still awake, reading.

  I said, “You should get some sleep.”

  She didn’t respond. Apparently, she was upset.

  I said to her, “Look, there is going to be a lot of TV coverage of this, but I promise you, I won’t look at it again, and we won’t buy any American newspapers in London.”

  Again, she didn’t respond.

  I said, “It’s good that we’re going to London.”

  She nodded, then said, “You see why I went to Hilton Head.”

  Well, no, I didn’t, but to validate that, I said, “You see why I spent three years on my boat.”

  She didn’t reply to that.

  I got the shotgun and the carbine out of my closet and leaned the shotgun against her nightstand, and the carbine against my nightstand.

  As I started to get undressed, she said to me, “I’m sorry you had to see him on TV.”

  “Don’t worry about it. In fact, do not talk about it.”

  She didn’t respond.

  To change the mood and the moment, I said to her, “Do you remember that time we went to Paris, and sat in that little café . . . where was that?”

  “On the Ile de la Cité. And you were flirting with the waitress.”

  “Oh, well . . . do you remember that dinner we had in Le Marais, and you were flirting with the sommelier?”

  “You’re making that up.”

  I got into bed, kissed her, and said, “This was the best Father’s Day I’ve had in ten years.” Not so good for Uncle Sal, or anyone else in Giovanni’s, but . . .

  “Me, too.”

  “And thanks for the yacht.”

  “We are going to buy a sailboat.” She turned off her lamp and said, “Good night.”

  I turned off my lamp and said, “Sweet dreams.”

  Then I lay awake, thinking of this day, and of tomorrow, and of Tuesday in London. Hopefully, when we got back, Anthony Bellarosa would be in jail or dead, and if not, there was nothing keeping us from taking up residence in my London flat until Anthony was no longer a threat. But first, we had to get on that plane.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  Monday morning. It was a bright, beautiful day.

  We were up early to see Edward off, and Susan made him a hearty breakfast of ham and eggs—which I helped him eat—and at 7:30 A.M., a car and driver came for him. I would have driven him to the airport, but he didn’t want to say goodbye at JFK. I remember a time when airports were like train stations or ship piers, and your friends or family walked you to the gate and could practically get on the plane, and could definitely get on the ocean liner to see you off with cocktails. But those days were long gone, and Edward had no memory of that simpler time. It occurred to me that there was a whole generation who accepted this war without end as normal. In fact, it was now normal.

  Susan, Edward, and I stood in the forecourt, and I noted that Edward hadn’t forgotten his overnight bag. I asked my son with the genius-level IQ, “Do you have money?”

  “Mom gave me money.”

  “Good. Your ticket?”

  “Got it.”

  “Photo ID?”

  “Got it.”

  “Well, I guess you’re good to go.”

  Susan said to him, “Call or e-mail as soon as you get in.”

  “Okay.”

  I remembered some trips I’d made when I still lived at home, and my send-offs hadn’t been quite as sad or solicitous as the send-offs that Susan and I give to our children. Well, maybe we overdo it as much as my parents underdid it.

  Susan said, “We’ll call you from London.”

  “Yeah. Good.” He asked, “When are you going to London?”

  “Tomorrow.” As we told you last night.

  “Great. Have a good trip.”

  I reminded him, “Don’t forget, you have a Brioni suit coming in about eight weeks.”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  Susan reminded him, “Write or e-mail your grandparents—all of them—and tell them how much you enjoyed seeing them.”

  “Okay.”

  Well, the briefing seemed to be finished, and the driver was waiting, and Edw
ard seemed anxious to get on the road.

  We hugged and kissed, and he said to us with a smile, “You look good together.”

  That sort of caught me off guard, and I didn’t reply, but Susan said, “Thank you. We’ll see you in L.A. in July, maybe August, then here in August for our sail.” She added, “And maybe a wedding in between.”

  He smiled. “Great.”

  One more hug and kiss, and Edward was in the car, which moved slowly down the gravel drive. He opened the rear window and waved, and then the car disappeared into the shadows of the tree-lined driveway.

  Susan was wiping her eyes with a tissue. It’s always sad to see a loved one off, but it’s much sadder when you don’t know when—or if—you’ll ever see them again.

  Sophie was staying until the Stanhopes arrived, which was scheduled for about 9:30 A.M., unless I went over to The Creek and cut the brake lines on their car.

  Anyway, Sophie wanted to know if she should go out for the newspapers. I really wanted to see the blood-spattered front pages and read the sensational coverage of the Father’s Day . . . what? Massacre? No. Only Sally Da-da had been clipped. That wasn’t a massacre. How about the Father’s Day Pop-Pop?

  But I’d promised Susan—and Felix Mancuso—that there would be no newspapers in the house. Maybe I’d go out later, after the Stanhopes left, and read the Daily News and the Post in a coffee shop.

  I replied to Sophie’s offer, “No newspapers today.” I did say to her, however, “Mrs. Sutter and I may be in the news today.”

  “Yes? Nice.”

  “Well . . .” I let her know, “Maybe not so nice. Okay, we’ll be gone until . . . sometime in July. Maybe longer.” Then we’ll be cleaning the toilets ourselves. “You have the key, so please stop by once a week to check the house.”

  “Okay. You have nice trip. Where you go?”

  “A romantic month in Warsaw. Can we pick up anything for you?”

  “Yes. I give you food list. Thank you.”

  “You’re very welcome.”

  She hesitated, then said to me, “Mrs. Sutter so happy now.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Mother and father not happy.”

  What was your first clue? I said to Sophie, “They’re going home today.”

  “Yes? Good.” She turned and went back to whatever she’d been doing.

  So, to expand on what I was saying to Sophie about our names in the newspapers, I was fairly certain that some of the interesting background of this murder, which hadn’t been covered in Jenny’s slapdash instant-TV reporting, would come out in the tabloids over the next few days. Specifically, there would be more on Frank Bellarosa’s murder ten years ago, including the name of his killer (the blueblood society lady, Susan Stanhope Sutter) along with some nice file photos of her. And another interesting fact in that case was that Susan Sutter’s husband, John Sutter—use a good file photo, please—had been the dead don’s lawyer, and the Sutters had lived on the magnificent estate called Stanhope Hall, adjoining the don’s palatial estate, Alhambra. Plus, of course, there would be lots of speculation about Mrs. Sutter’s relationship with her Mafia neighbor. Well, it could have been worse; Susan could have been Frank’s lawyer, and I could have been his lover. That’s how Hollywood would make the movie.

  So this was all going to be dug up again, and I was concerned about Edward and Carolyn seeing it. Thanks, Anthony, you asshole. I hoped that we didn’t have to dodge the news media outside the gates as we did last time around. I mean, the story was not about Susan and me, but you never know how these things are going to turn—especially when there’s a rich, handsome couple involved in some way. Maybe Jenny would show up, as she had ten years ago—before we became close—and do a background piece standing in front of the gates with the gatehouse behind her: “Here, behind these iron gates and these forbidding walls, live John and Susan Sutter, who ten years ago were immersed . . .” Enmeshed? Entangled? Whatever. Well, if she showed up, I’d go out there and give her a big hug and kiss, and shout into her microphone, “Jenny! Sweetheart! I missed you!”

  That’s silly. It did occur to me, however, that I should call Mr. Nasim and give him a heads-up about all of this before he read something in the tabloids that mentioned John and Susan Sutter of Stanhope Hall. Maybe he’d double his offer for the house.

  On the other hand, Susan and I were leaving tomorrow, so why bother calling anyone? My and Susan’s philosophy is: When the shit hits the fan, it’s time to hit the road.

  Well, maybe one positive thing might come out of all this media coverage—maybe Anthony would have trouble finding a hit man who wanted to take the Sutter job. I mean, hit men are sort of low-profile guys, and they don’t like to hit public figures or people who are in the news. Right? That was an encouraging thought.

  It was now 9:00 A.M., and Susan, sitting at the patio table with her coffee, her portable phone, and a pad and pencil, dialed her travel agent.

  As the phone rang, she asked me, “Do you mind flying economy class?”

  “What’s that?”

  Before she could tell me, her agent answered, and Susan and the agent chatted a minute, then Susan booked us two economy class seats to London on Continental Airlines, departing JFK at 7:30 A.M. She said to the travel agent, “No, we don’t need a hotel. My husband has a flat in London.”

  When did I get married? Did I lose a day somewhere?

  Then she booked us on the Chunnel train to Paris, and in Paris, Susan blew it out and booked us for a week at the Ritz, where we’d stayed the last time. Then Air France economy class back to New York, arriving Wednesday afternoon, July 3, so we’d be back in time for the annual Fourth of July barbecue at Seawanhaka—unless we decided to go on the lam in London.

  She hung up and said to me, “I’m really excited about this trip.”

  “Me, too.”

  “John, when can we get married?”

  “We actually don’t need to. I can just file a petition in matrimonial court—de lunatico inquirendo—to annul our divorce decree, then we’ll be automatically married again.”

  “You are so full of shit.”

  “Right. How about July Fourth at Seawanhaka? Everyone we know will be there anyway, and it won’t cost us anything, except what we spend for ourselves.”

  She didn’t think that was such a good idea—women are not practical—and she called the club manager at Seawanhaka. Happily and luckily, the second Saturday in August was available, so Susan booked it for an outdoor wedding reception—details to be discussed at great length for the next two months.

  She hung up and said to me, “This is perfect. We’ll spend our wedding night in a guest room at the club, then the next morning, the four of us will sail off in our new yacht for a two-week honeymoon.”

  “Are your parents coming with us on our honeymoon?”

  “No, John. Edward and Carolyn.”

  “Oh, right.” I reminded her, “They didn’t come on our last honeymoon.”

  She ignored that and said, “We’ll go to L.A. the week before, spend a few days with Edward, and bring him back with us for the wedding.”

  “Good plan.”

  So that sounded like a wonderful summer. Then, if things were resolved here, I’d find a job in September, and we’d live happily ever after—in a smaller house, without the Stanhope paydays every month. In the meantime, all we had to do was not get bumped off.

  I was sitting at my desk in my home office with the door closed, composing an e-mail with misinformation to Elizabeth about Susan and me going to Istanbul—we needed to decide where it was that we were supposed to be going—and returning in three or four weeks. At that time, we’d settle Ethel’s estate.

  I also reminded her, gently, about the letter, and asked her if we could meet today before I left early the next morning. I then called the gatehouse and told them to let Elizabeth Allard pass through.

  As I hung up, a blue Ford Taurus pulled into the forecourt, and out stepped Dick-Brain and Ditsy.
I should have told the guard to put them in chains, but apparently Susan had pre-cleared them.

  I watched them through the window as they walked to the house, and they were speaking to each other as though they were doing a last-minute rehearsal. They looked a little grim, so I assumed they hadn’t been visited by an angel in the night who’d told them that God loved all humanity, except them, so they’d better not cut off the bucks to their family or they’d go straight to hell.

  The doorbell rang, and I could hear Sophie greeting the Stanhopes. I was surprised that Susan hadn’t answered the door herself; in this world, you don’t let a household employee greet family or close friends, unless you’re truly indisposed. So, Susan was sending them a message—or busy sharpening a meat cleaver.

  I heard the door close and the air suddenly became cold, and black flies appeared out of nowhere, then green slime began oozing out of the walls. The Stanhopes had arrived.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  Susan and I had decided that she’d meet with Lucifer and the Wicked Witch of the South in the living room, and I would stay behind closed doors in the office so she could consult with me, or call me into the discussion, if appropriate.

  I’d negotiated a lot of tax settlements this way, as well as some nasty family disputes about inheritances; different rooms for different people so that the parties could not get ugly or physical with each other. It usually works.

  I checked my e-mail, and there were some messages from friends in London, inquiring about what they’d heard, either from Samantha or from my law colleagues. Well, I couldn’t reply to any of these e-mails until the jury came in from the living room with the verdict. So I played poker with the computer, and I was on a winning streak—lucky at cards, unlucky at love?

  About fifteen minutes after the Stanhopes arrived, there was a knock on my door, and I said, “Come in.”

  Sophie appeared and informed me, “I go now.”

  “Well, thank you for all you did.”

  The door was still open, and I could hear voices in the living room, and the tone and the cadence was distinctly somber and grave.