The Gate House

by Nelson DeMille

  I nodded again. The best place to hide is under everyone’s nose. Anthony Bellarosa, as I said, was not the brightest guy on the planet, but like all predators, he could easily adapt his hunting skills to outwit people who were hunting him. And then, of course, he turned and became the hunter again.

  Detective Nastasi further informed us, “It appears, too, that the Bell Security guard at Alhambra Estates let Bellarosa know that there was no police stakeout at his house, and Anthony drove into Alhambra Estates, parked his car a few hundred yards from his house, then we think he walked through his own property, probably with Tony Rosini, and kept going until he got here.”

  I recalled the aerial view of the property that I’d seen on the Web site. I’d always known this was a possibility, though I’d hoped that the perimeter security for Stanhope Hall would be in place by the time we returned from Europe. Regardless, Anthony Bellarosa would have found his way to Susan, sometime, someplace.

  Detective Nastasi said, “As for Tony Rosini, we picked him up at the Bellarosa residence—he apparently has a room there in the basement—and he said he was there waiting for his boss to call for a pickup. That’s all he knows.” Nastasi added, “As of now, he’s being held as an accessory to a number of felonies.” He said to Susan, “Early tomorrow, you’ll need to identify him in a lineup as the man who accompanied Anthony Bella-rosa. Then we can charge him.”

  Susan nodded.

  Detective Nastasi let us know, “The fact that the alleged perpetrator has died will make this investigation and the resolution of this case a little simpler and faster than if he’d survived.”

  True. Dead thugs tell no tales, and they can’t make statements to the press or to the police that contradicted statements made by their victims. Most importantly, Anthony was not coming back.

  Nastasi asked us, “Do you have any questions about what is happening or what will happen with this case?”

  Susan asked him, “How long will you need us to be available?”

  He replied, “A month or two, although that’s not my decision to make.”

  Susan informed him, “We’re getting married the second Saturday in August, then we’re going on a honeymoon.”

  He nodded and said, “Congratulations.” He added, “That shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “No, it won’t be.” Lady Stanhope then inquired, “Where is my car?”

  He replied, “It hasn’t turned up, but I guess Rosini knows where it is. When we find it, we’ll need to hold it until the crime lab is through with it.”

  She nodded, then asked, “When can we return to our house?”

  “In a day or so.”

  I didn’t think Susan actually wanted to return so soon, but if or when we did, we both knew it would be temporary. After we survived the media circus, and got through the criminal investigation, we would sell the guest cottage to Amir Nasim and go someplace else. Where, I didn’t know—maybe we’d throw a dart at a map of the world.

  Detective Nastasi broke into my thoughts and said to Susan, “I believe that the grand jury will come back with a finding of justifiable homicide. So don’t worry about that.” He suggested, “Find a place to stay tonight, keep in touch, and tomorrow morning we’ll do that lineup.” He concluded, “Detective Jones says we don’t need you here any longer.”

  We thanked him, shook hands, and another detective escorted us to our bedroom, which was still filled with crime scene investigators. A photographer was taking pictures of the blood and of Anthony’s chalk outline on the carpet.

  We packed a few items in overnight bags and went back downstairs.

  I was surprised to see FBI Special Agent Felix Mancuso waiting for us in the foyer, and it was an awkward moment. He first inquired of Susan how she was doing, and she replied, “I’m all right.”

  He got right to the point and said, “Well, I feel as though I’d misled you regarding Anthony Bellarosa’s whereabouts and his intentions.” He added, “I never believed he’d do this himself.”

  I replied, “Don’t worry about it, Mr. Mancuso. We all made some educated guesses, and some of them were wrong.” I added, “We appreciate what you did, and your personal interest in this matter.”

  “That’s very kind of you.” But I could see that he was still vexed, and he admitted, “I wasn’t understanding Anthony Bellarosa . . . I didn’t understand how driven he was by hate . . . and by this ancient concept of blood for blood.” He added, “We don’t see much of that anymore in our nice, civilized society, but I’m seeing it in my new job.”

  I could have told Felix Mancuso that the veneer of civilization was, indeed, very thin, but he knew that, and yet, like all of us, he was constantly surprised when the old Beast reared its ugly head. I said to him, “We’re staying at Susan’s club tonight, and we’re exhausted.”

  “Understandably so. Let me walk you out.”

  We walked out to the forecourt. The night was clear and balmy, and there were a million stars overhead.

  Mr. Mancuso said to Susan, “I hear from Detective Jones that you were very smart and very brave.”

  Susan, forgetting or ignoring what I told her about justifiable homicide, replied, “I was very stupid. He wasn’t going to kill us. He said that about six times. This was not blood for blood. He wanted to humiliate us and to make our lives hell.” She took a deep breath and said to him, but really to me, “I could have just let him rape me, and it would have been over. But I risked my life, and John’s life, to kill him.”

  That, as Mr. Mancuso and I both knew, was an incriminating statement, but he liked us and he felt some responsibility for what had happened, so he said, “I’m sure you did believe that your life was in danger, Mrs. Sutter, and you did the right thing by shooting him.”

  Susan, still wanting to get this off her chest, said, “If he’d wanted to kill me for what I did to his father, I would understand that . . . an eye for an eye . . . but . . . he wanted to kill our souls, and I could not allow that.”

  Mr. Mancuso thought about that, then said, “I understand, but . . . well . . . maybe I would have done the same thing.”

  He walked us to the Taurus and said, “By the way, the medical examiner told me that Bellarosa was still alive when the EMS arrived, but before they could administer any emergency care, he died.”

  I exercised my right to remain silent on that subject.

  Mr. Mancuso continued, “It appears . . . well, the ME said that it looked like the wound had clotted, but . . . the clot in his chest somehow broke, and he re-bled. Hemorrhaged.” He looked at me and asked, “So . . . I was wondering if you’d tried to administer any first aid—as you did with Frank Bellarosa—and if perhaps you’d inadvertently caused a re-bleed?”

  Mr. Mancuso, I assumed, was tipping me off that there could be some questions later regarding the medical examiner’s report on the cause of death. I mentally thanked him for this and replied, “I did what I had to do.” I clarified that and said, “I called 9-1-1.”

  So we left it there, and if Mr. Mancuso thought I’d intervened to speed up Anthony Bellarosa’s death, he didn’t say it. I did, however, hope that he understood it.

  There didn’t seem to be anything more to say on these subjects, so we all shook hands, and Susan and I got into the car and drove down the long, dark driveway.

  The gatehouse was lit, and there were police cars outside the door and news vans on the street. The gates were open, and I drove through them, out of Stanhope Hall, and onto Grace Lane.

  We did not return to Stanhope Hall, but spent a week in the cottage at The Creek, speaking to friends and family by phone, but not meeting with anyone. We also made ourselves available to Detective Jones for some follow-up questions. Susan had no trouble identifying Tony Rosini, whom she’d known ten years ago, and he was charged with a number of Class A felonies, including kidnapping, that would put him in prison for a period that could be measured in geological time.

  Detective Jones had questioned me about the medical examine
r’s autopsy report—specifically, regarding if I knew how Anthony Bellarosa’s wound, which had clotted so nicely, had reopened, leaving pieces of the clot around the wound and other pieces embedded deep in the wound. He said, “As if someone had shoved something into the wound.”

  I found that hard to believe, or even to understand, and replied, “I have no medical training—except some basic first aid in the Army—so I can’t answer that question.”

  He didn’t seem entirely satisfied with my reply, but he did say, “I think the grand jury will return a verdict of justifiable homicide.”

  To which I replied, “What else could they possibly conclude?”

  After a week at The Creek, I booked us at Gurney’s Inn in Montauk Point.

  On our first night there, we walked along the beach, east toward the Montauk Point Lighthouse in the distance. There weren’t many people on the beach at midnight, but a group of young people had built a driftwood fire in the sand, and a few hardy fishermen were out in the surf, casting for bluefish.

  The moon was in the southwestern sky, and a wide river of moonlight illuminated the ocean and cast a silvery glow across the beach. There was a nice sea breeze skimming across the water, kicking up whitecaps and carrying with it the smell of salt air and the sound of the surf against the shore.

  Susan and I held hands and walked barefoot over the white sand, not saying anything, just listening to the sea.

  We climbed a small sand dune and sat facing the ocean. Out on the horizon, I could see the lights of cargo ships and tankers, looking like small cities floating on the water.

  We sat there for a long time, then Susan asked me, “Are we still getting married?”

  “Am I still getting my yacht?”

  She smiled and said, “Of course. After our wedding, we’ll sail to England with the children and clean out your flat. Then . . . we’ll send Edward and Carolyn home by plane.”

  “Then what?”

  “Can we sail around the world together?”

  “We can.”

  “Is it dangerous?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  I said to her, “It’s a transformative experience.”

  “Good. I need to be transformed.” She put her arm around me and asked, “Where do you want to live for the rest of our lives?”

  “I think we’ll know the place when we see it.”

  “You’ll love Hilton Head.”

  I smiled and replied, “I just might.” Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. I asked her, “Will you miss New York? Stanhope Hall?”

  “I suppose I will—it’s part of me. But we both have good memories of where we grew up, fell in love, got married, raised our children, and . . . our life together. And when we come here to visit, we can think of ourselves as time travelers who’ve gone back to a wonderful time and place in our lives, and we’ll make believe we’re young again and that we have our whole lives ahead of us.”

  “Well, we are young, and we do have our whole lives ahead of us.”

  She hugged me tight and said, “It’s wonderful to have you back.”

  I looked at the Montauk Lighthouse and remembered when I’d sailed away from here ten years ago. I had no idea where I was going, or if I was ever coming back. And it didn’t matter—because in my mind, and in my heart, Susan had been with me every day at sea. I spoke to her often, and I believed, wherever she was, she knew I was thinking of her.

  I showed her the world, in my mind, and we watched the stars together, weathered bad storms together, and sailed into safe harbors together—we even walked the streets of London together. She’d never really left my side for ten years, so this was not a reunion, because we had never been apart, and this voyage we were about to take would be our second together.

  And if Fate had already decided that we would not return from the sea, then that was all right. Every journey has to end, and the end of the journey is always called Home.

  Now voyager sail thou forth to seek and find.

  —Walt Whitman

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As in all my novels, I’ve called on friends and acquaintances to assist me with technical details, professional jargon, and all the other bits and pieces of information that a novelist needs, but can’t get from a book or the Internet.

  First, thanks to my very old friend U.S. Airways Captain (retired) Thomas Block, contributing editor and columnist for many aviation magazines, and co-author with me of Mayday, and author of six other novels; Tom is a great researcher, and as a novelist himself, he understands what’s needed to give fiction the ring of truth.

  Thanks, too, to Sharon Block for her careful reading of the manuscript, her excellent suggestions, and for giving Tom a reason to get up every morning.

  Once again, many thanks to my good and longtime friend, John Kennedy, deputy police commissioner, Nassau County Police Department (retired), labor arbitrator, and member of the New York State Bar. John has given me invaluable advice and information in those areas of The Gate House that called for knowledge of law enforcement. I took some literary license, where necessary, and any errors or omissions are mine alone.

  Also in the area of the law, I’d like to thank my attorney and good friend, David Westermann, who read (pro bono) the sections of this book having to do with wills, estates, trusts, and related matters. Dave gave it to me straight, but again, I took literary license where necessary, and I made up some law for fun.

  Many thanks to Daniel Barbiero, a great friend and a great sailor, who read the sections of the book pertaining to sailing, the Seawanhaka Corinthian Yacht Club, and related subjects. It was fun doing the research at the Seawanhaka bar, the Rex bar in Saigon, and all the other bars over the last half century.

  Thanks, too, to John E. Hammond, historian and author of Oyster Bay Remembered (Maple Hill Press), for sharing with me his amazing knowledge of Long Island’s Gold Coast. Once again, I need to say I exercised my novelist’s right of literary license, and any errors or omissions of historical fact are mine alone.

  This book truly would not have been possible without the hard work, dedication, and professional craftsmanship of my excellent and very patient assistants, Dianne Francis and Patricia Chichester. I’m going to let them write my next book.

  Very special thanks to Jamie Raab, publisher of Grand Central Publishing, editor of Nelson DeMille, and a great friend. Jamie was the biggest fan of The Gate House long before I wrote the first word, and she’s been there every step of the way. So in many ways, I share the authorship of this book (but not the royalties) with Jamie.

  It’s always a good idea to thank the CEO, even if you don’t mean it, but in this case, my thanks are most sincere to my friend David Young, chairman and CEO of Hachette Book Group. David, like Jamie, believed in a sequel to The Gold Coast even when I had doubts—doubts that were dispelled with judicious quantities of single malt Scotch whisky. Cheers, David.

  I’d also like to thank my mother-in-law and father-in-law, Joan and Bob Dillingham, for some insightful tips on Episcopalians as well as funerals, weddings, and related church matters; any resemblance in this book to fact is purely coincidental.

  And, I have saved the best for last. Every author needs a spouse or a significant other to help prevent the common affliction of writers known as Swollen Head Syndrome, and I have been fortunate to have found such a person: my bride of less than two years, Sandra Dillingham DeMille. Sandy, in addition to editing some of my most annoying traits, is a very good manuscript editor, and also my source of information on the more subtle points of the world of the WASP. For all of this, and for giving me James Nelson DeMille, I thank you, and I love you.

  The following people have made generous contributions to charities in return for having their names used for some of the characters in this novel: Diane and Barry Ganz, A. J. Nastasi, and Jake Watral, who all made contributions to the Crohn’s & Colitis Foundation of America; Dan Hannon, who contributed to the D
iabetes Research Institute; Roger Bahnik, Dave Corroon, and Diane Knight, who all contributed to the Boys & Girls Club of Oyster Bay–East Norwich; Stephen Jones and Matthew Miller, who made contributions to the Fanconi Anemia Research Fund; and Christine Donnelly, who, with her family, contributed to the Mollie Biggane Melanoma Foundation.

  Many thanks to those caring and public-spirited men and women. I hope you’ve enjoyed seeing your names as characters in The Gate House.

  And finally, I used two additional names in this book—Justin W. Green and Joseph P. Bitet—in honor of their service to the country as soldiers serving in Iraq. Welcome home.