The Gate House

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

The next morning, Tuesday, was partly cloudy, and after a run on the beach and a soul-nourishing spa breakfast, we headed home to Lattingtown and Stanhope Hall. This is a drive of about two hours, and during that time we spoke a little about the last ten years, trying to fill in some of what Susan referred to as “the lost years.” Also lost and missing was any mention of significant or insignificant others, so there were some gaps in the historical record. Sort of like black holes. She did remind me, however, “Call Samantha.”

I thought about asking her when, where, and how she and Frank Bellarosa first hooked up, but she wouldn’t like that question. Also, I realized that this was not bothering me any longer, so maybe I was really getting over it, and getting on with it.

I pulled into the gates of Stanhope Hall, and we noticed a moving van parked to the side of the gatehouse. I also saw Elizabeth’s SUV, so I pulled over, and Susan and I got out and went inside the gatehouse.

Elizabeth, in jeans and a T-shirt, was in the foyer, supervising the move. She saw us and said, “Good morning. I stopped by the guest cottage to tell you I was going to clean out the house, but you weren’t home.” She added, “I thought it would be a good idea to just get this done, so we don’t have to negotiate for time with Nasim after the funeral.” She then looked at me and said, “John, I hope I’m not kicking you out.”

Well, no, but you are burning my bridges, and now I can’t come back here when the Stanhopes arrive.

“John?”

“No. I’m finished with the house.”

“That’s what you said.” Elizabeth offered, “The movers will take all your boxes and files to the guest cottage, if you’d like.”

“Thank you,” I said before she mentioned her previous offer to store me and my files in her house.

Susan asked Elizabeth, “How is your mother doing?”

Elizabeth shrugged. “The same.” She added, “I know the end is near, and I can’t believe it… but I’ve accepted it.” She looked around the gatehouse and said, “They were here for over sixty years… and now… well, life goes on.” She said to Susan, “I asked John if Nasim would consider selling the house, but Nasim wants it for himself.” She pointed out, “We could have been neighbors again.”

Susan replied, in what sounded like a sincere tone, “That would have been wonderful.” She informed Elizabeth, “I was going to have my cleaning lady do some work, and I’m sorry if John left a mess.”

John wanted to say that Elizabeth left more of a mess than John left, but John knows when to keep his mouth shut.

Elizabeth assured Susan, “Oh, don’t worry about it. I’m out of here, and Nasim can do what he wants.” She informed us, “He drove by before, and I told him that he could have the house as of now.” She looked at her lawyer and asked, “All right?”

I replied, “You’re the executrix.”

She continued, “He knew from his wife’s conversation with Susan that you’d reunited and were living together in the guest cottage.” She added, “He wishes you both luck and happiness.”

Susan said, “That’s very nice.”

Well, Mr. Nasim could now put security people in the gatehouse, though I would advise him not to use Bell Security. Also, he was probably wondering how this new development would impact on his goal of getting Susan to sell. Maybe I should tell Nasim that we, too, had security problems, and I had a shotgun, so we could join forces and provide supporting fire in case of an attack.

Susan interrupted my strategic thinking and said to Elizabeth, “By the way, we haven’t told my parents yet that we’ve reunited. So, if you communicate with them, please don’t mention it.”

Elizabeth replied, “I understand.”

Susan added, “Same with John’s mother, and Father Hunnings.”

“I won’t mention it to a soul.”

“Thank you.” Susan asked, “Do you mind if I go get my camera and take some photos before everything is moved out?”

Elizabeth informed her, “I’ve already done that, and I’ll send you copies.” She said, “This was the only home I ever knew growing up, and I’m going to miss all the memories that used to come back when I visited Mom.” She glanced at me and smiled, and I thought she was going to tell Susan about her memory of having an adolescent crush on me. But Elizabeth is not a troublemaker, and she concluded, “They were good times when we were all here at Stanhope Hall.”

Susan, who is a sensitive soul, gave Elizabeth a big hug, and they both got misty-eyed.

I never know what to do when women get emotional – do I join in?

The ladies got themselves back together, and Susan said to Elizabeth, “If we’re not home, the movers can leave the boxes in my office. John’s office.” She added, “The door is unlocked.”

Elizabeth replied, “I’ll supervise that.” She reminded me, “I still have that letter that Mom wrote to you, but I don’t feel right about giving it to you until she passes.”

I assured her, “That’s the right thing to do,” though I didn’t think Ethel was going to rally, sit up in bed, and ask, “Can I see that letter again?”

We chatted for a few more minutes, then Susan and I got back in her Lexus, and Susan asked me, “What letter?”

“Ethel wrote me a letter, to be delivered upon her death.”

“Really? What do you think is in the letter?”

“Her recipe for crabapple jelly.”

“Be serious.”

I continued up the tree-lined drive toward the guest cottage and replied, “I don’t know, but we don’t have long to find out.”

Back at the guest cottage, we unloaded our new clothes and spent half an hour getting me more settled in than I’d been. I was actually starting to feel like I was home again, and it was a good feeling.

I asked Susan for the pass code to the house phone, and I went into the office, but there were no messages for me, only a few from her girlfriends.

Susan joined me in the office and asked me, “Are you expecting a call?”

“I am.”

“Who knows that you’re here?”

“The police, our children, Elizabeth, Mr. and Mrs. Nasim, Anthony Bellarosa, and Felix Mancuso.”

“Who is Felix… oh, yes. I remember him.” She asked me, “Why did you call him?”

“Because of Anthony Bellarosa.”

She shrugged and said, “Do it your way.”

“With your help and cooperation.” I said to her, “I want us to have a security alarm system installed here.”

She let me know, “This house has been standing here for one hundred years without an alarm system, and I don’t intend to put one in now.”

“Well, let’s start locking the doors and windows for a change.”

“I lock them at night.”

My late aunt Cornelia, who lived in a big Victorian house in Locust Valley, never locked doors or windows, except at night, when she remembered. It was a generational thing to some extent, and a statement, which was, “I am not afraid, and I will not let others change the way I have always lived.” I liked that, but it was not reality. We’ve all changed how we live since 9/11, for instance, and we don’t need to like it; we need to do it.

Susan, however, was on this nostalgia trip, trying to re-create her life as it was ten years ago. She’d gotten back her old house, and her old husband, rejoined her clubs, and was thinking about buying our former summer house in East Hampton. You can do a lot with money, but one thing you can’t do is turn back the clock. And if you try, the results are often disappointing, disastrous, or, in this case, dangerous.

With that in mind, I asked her, “Where do you think the shot- gun is?”

“I think it’s in the basement, John. I don’t know. I haven’t unpacked all the boxes since I moved.”

“I’ll look later.”

“Don’t open the box marked, ‘Boyfriends.’”

“Do you keep old boyfriends in a box?”

“Just their ashes.” She promised, “I’ll look later.”

She sat down at the desk, accessed her e-mail, and said, “Here are replies from Edward, Carolyn, and my mother.” She read them and said, “Just confirming… and saying let them know…”

I reminded her, “Your parents think they’re sleeping here.”

“Let’s see how that goes.”

“Susan, they are going to show up in a rental car on your doorstep-”

“Our doorstep, darling.”

“And they will not be happy.”

“Then they can turn around and go somewhere else.”

“I think you should tip them off… maybe a hint. Like, ‘I’m living with a man who I used to be married to.’”

She began hitting the keys and said, “Dear Mom and Dad… I have a boyfriend who looks a lot like… no, how about… For reasons I can’t explain now, I’ve booked you a room at… where?”

“Motel Six in Juneau, Alaska.”

“Help me, John.”

“See if there’s a cottage available at The Creek. You can get them in on your membership. Same with the guest rooms at Seawanhaka.”

She finished the e-mail and said to me, “If I send this, they’ll call and ask why they can’t stay here.”

“Tell them your allowance isn’t covering expenses, and you’ve taken in boarders.”

She shut down the computer without sending the e-mail and said to me, “Let them come here, and we’ll deal with it then.”

“That’s a great idea.” And to get into the proper spirit of this reunion, I said to her, “I’ve rehearsed a happy and upbeat line for when they show up.” I took her by the hand and led her to the front door, opened it, and said, “Here they come, and they’re out of their car.”

“John-”

I stepped outside, threw my arms in the air, and shouted, “Mom! Dad! I’m baaack!”

Susan thought that was funny, but she reminded me, “You’re an idiot.”

We went back to the office, and I found in my wallet the card of Detective Nastasi, and I said to Susan, “I’ll call him.” I dialed his office number, got through to him, and I said, “Detective, this is John Sutter, returning your call.” I hit the speaker button so Susan could listen.

Detective Nastasi said, “Right. Well, you got my message. His wife said he’s out of town.”

I informed him, “Bellarosa said to me on Sunday that he had a busy week because John Gotti was expected to die very soon, and he needed to go to the wake and the funeral.”

“Yeah? Well, Gotti died yesterday afternoon at the prison hospital in the Federal penitentiary in Springfield, Missouri.” He added, “It was in the papers and on the news.”

I replied, “I’ve been out of touch.” I thought about asking him if Jenny Alvarez was still covering the Mafia beat – she might have some inside information – but I thought better of that and said, “Maybe Bellarosa went to Springfield, Missouri.”

“Maybe.” He reported, “I checked with the security guy at the booth there at Alhambra, and the guy says he hasn’t seen Bellarosa since he left yesterday morning, and I just called the booth again and another guy said the same thing.”

“Well, you should know that Bell Security is a wholly owned subsidiary of Bell Enterprises, Inc., whose president, CEO, and principal stockholder is Anthony Bellarosa.”

“No kidding? How about that?” He asked me, “You think that’s a coincidence?”

“Uh… no.”

He laughed, then said, “Actually, I had a friend of mine in the District Attorney’s Squad run a check on Anthony Bellarosa. The file shows Bell Enterprises as his legit company in Rego Park – linen service, restaurant supply, trash carting, limousine service – usual wiseguy stuff.”

I hoped there wasn’t anything there about my new law firm of Sutter, Bellarosa and Roosevelt.

Detective Nastasi assured me, “So, we understand about Bell Security.” He asked me, “How did you know about that?”

“He told me.”

Detective Nastasi had no comment on that and said, “You know, when I spoke to his wife, I got the impression that he really was gone, and I didn’t see the Escalade that’s registered to him. So maybe he did fly to Springfield to be with the family.”

“Maybe you can check on that.”

“Maybe. All right, Mr. Sutter, we’ll keep on this, and as soon as I speak to Bellarosa, I will get back to you. Meantime, since you’re a neighbor, if you see him or hear anything about his whereabouts, give me a call, but don’t go looking for him.”

“I don’t intend to.”

“Good.” He then said, “They tore the mansion down.”

“They did.”

“That was some place. They don’t build them like that anymore.”

“No, they don’t.”

“What do you think those houses go for?”

“I don’t know…” I glanced at Susan, who held up three fingers, and I replied, “About three.”

“No kidding?”

I suggested, “Maybe crime pays.”

He reminded me, “We don’t have a thing on him.”

I was a little annoyed now, so I said, “You need to look harder.”

“Well, that’s the DA’s job, and the Feds.”

Regarding that, I said to him, “As an attorney, I know that the FBI has no jurisdiction in a case of threatening or harassment, but I’m wondering if you should call the Organized Crime Task Force to see if they’re tracking his movements for other reasons.”

He informed me, “The FBI wouldn’t tell me if my ass was on fire.”

“All right… but if they’re watching him for other things, they should know about this, just in case…”

“Okay. I’ll take care of that.”

“Good.”

“Any more suggestions?”

Oddly, I didn’t think he was being sarcastic. I think he was covering his aforementioned ass in case Susan Stanhope Sutter got whacked on his watch. I replied, “I’m sure you’re doing all you can, but I’d appreciate knowing that all the area patrol cars are aware of my complaint.”

“They have been notified.” He added, “When I speak to Bellarosa, I’ll reevaluate the situation and the response.”

“All right. Thank you for staying on this.”

“You have a good day, and regards to Mrs. Sutter.”

“Thank you.”

I hung up and looked at Susan, who was sitting now in a club chair perusing a magazine, and she said, “I think he’s in Missouri with the Gotti family, so we don’t need to think about this for a while.”

“Right.” Unfortunately, that’s not the way it worked. Sally Da-da was out of the state when he’d tried to have Frank whacked. This was not the kind of work that a don or a capo did himself; that’s why it was called a contract. And that’s why when the contract was fulfilled, the guy who put it out was on the beach in Florida.

And that was why you needed to keep your enemies close; because when you didn’t know where they were, they became more dangerous.

Susan said to me, “Come with me to Locust Valley. I need some wine and liquor, and I want to do some food shopping. I’ll let you pick out a granola you like.”

I actually wanted to wait for Mancuso’s call, and to look for the shotgun, but I thought I should go with her, so I said, “All right. Sounds like fun.”

“Shopping for anything with you is far from fun.”

On the subject of dating or remarrying your ex-wife, my friend also said, “They’ve got your name, rank, and serial number from the last time they captured you.”

Well, that was very cynical, but the upside was that the reunited couple could dispense with the long, stressful, best-behavior courtship.

We got into the Lexus, and Susan wanted to drive. She said to me, “We should get rid of your rental car.”

“I need a car.”

“Buy one.”

“Susan, sweetheart, I have no money and no credit in this country.”

“Really? Well, I do.”

“How much do you think your father would give me to go back to England?”

“One hundred thousand. That’s his standard offer for unacceptable men.”

“I wish I’d known that when we were dating.”

“In your case, he’d double that.”

“I’ll split it with you.”

As we approached the gatehouse, we saw Elizabeth outside, so Susan stopped, and Elizabeth came over to the car and leaned in my window. She was wearing the same lilac scent as the other night. Susan said to her, “Why don’t you join us for dinner tonight? That will help get your mind off things.”

Elizabeth replied, “Thank you, but I want to get back to Fair Haven.”

Susan said, “I understand. But if you change your mind, we’ll be at The Creek about seven P.M.”

That was the first I knew that Susan wasn’t cooking, and that was a relief, though maybe in the last ten years she’d learned what all those things were for in the kitchen. On the other hand, I was not happy to hear that we were going to The Creek.

Elizabeth turned to me and said, “I have a case of crabapple jelly for you.”

“Thank you.”

She said to Susan, “That’s John’s fee for handling the estate.”

I thought Susan was going to say, “No wonder he’s broke.” But instead, she said to Elizabeth, “If you just want to come by the club for a quick drink, call.”

“Thank you.”

And off we went to Locust Valley. I said to Susan, “I don’t really want to go to The Creek.”

She replied, “Let’s get it over with.”

“How can I refuse an invitation like that?”

“You know what I mean.”

I thought about it, then replied, “All right. It could be fun. Maybe Althea Gwynn will be there.”

We drove into Locust Valley and stopped first at the wine and liquor store, then at the supermarket, where we ran into a few women Susan knew, and even a few I knew. We did the supermarket-aisle chat each time, and only one woman, Beatrice Browne, a.k.a. “Bee-bee,” said something provocative. She said to me, “I’m surprised you’re back, John.”

To which I replied, “I’m surprised you’re still here.”

Bee-bee didn’t know quite how to take that, so she put her cart into gear and moved off.

Susan advised me, “You’re just supposed to say, ‘It’s wonderful to be back.’”

“It’s wonderful to be back.”

“Don’t respond directly to a goading statement or a loaded question.”

“It’s wonderful to be back.”

Susan moved on to fruits and vegetables, and within thirty minutes we were back in the car. As we loaded the cargo space, she asked me, “Is there anything else you need? Toiletries? Pharmacy?”

“It’s wonderful to be back.”

She let out a sigh, got behind the wheel, and we headed home.

On the way, she said to me, “I’d like you to call your mother today.”

“If I call her, I can’t tell her we’re together because she may call your parents.”

“Ask her not to.” She continued, “She needs to know that her son is now living with his ex-wife. And she needs to know that before my parents know it, and before the funeral.”

“Where do these rules come from?”

“Common sense and common courtesy.”

“What would Emily Post say?”

“She’d say to do what your prospective bride tells you to do.”

“It’s wonderful to be back.”

Susan reached out, pinched my cheek, and said, “It’s wonderful to have you back.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Back at the guest cottage, we unloaded the Lexus, then Susan suggested, “Let’s take a run up to the Sound.”

I replied, “I have a lot of things to do here in my new office, and I need to organize my sock drawer.”

“Good idea. I’ll only be about an hour.”

I said to her, “I don’t want you running on Grace Lane or anywhere off the property.”

“John-”

“Run on the estate property.” I reminded her, “Not everyone has a two-hundred-acre estate to run on. Maybe I’ll join you later.”

She seemed a little annoyed and said, “I didn’t realize I was going to be bossed around so much.”

That made two of us, but I replied, “Just humor me.”

“I always do. All right, I’ll see you in about an hour.”

“Take your cell phone and call me, or I’ll call you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And no shorts.”

She smiled, went upstairs to change, and I went into my office and saw that the file and storage boxes were now stacked against a wall, along with a case of crabapple jelly.

I also saw that the message light on the phone was blinking, and I retrieved the only message, which said, “John Sutter, this is Felix Mancuso returning your call.” He gave me a cell phone number, which I wrote on the back of Detective Nastasi’s card, then I erased the message.

To kill some time until Susan left, I looked around my old office, recalling too many late nights spent here at the desk, trying to solve other people’s tax or estate problems, most of which they’d created themselves.

Hanging above the couch was a new addition to the office – three of Susan’s oil paintings of locally famous ruins: the chapel of Laurelton Hall, Louis C. Tiffany’s art nouveau mansion; some stone pillars of what remained of Meudon, an eighty-room palace that had been a replica of Meudon Palace outside of Paris; and the colonnade of a place called Knollwood, which had once been the home of a fellow named Zog, the last king of Albania, reminding me that Mr. Nasim was not the first foreigner who’d bought a piece of the Gold Coast, nor would he be the last.

As I looked at the paintings, I was reminded that Susan truly had some talent, and I wondered why she’d stopped painting. Maybe, I thought, it had something to do with her last effort, Alhambra, and all the bad memories associated with that housewarming gift to the Bellarosas. And this, of course, reminded me of my vandalism in Anthony’s den. I’ll bet that pissed him off when he saw it. And I’ll bet Sigmund Freud would have fun explaining to me my destructive behavior – and he might conclude that, aside from my own unhappy associations with that painting, I was also subconsciously trying to draw Anthony’s attention and wrath away from Susan and toward myself. Well, Sigmund, it wasn’t so subconscious.

Susan called out, “See you later.”

I sat at the desk and looked at the phone, but hesitated. My instinct had been to call Felix Mancuso, but my understanding of how the police worked told me that this was a break with protocol and would not make Detective Nastasi happy. As he said, the FBI wouldn’t tell him if his ass was on fire, and I was sure he’d withhold the same urgent information from them. Also, he said he would contact the FBI.

On the other hand, I once had a personal relationship with Felix Mancuso and he was a smart and decent man, and I trusted him. I’d nicknamed him, in my mind, St. Felix, but beyond his do-gooder personality was a tough man who seemed to take personally the criminal activities of the Mafia, La Cosa Nostra, as a result, I was sure, of his own Italian heritage – i.e., his paesanos embarrassed him and pissed him off.

So, if nothing else, I just needed to speak with him, and to be certain I was covering all bases. Because if something happened, and I hadn’t done everything I could have because of the pecking order, then… well, it was moot, because I would do everything and anything I could to protect Susan. One of us needed to do that.

I dialed Felix Mancuso’s cell phone, and he answered, “Mancuso.”

I said, “Hello, Mr. Mancuso, this is John Sutter.”

“Well, hello, Mr. Sutter. And to what do I owe the pleasure of your call?”

I remembered that Felix Mancuso was a rather formal man, in his manner and his speech, and as a special agent he was also an attorney, like myself, though that did not make him a bad guy. I replied, “I’m calling you, unfortunately, about pretty much the same thing as the last time we spoke.”

“Really? How can that be?”

“Well, it’s a long story. But to begin, I’ve been out of the country for the last ten years, and as of about two weeks ago, I’m back on Long Island to stay.”

“Welcome home.”

“Thank you. And I’ve reunited with my ex-wife.”

There was a pause, then, “Congratulations. And how is Mrs. Sutter?”

“Not too bad, considering I’m back in her life.”

He chuckled and said, “Don’t sell yourself short, Mr. Sutter. She’s a lucky woman to have you back.”

He may have been alluding to the fact that Susan Sutter, aside from committing adultery with a Mafia don, also murdered said don who was the FBI’s star government witness against his own criminal empire. And to add insult to injury, Susan had walked free. Other than that, I hoped Felix Mancuso didn’t harbor any resentment toward Susan.

He asked me, “So, how can I help you, Mr. Sutter?”

I said, “I’m not sure if you can, but a situation has developed here that actually has its origins in what happened ten years ago.”

“I see. And what is that situation?”

I replied, “Frank Bellarosa’s son, Anthony, is living at Alhambra – in one of those houses that were built there-”

“I know that. Ironic, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but irony is not the problem. The problem is that Susan has moved back from Hilton Head, and she’s bought back her house on the Stanhope estate, and-”

“I understand.”

“I thought you would.” I also informed him, “She’s been back about two months, and I’ve just moved in with her.”

“All right. Has Anthony Bellarosa made any specific threats or statements to her that would cause her to believe he harbors a grudge, or intends to… let’s say, avenge his father’s death?”

“You mean vendetta.”

Mr. Mancuso knew that vendetta was not the name of an Italian motor scooter, and he replied, “That’s a good word. And?”

“Actually, he has not spoken to her. But he has spoken to me, and I came away with the impression that he might be looking to even the score.”

“I see.” He asked me, “How did you and Anthony Bellarosa have occasion to speak?”

This was not the question I was looking forward to, considering that Felix Mancuso had spent so much time and energy trying to save me from myself in regard to Frank Bellarosa. So I wasn’t keen to tell him that I’d been speaking to the don’s son about job opportunities.

“Mr. Sutter?”

“Well, Anthony had this idea that I might want to resume my association with the Bellarosa family.”

“Really? And where did he get that idea?”

I explained, “I believe from Jack Weinstein. You remember him.”

“Indeed, I do.” He added, “Another very bright attorney who lost his way.”

I really didn’t need a lecture, but I needed a favor, so I sucked that up and continued, “And Anthony himself has this idea, based partially on what he recalls his father telling him, that I would be a trusted and valuable member of his organization.” I added, as an example of why this was so, “Frank Bellarosa told Anthony that John Sutter had the best combination of brains and balls he’d ever seen.”

The phone went quiet for a few seconds, then Mr. Mancuso asked me, “And?”

I really didn’t want to pursue this subject, so I reminded him, “I’m only relating this in the context of your question regarding how Anthony and I came to speak. The real issue is that Anthony has made statements to me that I construed as threatening toward Susan.”

“Such as?”

“Well, first, understand that my conversations with Anthony took place before Mrs. Sutter and I reunited. That reconciliation occurred only two days ago. So, Anthony, I think, felt free to make these remarks about Susan, thinking that, like most ex-spouses, I prayed daily for the demise of my former spouse.”

Mr. Mancuso chuckled politely, then asked again, “What did he actually say?”

I filled him in on some of what Anthony Bellarosa had said about Susan, and he interrupted me by asking, “How many occasions did you have to speak with him?”

I replied, “Four separate occasions.”

“Really?”

I thought he was going to say, “That was four too many,” but he said nothing further, so I explained about keeping your friends close and your enemies closer.

He informed me, “I think some author or screenwriter made that up.”

That was a disappointment – it sounded like real Italian folk wisdom. Anyway, I continued, “My last interaction with him was Sunday… at his house.”

“Really?”

“He invited me to dinner.”

“Did he?”

“I didn’t stay for dinner, of course, but I took the opportunity to tell him to go to hell and stop bothering me and my future wife.”

“And how did he react to that?”

“Not too well.” I told him a bit about my visit to Anthony’s house, my happy reunion with his mother, and meeting my old pal, Sally Da-da. I concluded, “Anthony’s last remark to me, regarding something I’d said, was, quote, ‘None of that changes what your wife did. Just so you know.’”

Mr. Mancuso stayed silent a moment, then asked me, “Have you gone to the police?”

“Yes. Yesterday. We filed a formal complaint.”

“May I have the details of your visit to… that would be the Second Precinct – correct?”

“Correct.” I filled him in on the details, gave him the contact name of Detective A. J. Nastasi, and mentioned that Detective Nastasi had gone to Anthony Bellarosa’s house yesterday, but that Anthony seemed to be out of town. I would have mentioned my thought that Anthony was with the Gotti family in Springfield, Missouri, but I didn’t want to sound like a Mafia groupie. I did mention, however, that Detective Nastasi had responded to the shooting at Alhambra ten years ago, so that he had, in my opinion, good background knowledge and good interest in this case.

Mr. Mancuso commented, “There is a lot of unfinished business from that evening.”

I didn’t respond to that, but said, “I’m not sure how Detective Nastasi will react to my calling the FBI.”

“Don’t worry about that, Mr. Sutter. Since 9/11, we’re all on the same team, and we’ve learned to share information and to cooperate on many levels of law enforcement.”

That didn’t quite square with what Detective Nastasi told me, but I replied, “Well, that’s one good thing that’s come out of that tragedy. So, I’ll let him know-”

“Don’t do that. Let us do that for you.”

“I see… well, Detective Nastasi, at my suggestion, said this morning that he would contact the FBI Organized Crime Task Force to alert them to this problem. Do you know of any such call?”

“No, I don’t. But I’ll make some calls and get back to you.”

I said, “I thought we could meet.”

He reminded me, “As an attorney, you know that the FBI has no direct jurisdiction in a case of what appears to be a personal threat that is not related to Anthony Bellarosa’s possible connection to organized crime.” He added, “That is a matter for the local police.”

“I understand that. But-”

“But we may be able to assist the local police. And we may be able to determine if some Federal law pertains to this.”

“Good.”

He then informed me, “I’m no longer with the Organized Crime Task Force. But… because I worked on the original case, and because you’ve called me directly, I can make a request that I meet with you. Then I can put you together with the right people here, if appropriate.” He added, “I still have a personal interest in the case.”

“Do you?”

“I always have, Mr. Sutter.”

I understood that he’d taken a personal interest in me, perhaps as part of a continuing education study of how attorneys of high moral integrity become Mafia lawyers. Or maybe he just liked me. His other interest in the case, personal or professional, had to do with the general suspicion that U.S. Attorney Alphonse Ferragamo, who few people seemed to like, had framed Frank Bellarosa for a murder he did not commit. And finally, Mr. Mancuso could not have been happy when the Justice Department – the great wheel of slow but fine-grinding justice, of which Mr. Mancuso was a small cog – told Susan to go home and sin no more.

Mr. Mancuso mused, “That case has always bothered me.”

“Me, too.” I informed him, “I don’t need my soul saved this time.”

He chuckled and reminded me, “I didn’t do a very good job of that last time.”

“Better than you know.”

“Good. And I hope you’ve learned something from that.”

“We all have, Mr. Mancuso. Yourself included.”

He thought about that, then replied, “Yes, we all learned something about ourselves and about how justice works, or does not work, Mr. Sutter. But all’s well that ends well, and I’m happy to hear that you and Mrs. Sutter have reunited.”

Actually, he wanted Mrs. Sutter in jail – nothing personal, just business – but I replied, “Thank you.” In the interests of re-bonding, I asked him, “And how are you doing?”

“Very well, thank you.” He added, “I was about two weeks from retiring when the planes hit the Towers. Now I’m with the Joint Terrorist Task Force.”

“I see. Well, I suppose that’s where the action is these days.”

“Unfortunately, it is.” He let me know, “Organized crime is far from a thing of the past, but it’s not the problem it once was.”

“It is for me, Mr. Mancuso.”

He agreed, “Position determines perspective.”

“Right. Well, I appreciate you calling me back, and your interest in this.”

“And I appreciate you thinking of me, Mr. Sutter, and I thank you for your confidence in me.”

“Well, I’m about to be a taxpayer again, Mr. Mancuso, so I thought I’d take advantage of some government service.”

Again he chuckled, recalling, I’m sure, how entertaining I could be. He asked me, “Is there a cell phone number where I can reach you?”

I replied, “I’m embarrassed to say no. I need to set up credit and all that. But I’ll give you Mrs. Sutter’s cell number.” I gave it to him and said, “I’ve mentioned to her that I called you, and I’ll tell her we spoke, so she won’t be surprised at your call, though you may find her…”

“Distraught?”

“What’s the opposite of distraught?”

“Well… you mean to say that she is not distraught about Anthony Bellarosa’s proximity and his statements to you?”

“That’s what I mean to say. But I am concerned.”

“Rightfully so. In fact… well, I don’t need to add to your concern, but I spent twenty years dealing with these people, and I think I know them better than they know themselves. So, yes, Anthony Bellarosa needs to do something, whether or not he wants to risk that. He needs to live up to the old code, or else he will lose respect and his position will be weakened.” He added, “It’s about personal vendetta, but it’s also about Anthony’s leadership position.”

“I understand. And I’d like you to make Mrs. Sutter understand. Without frightening her.”

“She needs to be frightened.”

I didn’t reply to that, and hearing it from Special Agent Mancuso was a jolt.

He continued, “But stay calm, and take some precautions, and keep in touch with the local police.” He added, “I believe there is a danger, but I don’t believe it is imminent.”

“Why not?”

“We can discuss that when I see you.” He concluded, “All right, I’ll make every effort to come out to you tomorrow. Are you free?”

“Yes, I’m unemployed, and so is Mrs. Sutter.”

He didn’t respond to that and said, “Please give her my regards.”

“I will…” I was about to sign off, then I had a thought and said, “I may have more work for you, Mr. Mancuso.”

“Maybe I should have retired.”

I laughed politely, then said, “Something to do with your current assignment on the Terrorist Task Force.” He didn’t respond, so I continued, “The person who bought Stanhope Hall, Mr. Amir Nasim, is an Iranian-born gentleman, and in a conversation with him last week, he indicated to me that he believes he may be the target of a political assassination plot, originated, I believe, in his homeland.”

“I see.”

He didn’t seem overly interested in this for some reason, so I said, “Well, we can discuss that when you get here if you’d like.”

“Please go on.”

“All right…” So I gave him a short briefing and concluded, “Nasim could be paranoid, or he could have other motives for sharing his concerns with me. But I’m just passing it on to you.”

Mr. Mancuso said, “Thank you. I’ll look into it.” He added, “As we say now to the public, ‘If you see something, say something.’”

I assumed that also pertained to law enforcement agencies, so I reminded him, “Please call Detective Nastasi.”

Mr. Mancuso wished me a good day, and I did the same.

Well, I felt that I was covering all bases – including reporting on possible terrorist activities in the neighborhood – and that I was being proactive and not reactive, and also that this little corner of the world, at least, was a bit safer than it had been two days ago.

Having said that, I still needed to find the shotgun.

So I went into the basement and spent half an hour among packing boxes, most labeled, but none labeled “Shotgun,” or even “Boyfriends, ashes of.”

I did, however, find a box marked “John.” I assumed that was me, and Emily Post would tell me not to open it. But with the justification that Susan snooped through the gatehouse… better yet, the shotgun could be in there, though the box was a bit short. Anyway, I cut open the tape with the box cutter I’d found, and opened the lid.

Inside were stacks of love letters, cards, photos, and some silly souvenirs for Susan that I’d brought back from business trips.

There were also a few printed e-mails on top of the older items, and I took one out and saw that it was from Susan to me in London, dated four years ago. It read: John, I’m sorry to hear about Aunt Cornelia. I will be in N.Y. for the funeral, and Edward says you will be, too. Just wanted you to know. Hope to see you there, and hope you are well. Susan.

My reply was attached: I will be there, as per Edward.

Short and not so sweet.

I had no idea why she printed this out. Well, I did have an idea, and oddly – or maybe not so oddly – seeing this was painful. She’d been trying to reach out to me, and I was unreachable.

But as Mr. Mancuso and William Shakespeare said, all’s well that ends well. Even if we all lost some years that didn’t need to be lost.

And standing there – with this e-mail in my hand, and the shotgun still not found, and with Felix Mancuso’s words of concern on my mind, and the past casting a long shadow over my and Susan’s bright future – I suddenly had this thought that I needed to kill Anthony Bellarosa.

CHAPTER FORTY

Susan always returned from her estate runs through the rose garden, so I sat on the patio with a bottle of cold water and a towel, waiting for her. She’d been gone over an hour, and though I wasn’t concerned, I wasn’t entirely unconcerned. It occurred to me that we could not live like this for any length of time.

I had one of her cordless phones with me, so I dialed her cell phone. It went into voice mail, and I left a message and decided to go look for her.

I took the cordless phone with me, which has a limited range but was better than nothing, and I went to the front of the house and got into my Taurus.

The cordless phone rang, and I answered, “John Sutter.”

I was relieved to hear Susan’s voice say, “I’m here…” She was out of breath and panted, “On the patio.”

“I’ll be right there.”

I returned to the patio, and Susan was standing on the path in the rose garden, bent forward with her hands on her knees, taking deep breaths. Also, except for her running shoes, she was stark naked.

I thought I should inquire, “Where are your clothes?”

She drew in a long breath and replied, “Oh… my sweats are in the laundry, and you said not to wear shorts, so this is all I had left.” She added, “Good run.”

I wasn’t totally buying this, but to play along, I said, “Good thinking. Where did you keep your phone?”

She replied, “Don’t ask.”

I wondered if it was on vibrate.

She came onto the patio, put her cell phone on the table, then wiped her sweaty face and body with the towel. She took a long swig from the bottled water, then said, “I saw Nasim, and he doubled his offer.”

I smiled and replied, “If it were me, I’d pay you to stay.”

She put her towel and her bare butt on the wicker chair, then put her feet on the table. She asked me to take off her running shoes, which I did along with her socks. She wiggled her toes, meaning I should rub her feet, which I also did as she poured water over her head, then took a long drink. She threw her head back, drew another breath, and asked, “What have you been doing?”

“Pilates.”

She smiled, then said, “It’s cocktail time, and it’s your turn to make them.” She ordered, “Grey Goose and cranberry juice.”

I inquired, “Can I get you some clothes while I’m inside?”

“No. I really like being naked.”

No argument there. I went into the kitchen and made her drink and made a Dewar’s and soda for myself. I also emptied a jar of peanuts into a bowl to give the illusion that it wasn’t all about the cocktails.

A word about that – this was, and I’m sure still is, a hard-drinking crowd in our perfect Garden of Eden. Most of it is social drinking, not fall-off-the-barstool drinking, though I’m sure there’s a good deal of closet drinking at home. In any case, Susan and I had probably been at the low end of the local weekly alcohol consumption, but by the standards of, say, a dry county in the Midwest, we’d be court-ordered into AA and denounced from the pulpit. More to the point, since our local alert level had just risen to Condition Red, we’d be well advised to limit our alcohol intake.

I carried everything outside on a tray, and noticed that Susan had retrieved her workout clothes from somewhere and thrown them on a chair, which she also used to elevate her legs. The towel was draped around her shoulders and hung over her breasts for modesty.

I gave her her drink, we clinked glasses, and I said, “To summer.”

I sat, and we both sipped our drinks and ate peanuts, enjoying the quiet, and the soft breeze that moved through the towering trees beyond the rose garden.

I let her know, “I was a little concerned.”

She didn’t reply for a few seconds, then said, “You worry too much.”

I knew that was coming, so I replied, “There is actually something to worry about.”

“I know, but… what else can we do?”

There were a number of things we could do, but she didn’t want to do them. I said to her, “I looked in the basement for the shotgun, but I couldn’t find it.”

“Maybe it’s somewhere else.”

“If we can’t find it by tomorrow, I’m going to buy one, or buy a rifle.”

She reminded me, “I’m good with a shotgun.”

Not too bad with a pistol, either, but that was a sore subject. I informed her, “While you were out, I spoke to Felix Mancuso.”

She nodded, and I continued, “He wants to arrange a meeting with us, maybe tomorrow, and I gave him your cell phone number.”

“I think it’s time you got your own cell phone.”

“That’s not the point.”

“You’re running up my bill.”

“Susan… I really want you to get your head out of the sand and start helping me.”

She replied, “All right. I will do whatever you tell me to do.”

That, of course, is wife-talk for, “You are a bully, and a complete shithead, and I am the unwilling victim of your domineering personality, but I’ll do whatever you tell me to do, darling.”

She asked, “Didn’t I follow your instructions about running on the property, and taking my cell phone, and not wearing shorts?” She added, “Look at me. I had to run around the estate naked because of you.”

It’s difficult to get angry at a beautiful naked woman, but I suggested, “When following my instructions, don’t be too literal-minded.”

She stayed quiet for a moment, then said, more seriously, “No one likes the bearer of bad news. You are only the messenger, and I get the message.”

“I know you do.”

“And I love you for being worried about me.”

I wanted to tell her that Felix Mancuso shared my concern, but that would be better coming from him.

We went upstairs to our bedroom, and Susan informed me, “Running naked makes me hot.”

So we took care of that, then showered together. As we were getting dressed for dinner at The Creek, Susan’s cell phone rang, and she looked at the display and said, “I think this is your call.”

I took the phone and Felix Mancuso said, “How about ten A.M. tomorrow?”

“Fine. You know where we are.”

“I do.”

In fact, he’d been here twice on business – once to drive me home from Manhattan after the Bellarosa rubout attempt, and once to tell me that my wife had just murdered Frank Bellarosa next door. I said, “See you then,” and hung up. I said to her, “Tomorrow, ten A.M.” I added, “I want you to be available.”

“Of course, darling.”

I drove Susan’s Lexus down the long drive and past the gatehouse, which now looked dark and forlorn. In a day or so, Nasim might have his own people in there, unless, of course, he decided that no one was really trying to assassinate him. My concerns were more verifiable, so I really didn’t mind if I had to go through Checkpoint Nasim to get to my house. Every bit of security helped, though I reminded myself that Anthony Bellarosa’s hit men could strike anywhere.

Of more immediate concern was my reentry into The Creek Country Club. On the positive side, no one had ever been whacked there at dinner, though I’d thought about it myself when my dinner companions were boring me to death. I said to Susan, “For the record, I’m not thrilled about going to The Creek.”

She replied, “It will be fine. You’re with me.”

“Right.” I still couldn’t understand why Susan got a pass on murder, and I was blackballed for bringing a Mafia don to The Creek for dinner. Well, I did understand – she’d only broken the law; I had broken the unwritten club rules. Plus, she was a Stanhope. Regarding her affair with the Don Who Came to Dinner, as I said, that was just too juicy to get her blackballed. In fact, they should give her a year of free membership.

The Creek is a short ten-minute drive from Stanhope Hall, and before I could think of a good reason to turn around, we were headed up the long, tree-lined drive to the clubhouse.

The Creek Country Club is a very pleasant place with a golf course, a beach with a cabana on the Sound, tennis courts, and guest cottages where either the Stanhopes or I would be staying shortly. The clubhouse is an old mansion that still exudes charm and grace, and the food is good after a few cocktails, and gets better after a bottle or two of wine. The service is sometimes off, but that’s part of the charm, which I’d tried to explain to Mr. Frank Bellarosa when he and Anna had been our guests here. Frank hadn’t quite understood the old tradition of so-so club food and quirky service, which marked him as an unsophisticated lout. There were other problems with his visit here that night, of course, including his and his wife’s attire, his snapping at Richard, the old waiter who’d been here forever, and, as I mentioned, his unrealistic and incomprehensible desire to be a member of this club. But thank God I’d avoided that awkward situation when Susan shot him.

I parked in the small lot and we went inside. Susan checked in, and we skipped the bar and lounge, which was crowded and fraught with unpleasant possibilities. The hostess showed us directly to the dining room, seated us at a table for two in the corner, then took our drink orders.

There weren’t many people dining this evening, but I saw a few familiar faces, though no former friends or former clients.

Susan asked me, “Are you happy to be here?”

I replied, “When I am with you, darling, I can be happy anywhere.”

“Good. We’ll take my parents here one night.”

I assured her, “If they are comfortable with that, then I look forward to it.”

She seemed a bit skeptical, but said, “They love me and want me to be happy.”

“Then we all have something in common.”

She suggested, “Maybe we’ll have our wedding reception here.”

“I wouldn’t want to put your father through that expense again. I mean, same husband and all that.”

She informed me, “This one is on us.”

I wondered who paid for Susan’s wedding to Dan what’s-his-name. I suggested, “Let’s keep it small.”

“Maybe we could do it outdoors at the guest cottage.”

“Don’t forget to invite the Nasims. They love a party.”

She reminisced, “Our reception at Stanhope Hall was the highlight of the summer season.”

Susan had apparently forgotten that it was a theme party, and the theme, set by her father, was “Let’s relive World War II” – with food rationing, liquor shortages, and blackout conditions after 10:00 P.M. I said, “It was a night to remember.”

She had a good idea and exclaimed, “John, let’s do it at Seawanhaka!” She looked at me and continued, “That’s where we met, and you’re a sailor, so that would be perfect.”

All this wedding talk was making me jumpy, so to move on, I agreed. “Perfect.”

“Wonderful. I’ll call tomorrow and see what’s available.”

“Call me, too, and see if I’m available.”

She took that well and smiled.

Our waitress came with our drinks – two wimpy white wines – and delivered the menus.

Susan and I clinked glasses, and I said, “Lovelier the second time around.”

“You’re so sweet.”

I scanned the menu to see if they’d added an Italian dish since the celebrity Mafia don had dined here. Veal Bellarosa? The Don’s Famous Machine Gun Meatballs? Shotgun Pasta Made with Real Shells?

Susan said, “Order sensibly.”

“I was thinking of the Chicken Kevlar.”

“Where do you see that?”

“Entrées, third down.”

She looked and said, “That’s Chicken Kiev.”

“Oh… right. Kiev.” I put down my menu and said, “It’s hard to read in this light. You order for me.”

The waitress returned, and Susan ordered chopped salad for two and two poached scrod, which made my mouth water just thinking about it.

Anyway, it was a pleasant and uneventful dinner at The Creek, uninterrupted by anyone we knew, and I was thankful that it was a quiet night in the dining room.

On our way out, however, I caught a glimpse of the bar and lounge and saw a number of people I knew, and a few of them spotted Susan and me. In fact, I saw a lady at one of the tables who reminded me of my mother. Actually, it was my mother, sitting with four ladies of her age.

She hadn’t seen me, so I continued on toward the front door.

I had not seen my mother since Aunt Cornelia’s funeral four years ago, though we’d spoken on the phone about once a month and exchanged appropriate greeting cards. I’d invited her to London, but like many active senior citizens these days, she was too busy. In fact, she was traveling a lot with Elderhostel – not to London, but to exotic places where she could commune with nature and bond with indigenous people who were wise, noble, unmaterialistic, and probably unhygienic. So she was not tempted by my offer to take her to the Imperial War Museum.

Harriet had been a founding member of the Conflicted Socialist Party, refusing, on principle, to join a private club, but not hesitating to be my or someone else’s guest. And now, since my father died, it appeared that she’d become a guest of what some members called the Widows’ Wine and Whine Club. I used to spot these ladies in the cocktail lounge here, sipping their wine or sherry, and speaking of their dearly departed husbands with far more affection than they actually had for them when those pains in the asses were alive.

I continued with Susan out the front door. But then I stopped and said, “The time has come to meet the beast.”

“What do you mean?”

“My mother is in the lounge.”

“John, that’s awful.” She added, “Let’s go say hello.”

We retraced our steps and entered the lounge.

Harriet spotted us as we entered, stood, and let out a screech of joy. “John! John!” She said to her friends, “Girls! It’s my son, John! Oh, what good and blessed fortune has smiled on me tonight.”

Those were not her exact words. In fact, she had no words, so overcome was she with emotion.

I walked to the table with Susan, who took the lead and bent over and exchanged a hug and kiss with her once and future mother-in-law. I did the same.

Harriet introduced us to her friends by saying, “Ladies, this is my son, John, whom I think some of you may remember, and this is his former wife, Susan Stanhope, whom I think you all know, or you know her parents.” She then introduced the four ladies to us, and indeed I remembered the Merry Widows or their late husbands, some of whom appeared to be alive the last time I saw them.

Harriet was dressed chicly in her 1970s peasant outfit, and probably wore the same sandals she’d worn at her first anti-war demonstration. That was before Vietnam, so it was another war, though which one remains a mystery to this day. Harriet has long gray hair that I think she was born with, and the only jewelry she wears is made by indigenous people who’ve been screwed by Western Civilization, and are now returning the favor.

We made idle chatter with the ladies for about one minute, and I could sense that some people at the bar and tables were talking about us. I haven’t had so much attention in a bar since cocktails here with the Bellarosas ten years ago.

Harriet did not invite us to sit, so Susan took the opportunity to say to my mother and her friends, “I’m going to steal Harriet away for a minute, if that’s all right.”

Harriet excused herself, and we went to the lobby. If my mother was wondering why Susan and I were together, she wasn’t bursting at the seams to know, and she just looked at Susan.

Susan said to her, “John wants to tell you something.”

Indeed, I had many things I wanted to tell Harriet, but I resisted the impulse and said, “Susan and I have reconciled.”

Harriet nodded.

I continued, “And we are going to remarry.” I gave her more good news and said, “I’m moving back from London.”

Again she nodded, then looked at Susan as though she wanted her to confirm this nonsense.

Susan said to her, simply and plainly, “We have never stopped loving each other, and John has forgiven me.”

Harriet replied as though, somehow, she knew all of this and had rehearsed a good response. She asked, “Have you forgiven him?”

That was a loaded and snotty question, but Susan replied, “We’ve discussed all the hurt we’ve caused each other, and we’ve put it behind us and are ready to move on.”

Harriet looked at both of us, then said, “Well, children” – that’s what she called us – “I must say this is very sudden, and I’m not sure what to say.”

Come on, Harriet, just say, “Fuck you,” and get back to your friends.

Susan said to her, “I want you to be happy for us.”

Harriet sidestepped that and asked, “Have you spoken to William and Charlotte?”

Susan replied, “We wanted you to be the first to know, though we did call Edward and Carolyn, and they are delighted.”

“I’m sure they are.”

Susan continued, “We would appreciate it if you didn’t mention this to anyone until we have the chance to do that.”

Harriet nodded again, then said to Susan, “I don’t believe your parents will approve of this, Susan.”

Susan replied, “We would like their approval, but we are prepared to proceed without it.”

“Are you?”

That meant, of course, that Harriet hoped we understood that the word “approval” in this context meant money.

Susan informed Harriet, “John and I have discussed all of that.”

“All right. But I hope your remarriage does not alienate your parents from their grandchildren.”

Definition of “alienate”: to be cut out of the will; to have your allowance cut off; to have Grandpa screw around with your trust fund. And this from a woman who didn’t believe in inherited wealth, unless, of course, the dirty old robber baron money was going to her grandchildren. Harriet was a case study in contradictions and hypocrisy.

Susan replied, “I don’t see how our remarriage would affect my parents’ relationship with their adult grandchildren.”

“I hope it doesn’t.”

I get a little impatient with this kind of polite and evasive talk, so I said to my mother, “You don’t need to be happy for us, or to give us your blessing, or even come to our wedding, for that matter. But you do need to mind your own business.”

Harriet looked at me as though trying to figure out who I was or how I got there. She said to me, “John, you’re being rude.”

I continued to be rude and said, “For God’s sake, Harriet, life is too damned short for you to just stand there without a smile, or a hug, or a single nice word for us.”

Susan said softly, “John…”

I announced, “We’re leaving. Good evening, Mother.”

I walked to the door, and Harriet said, “John.”

I turned, and she came toward me, stopped, and looked up at me. We held eye contact for a moment, then she said, “I, too, would like a smile, a hug, or a nice word from you.”

Harriet is very good at going from aggressor to victim, persecutor to mommy martyr, and ice queen to huggy bear in the blink of an eye. So I responded the way I’d always done since I first figured her out when I was a child, and I gave her a big hug, and we kissed and made up until the next time she took it to the brink.

Susan was smiling, and we did a nice warm and fuzzy group squeeze. I would have given two years of my life for a triple Scotch just then, and so would Harriet.

Anyway, we held on to our smiles, and Harriet said to us, “Your news took me by surprise, and of course I’m happy for you.”

“I know you are,” said Susan. “John is the most wonderful man in the world, and the only man I’ve ever loved.”

I wasn’t too sure about that last part, and Harriet wasn’t too sure about the first part, but she said, “That’s wonderful.”

I said, “It’s wonderful to be back.”

Susan shot me an annoyed look, then said to Harriet, “We’ll let you get back to your friends.”

Harriet replied, “I suppose we’ll all be together soon at the funeral parlor.”

Susan said, “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but Ethel has slipped into a coma.”

Harriet nodded. “Yes, I’ve heard.” She prognosticated, “I’m afraid the end is near.” Then she eulogized, “Ethel Allard is a great lady.”

Well, Harriet Sutter would think so.

We said good night, and Susan and I walked to the car. Susan said, “I’m glad we got that over with.”

I wasn’t sure if she meant my coming out to dinner at the club or my reunion with Lady Macbeth.

Susan had a perceptive glimpse into the future and said, “This is not going to be easy, is it?”

I used that opening to say, “I think we should move away.”

“We did that. Now we are back.” She added, “Together.”

I assured her, “It’s wonderful to be back.”

“Your mother looked well.”

“She makes her own makeup from recycled medical waste. Mostly blood and bile.”

“John.”

“Do you think we were both adopted?”

She assured me, “For all their faults, they do love us.”

“Well, you got a preview of that strange love two minutes ago. I can’t wait to see how your parents are going to top that.”

Susan thought a moment, smiled, then said, “Maybe it’s us.”

“You may be on to something.”

We got in the car and headed back to Stanhope Hall. After speaking to Felix Mancuso, I wasn’t looking forward to entering the guest cottage at night, but this was not on Susan’s mind, and she chatted about our future while I was thinking about the next ten minutes.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

It was a dark night, the moon hidden by gathering rain clouds. I’d asked Susan to drive, and as she pulled up to the closed gates of Stanhope Hall, I pressed the remote control button and the gates swung slowly inward.

We proceeded past the gatehouse, and the gates automatically closed behind us.

The three-hundred-yard driveway that led to the guest cottage was narrow, curving, dark, and lined with huge trees, but Susan always saw this as more of a challenge than a hazard, and she began picking up speed.

“Slow down.”

“John-”

“Stop!”

She hit the brakes and asked, “What-?”

I reached over and shut off the headlights, then said, “Go on. Slowly.”

She looked at me, then understood and began driving slowly up the drive, which was paved with gravel that crunched under the tires. She said, softly, “I can’t believe we have to do this.”

To lighten the moment, I joked, “Nasim does this every night.”

We continued on, and I asked for her cell phone, which she gave me, and I punched in 9-1-1, but not send.

The guest cottage came into view to our left, about a hundred yards away, and I could also see the lights from Stanhope Hall, which lay about a quarter of a mile beyond the guest cottage. If Nasim were watching through binoculars, he might think the assassins were coming for him.

As we drew closer to the cottage, I saw a few lights on inside the house and two exterior lights – one above the front door and one on a stone pillar to mark the turnoff from the driveway that led up to Stanhope Hall. Susan turned left from the main drive into the cottage driveway, and I said to her, “Turn around in the forecourt.”

As we reached the forecourt in front of the cottage, Susan swung around so the SUV pointed back to the driveway.

I gave her the cell phone and said, “I’ll check out the house, and you will stay here, ready to drive off quickly and call 9-1- 1.” I added, “And push the panic button on your key fob.”

“John, if you think there’s a danger, let’s just go to a hotel tonight.”

I replied, “I don’t think there’s a danger, but I think we should take normal precautions.”

“This is not normal.”

“It is now.” Then I smiled and said, “Stay here, and stay awake.”

“John-”

I got out of the SUV, walked to the front door and checked that it was locked, then I walked to the side path that led to the rose garden to see if any windows were open or broken.

I went around to the back patio and checked the windows and doors, and peered inside. Then I moved to the other side of the house, and as I rounded the corner, something moved in the dark, and I froze.

I’d left a lamp on in the living room, and the light from the window illuminated a patch of the side lawn, and someone came into the light. It was Susan. She spotted me and said, “Everything looks good here.”

“I told you to stay in the car.”

“I stayed in the car. Then I got out of the car.” She added, “You were taking too long.”

I was very angry with her, but at the same time I was impressed with her courage. Susan is not timid, does not take orders well, and doesn’t have much patience with men who want to protect her. I’d seen that dozens of times at sea, and many times when we’d taken cross-country horseback rides. So I said calmly, “I learned in the Army that we all need to follow orders, and do only what we’ve been told to do, so that no one is taken by surprise.” I pointed out, “If I’d had a gun, I might have shot you.”

“Wait until we’re married.”

I wasn’t getting anywhere with logic, so I gave up, walked to the kitchen door, and unlocked it. I said, “Wait here.”

I went directly to the foyer to assure myself that the basement door was locked, then I did a quick walk-through of the ground floor, turning on the lights in each room. As I said, it’s a big house, and I had no intention of securing it room by room every time we came home. But for now – until the police spoke to Anthony Bellarosa and until I spoke to Felix Mancuso, and until we had a gun – that’s what I’d do, at least at night. This security check also showed Susan that this was real.

Susan did not wait outside, and she was in the foyer now, so I said, “Stay here,” and I went upstairs and checked out the five bedrooms, then came down and found her in the office. Apparently we were having a problem with the word “here.”

She was accessing her e-mail, and said to me, “My parents are flying in tomorrow…” She gave me the details of William and Charlotte’s broom ride, then said, “Edward will be in Thursday night, and Carolyn says to let her know when Ethel passes, and she’ll take the train in for the wake.”

“All right.” I noticed the message light on the phone was blinking, so I put it on speaker and retrieved the message. Elizabeth’s voice, sounding tired and strained, said, “I just wanted you to know that Mom passed away at eight-fifteen this evening.” There was a pause, then she said, “I’ll call you tomorrow with the arrangements. Thanks again for being such good friends.”

Neither Susan nor I said anything, then Susan dialed the phone, and I heard Elizabeth’s voice mail. Susan said, “Elizabeth, we are so sorry. But know that she’s at peace now, with God. If there is anything we can do to help with the arrangements, please call us.”

I said into the speaker, “Let me know if you’d like us to meet you at the funeral home. Don’t try to handle this all yourself. We want you to let us help.”

Susan hung up and said to me, “I remember when George died, and how I thought that an era was coming to an end… and that a little piece of my childhood went with him.”

I walked to the bar and asked, “Drink?”

“Please. Anything.”

I poured two brandies while Susan sent out e-mails, notifying the appropriate people of Ethel’s death.

So, I thought, Ethel Allard was dead. And, I recalled, so was John Gotti, and they’d died within a day of each other. Aside from that fact, I’m sure they had very little in common. And yet these two deaths had impacted my life; Ethel’s death had brought me home, and Gotti’s death might unleash a danger that had been on hold for the last ten years.

I gave Susan her brandy, we touched glasses, and Susan said, “To Ethel.”

I shared my thought with Susan and said, “She brought me home.”

Susan nodded and confessed, “I asked her to speak to you about me.”

“I know, and she did.”

“That was very selfish of me to ask that of a dying woman.”

I assured her, “I think she was happy to do it.”

Susan agreed, “I think she was.”

We took our drinks upstairs, undressed, and got into bed.

We talked and read for a while, then Susan fell asleep. I got out of bed and went into the basement to take another look for the shotgun. I still couldn’t find it, so I went to the kitchen and got a long carving knife, then returned to the bedroom, locked the door, and pushed my dresser in front of it.

I sat up in bed, thinking about all the events that had to happen, in a certain sequence, to get me here in this bedroom with a carving knife on my night table.

Well, it could have been worse; I could have been lost at sea. Or, even worse, married. Or it could have been better; Frank Bellarosa could have found the restaurant in Glen Cove ten years ago and never laid eyes on Alhambra, or Susan Sutter.

But things happened and didn’t happen, people lived and people died, and at the end of the day, you had to stop wondering why, and you had to start thinking at least one move ahead of anyone who had a fatal move planned for you.

I turned off the lamp, but kept myself half awake through the night.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

It rained through the night, which made it difficult to hear if anyone was trying to get into the house.

I sat up in bed and looked at Susan sleeping beside me; this was still hard to believe. Even harder to believe was that Susan was a marked woman. Well, I’d lost her to Frank Bellarosa, but I was not going to lose her to Anthony Bellarosa.

It had been a long night, and I think I’d gotten myself worked up because of what Felix Mancuso had said – She needs to be frightened – and I was glad Mancuso was coming so I could tell him he’d kept me up all night. Susan had no such complaint.

I’m not the paranoid type, and when I’d made my sail around the world, I was one of the few skippers I met who did not keep a rifle on board, even though a few men had refused to crew for me because of that.

There was one time, however, off the Somali coast, when I did need a weapon, and I had to settle for a flare gun. It turned out all right, but barely. After that, I gave in to reality and picked up an AK- 47 in Aden, which was easier to buy there than a bottle of Scotch, and cheaper.

With the AK-47 on board, I realized that I slept better at night, and I wondered how I’d gone so long without it. Reality sucks, but having your head in the clouds or up your butt can be fatal.

It was a gray, rainy dawn, but it was a welcome dawn. Of course, people can be murdered at any hour, but we have a primal instinct that tells us to stay alert when we’re supposed to be sleeping; there are night predators out there, and they hunt when we sleep.

I got out of bed, put on my robe, and went down to the basement again. After fifteen minutes of searching, I became convinced that the shotgun was back in Hilton Head, or that the movers had stolen it. Well, it was easy enough to buy any shotgun or rifle I wanted at a local sporting goods store. God bless the Second Amendment, and privately owned gun shops. It couldn’t be any easier if I was in a souk in Aden.

Here, however, despite my constitutional right to bear arms it was very difficult to obtain a license to own a concealed weapon – a handgun in this area – which is what I actually needed when Susan and I were out of the house. And I was fairly sure that Anthony Bellarosa and La Cosa Nostra did not have that same problem.

I went upstairs and found Susan sitting at the kitchen table in her white teddy that accentuated her tan. She was reading a women’s fitness magazine while absently popping vitamins into her mouth and washing them down with carrot juice, which matched her hair.

She looked up from her magazine and said, “Good morning.”

I was a little sleep-deprived, and annoyed about the shotgun, and not in the best of moods on this gray morning, so I didn’t reply.

She asked, “What were you doing in the basement?”

“I was trying on your winter dresses.”

“John, it’s too early.”

I noticed a pot of coffee brewing, so I poured myself a cup.

Susan suggested, “Have some carrot juice.”

“Thanks, but I already had an injection of pomegranate juice.”

“It’s really too early for that.”

I asked her, “Are you sure you took the shotgun from Hilton Head?”

“Yes, and I remembered where I put it.”

“Good. And where is that?”

“In the attic.”

“You said it was in the basement, Susan.”

“Basement, attic. Same thing.”

“Really? Okay… so, if I go up to the attic-”

“I’ve already done that.” She pointed to the broom closet and said, “It’s in there.”

“Of course.” I opened the broom closet, and leaning against the wall between a sponge mop and a broom – where long things are kept – was a gun case.

I took the case out of the closet and removed the shotgun, then made certain it was on safety before I examined it.

It was a twelve-gauge, double-barreled, side-by-side, Italian-made Beretta. On the walnut stock was a brass plate on which was engraved Susan Stanhope Sutter, and the nickel finish on the receiver was engraved and gold-inlayed with an elaborate floral design. If I had to guess how much this model sold for, I’d say about ten thousand dollars. Maybe it was a wedding gift from Sally Da-da, with thanks to Susan for clipping Frank Bellarosa.

Susan straightened me out on that and said, “Dan gave that to me when I joined a local shooting club.”

Apparently Dan didn’t know what happened to her last boyfriend.

She suggested, “You can sell it, and get another one if you want.”

I guess I had to decide if the shotgun had any sentimental value for her – fond memories of her and Dan blasting clay pigeons out of the sky, or vaporizing ducks in a swamp.

She set me straight on that, too, and said, “He didn’t shoot. I did.” She added, “He golfed. And golfed.”

I assured her, “We can keep this. It has your name on it.”

She shrugged and went back to her magazine.

I broke open the gun to be sure she hadn’t left shells in the chambers, and peered down the barrels, which were clean enough, but probably the whole gun could use a cleaning and oiling. I asked her, “When was the last time you fired this?”

Without looking up from her magazine, she replied, “About two years ago.”

I commented, “It would have been nice to have this last night.”

She had no reply.

I asked her, “Do you have a cleaning kit?”

“I couldn’t find it.”

“Shells?”

“I’ll look for them.”

Well, the shotgun wouldn’t have done much good last night. I said, “I’ll just go to a sporting goods store today.”

She didn’t respond.

I put the shotgun back in its case and said, “I think we should get a dog.”

“I had a dog.”

“Is he in the attic?”

She ignored that and said, “Dogs are a lot of work. Why do you want a dog?”

Apparently we weren’t on the same page. I said, “For security.”

“Oh… well… all right. But let’s wait until after the funeral, and after everyone has left.” She added, “My parents don’t like dogs.”

I was sure their pet rats didn’t either. I reminded her, “They’re probably not staying here.”

“Would you mind if they did?”

“I’d be surprised if they did.”

She threw her magazine aside and said, “John, I don’t think they will react as negatively as you think they will.”

“I will be happy to be proven wrong.”

“Did I hear that right?”

I had this horrifying thought that today was the first day of the rest of my life. I suggested to her, “Cut down on your Vitamin Bitch pills.”

I walked to the refrigerator to see about breakfast, but before I opened the door she said, “For that remark, you have to eat this for breakfast.”

I looked back over my shoulder, and Susan was lying on the table with her spread legs dangling over the edge and her teddy pulled up to her breasts. My goodness.

Well… I was thinking about an English muffin, but…

After my breakfast of champions, Susan, I, and the shotgun went upstairs to the bedroom, and Susan informed me, “Sophie is coming today. So why don’t we put that in your closet?”

“All right.” I put the shotgun in my walk-in closet, resting it against the wall behind the open door. I told her where it was, then I got in the shower.

She opened the shower door and joined me, and I scrubbed her back with a loofah sponge, then as she scrubbed my back, I said to her, “Using sex as a means of controlling me or modifying my behavior is not fair.”

“All’s fair in love and war, John.”

“All right. Remember you said that.”

“Plus, it works.” She put her hand between my legs, gave John a little tweak, and got out of the shower.

As we got dressed, she asked me, “What is the purpose of Felix Mancuso’s visit?”

I replied, “To see if the FBI has any interest or jurisdiction in this matter.”

She stayed silent for a moment, then said, “He doesn’t like me.”

“It’s not personal. It’s professional.”

She replied, “I think it’s personal.”

It was time to dig up the dirty past, because Felix Mancuso would do that anyway, and Susan needed to be prepped for this, so I reminded her, “You killed his star witness in the FBI’s case against organized crime, and it’s not often that the FBI gets a man like Frank Bellarosa to sing.” She didn’t respond, so I continued, “Losing a witness to murder, on his watch, did not help Special Agent Mancuso’s career.”

She stayed silent awhile, then informed me, “He was very much against allowing me to visit.”

I knew that, but I was surprised she knew it, or that she was willing to discuss any of this. But I guess the time had come for her to unblock it. As for Felix Mancuso’s disapproval of letting Frank and Susan go at it, this was because of his own professional standards, as well as his sense of morality and propriety, and maybe his positive feelings for me, which not everyone around him shared.

And so, to that extent, Susan was correct; it was personal. In any case, what happened was certainly not Mancuso’s fault – no one could have foreseen Susan shooting don Bellarosa – but I’d had the impression at the time that Mancuso was the fall guy. Why? Because when the shit hits the fan, the guy who said “I told you so” is usually the guy everyone else pushes in front of the shit stream.

But rather than tell Susan that St. Felix basically thought she was a Mafia groupie and a tramp, I brought the discussion back to the professional issues and said, “Mancuso was also not thrilled that you walked free on the murder charge.”

She surprised me by saying, “That was more the fault of his superiors.” She added, “I was ready to pay the price.”

I looked at her, and I was certain she meant that. And she was right – it wasn’t her fault that the government took a dive on the case; the scales of justice are always tipped toward the best interests of the government, and sometimes that means burying inconvenient or embarrassing facts, and letting the guilty go free. It occurred to me that if she’d been indicted and took a plea for maybe manslaughter, she’d be getting out about now. And I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have divorced her, and that I’d have waited for her. Though I may have still taken that sail around the world.

I finished dressing and switched to another unpleasant subject, reminding her, “The next few days are going to be stressful,” meaning not only Ethel’s wake and funeral, plus trying to avoid our own funerals, but also her parents being somewhere in this zip code. I added, “We need to… communicate with each other.”

Susan nodded, then said, “I had a very sad dream about Ethel… she was sitting alone, crying… and I asked her why she was sad. And she said to me, ‘Everyone is dead.’ So I tried to comfort her… but she kept crying, and I was crying, and I had this… overwhelming sense of being alone… then I said, ‘I’ll call John.’”

She looked at me, and I could see she was on the verge of tears, so I took her in my arms and we hugged. I said to her, “You’re not alone.”

“I know. But I was for so many years, and it didn’t feel good.”

We went downstairs and sat in the kitchen, reading the Times and having coffee, waiting for Sophie, for Felix Mancuso, William and Charlotte Stanhope, and whomever and whatever else the day had in store for us.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Sophie, the cleaning lady, came at 8:00 A.M., and Susan’s personal trainer, an androgynous chap named Chip, arrived at 8:30. The gardeners showed up to work in the rain, UPS delivered something at 9:00, the mailman came at 9:15, and the dry cleaner came by to drop off and pick up at 9:30. It occurred to me that a Mafia hit man would have to wait his turn in the foyer.

The phone rang all morning, and after Susan finished with her trainer, she spent some time in the office making and taking phone calls and e-mailing. A lot of this communication had to do with Ethel’s wake and funeral, and Susan spoke to Elizabeth a few times and also spoke to the funeral home, the florist, and a few limousine companies – do not use Bell Car Service – and she also got hold of the caretakers for the Stanhope cemetery. I wanted to suggest that she get two more holes dug for William and Charlotte while she was at it – but she might take that the wrong way. On that subject, I had a question for her. “What do you do when you miss your in-laws? You reload and fire again.”

I didn’t actually ask her that question, but that did remind me to buy shotgun shells, and further reminded me to tell her, “Reserve a cottage for your parents at The Creek.”

She replied, “Let’s first see if they want to stay with us.”

“What time are they arriving?”

“I told you five times – they arrive at LaGuardia at three-fifteen, and they should be here about five.” She added, “We’ll have cocktails and discuss… things.”

“All right.” Where do you keep the rat poison? “What time is the viewing tonight?”

“I also told you that. Seven to nine.” She filled me in on the daily viewing schedule, and apparently Ethel had left instructions for an extended engagement at the funeral home, so that no one had an excuse to miss her final act. Susan concluded, “The funeral Mass is Saturday at ten A.M. Do you want me to write this down?”

“No. I have you, darling.”

She further informed me, “This Sunday is Father’s Day. In my e-mail exchanges with my parents and the children, it appears that we’ll all be here on Sunday, so I’ve suggested dinner at home to mark the occasion.”

Susan seemed more optimistic than I was about this reunion, but I said, “That’s very thoughtful of you.” I inquired, “Do your parents know that I’m here?”

“They know from the children that you are back for the funeral, and that you are living in the gatehouse.”

“Actually, I’m not.”

“They haven’t been updated on that.”

“Right. And they have no problem with me being here for a Father’s Day dinner?”

“They understand that Edward and Carolyn want you to join us for Father’s Day.” She added, “I told them I was fine with that.”

“I see. So when do we tell your parents that I’m living here and sleeping with you?”

“When they arrive.” She explained, “It’s better to present them with a fait accompli.”

Which, hopefully, would lead to them having a grand mal seizure, followed by me administering a coup de grace with the shotgun. “All right. Do it your way.”

She changed the subject and inquired, “Do you think I should invite your mother, or will that be sad for her with your father gone?”

I replied with overdone enthusiasm, “Harriet would be delighted to be included, and I look forward to having dinner with her and your parents.”

Susan looked at me closely and asked, “Can you handle all that?”

I replied, “The answer is martinis.”

She had no comment on that, except to say, “I’m counting on you, John, to set a good example for Edward and Carolyn.”

“You can count on me, sweetheart.” I honestly intended to do my best to put the fun back into dysfunctional, and I suggested, “Your father and I will sit at the opposite heads of the table and sing a duet of ‘Oh, My Papa.’”

She still seemed skeptical for some reason, so I added, “I will honor your father on that special day, Susan, because he gave me you.”

“That’s very sweet of you, John.” She reminded me, “We’re really doing this for Edward and Carolyn, so if you have to bite your tongue a few times, the children will respect you even more for being a big man. And if my father is not pleasant, then that is his problem.”

“Always has been.”

“And please do not sit there like you did at the last dinner we had together, simmering until you exploded and called him… whatever.”

“An unprincipled asshole, a-”

“All right, John. And you promised to apologize for that.”

“I’m anxious to do that.”

She looked at me closely and said, “John… it’s for the children… and I don’t mean their emotional well-being – I mean their financial well-being.”

“I know exactly what you mean.” I did remind her, however, “You didn’t think your parents would financially punish their grandchildren because of us.” I couldn’t resist adding, “No one would be so vindictive.”

She replied, “Let’s not test that assumption.”

“I hear you.” I asked her, “Will we have the pleasure of your brother’s company for these sad and happy occasions?”

She replied, “Peter will not be in for Ethel’s funeral. But he’ll try to make it in for Father’s Day.”

“Wonderful. And where is Peter working these days?”

“The Bahamas.”

“Doing what?”

“Surfing.”

“Right. Well, if he starts now and catches a few good waves, he can be here by Sunday.”

I thought that would make her angry, but she smiled and said, “The Stanhopes bring out the best of your wit.”

You ain’t seen nothing yet, lady. I changed the subject and reminded her, “Felix Mancuso will be here shortly. I’m counting on you, Susan, to put aside any negative feelings you may have toward him, and to be helpful and pleasant.” I added, “Just as I will do with your parents.”

“All right. Point made.” She thought for a moment, then said to me, “This is everyone’s chance to make up for the past. Or at least, let go of the past.”

“Indeed, it is.”

I thought about my deathbed conversation with Ethel, who I sincerely hoped had had similar conversations with everyone who visited her. We don’t all have the certainty of a long goodbye, so we often miss the chance to set things right before we stop breathing and talking.

Alternately, we can leave letters behind for everyone, in case we didn’t get a chance to say, “Sorry I was such an asshole,” and I suspected that Ethel’s letter to me was along those lines. And if the truth be known, there were three such letters from me, sitting with my solicitor in London; one each to Edward and Carolyn, and one to Susan. The easiest letter to write is the one that begins, “If you’re reading this, it means that I am dead…” Maybe I should also write one to William and Charlotte: Dear Assholes…

Susan asked me, “What are you thinking about?”

“About… how lucky we are… you and I… and how lucky I am that you made this happen… and that no matter what happens next, we’ve had this time together.”

The doorbell rang at 10:00 A.M., and I opened the door to Special Agent Felix Mancuso.

We shook hands and exchanged greetings, and as I showed him into the foyer, he took off his rain hat, and I saw that his baldness hadn’t progressed much in ten years, but what was left of his hair had gone from black to salt-and-pepper. When his beat had been La Cosa Nostra, Special Agent Mancuso’s Italian-made suits were always better than theirs; but now, I noticed, his gray suit and his shirt and tie were nothing special, and he’d blend in nicely on the streets of New York as he followed terrorists around the city – or whatever he did with the Terrorist Task Force. I noticed, too, he was wearing a flag pin on his lapel, the better to blend in with everyone else in New York.

Susan was in the kitchen, and I’d asked her to give me ten minutes with Mancuso, so I showed him into my new old office and invited him to sit in my old leather club chair. He did a quick scan of the room as I sat at my desk chair and shut off the phone ringer.

He said to me, “This is a very nice place you have here.” He asked, “And this was your wife’s family estate?”

“We like to say ancestral home.”

He saw I was being droll, so he smiled.

I informed him, “She owns only this guest cottage and ten acres. Most of the remaining acreage and the main house are now owned by Mr. Amir Nasim, who, as I mentioned, has a few problems of his own that may interest you.”

Mr. Mancuso did not reply to that. He said, instead, “I wish you luck here. It must be nice to be home.”

“It is, except for my Alhambra neighbor.”

He nodded.

As I said, he’d been here twice before – once when he’d offered me a ride home from the city after Frank Bellarosa survived the Giulio’s shooting, and once when he’d given me a ride to Alhambra to show me the result of Susan’s better aim in ending Frank’s life.

On that subject, I needed to clear some of the air from the last time we’d spoken, and I began, “Mrs. Sutter told me that she believes you may harbor some negative feelings toward her.”

He replied, frankly, “I did. But I’ve become more realistic since we last had occasion to interact.”

And, I thought, probably less idealistic. Especially after he’d taken a career hit for something that was not his fault. In the end, Susan had gotten off easier than Special Agent Mancuso, proving once again that life is not fair. I said to him, “I think Mrs. Sutter can be more helpful this time.”

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 any 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.

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. Not 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.

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-”

“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.”

She looked at me, but didn’t respond.

I left the family room, went downstairs, and checked the phone book in the office and discovered that the sporting goods store was still where it had been ten years ago.

I went out into the rain, got into my car, and drove down the long drive and onto Grace Lane.

Not one of my better days, but on the bright side, maybe I didn’t have to be nice now to William and Charlotte.

I took my time driving to Glen Cove, and I used the time to think about today, tomorrow, and the days ahead. It occurred to me that there was nothing here for me, except unhappiness and bad memories. So as soon as I was through here with whatever I needed to do, I’d go back to London. Susan, who was quite capable, would have to make her own decisions and take care of herself. I’d advise her to return to Hilton Head, but beyond that, I felt no further obligation toward her, and no desire to be part of her life.

That wasn’t true, of course, but that would have to be my exit line as I packed my bags – then maybe we could try again, ten years from now.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

I remembered the sporting goods store owner, a Mr. Roger Bahnik, who had always been helpful and patient when I’d brought Edward or Carolyn in for various camping and sporting items. I’d also come here myself for deep-sea fishing gear as well as some nautical odds and ends, so I considered reintroducing myself, but Mr. Bahnik could possibly remember Susan’s misuse of a firearm, and since my purpose here was to buy a weapon and ammunition, I thought it best to remain anonymous until I had to show my ID.

I stated my purpose, feigning little knowledge of firearms or ammunition, though I’m sure I was being unnecessarily devious. Mr. Bahnik showed me to the big boys’ gun shop in the rear of the store, and he asked me if I was shooting skeet or birds, and if birds, what kind.

I replied, “Very big birds.”

Mr. Bahnik suggested an appropriate heavy game load, and I also bought a box of rifled deer slugs, which can put a very big hole in a person.

Mr. Bahnik was wearing a holster with a handgun, as is required when you sell guns, and I would have liked to buy two of Mr. Bahnik’s handguns – one for me, and one for Susan’s purse – but as I said, I’d need a special permit to carry a concealed weapon; I could possibly obtain this permit, but it would take about six months, and that would be six months too late. Susan, unfortunately, had that prior problem with a handgun, and I doubted if the authorities would look favorably on her gun permit application.

But I still needed a personal defense weapon for the road, so I asked to see some carbines, which Mr. Bahnik was happy to show me.

He unlocked the gun case and laid out a few small carbines on the counter. I examined an old World War II Winchester.30 caliber M-1 carbine, which I’d fired in the Army. These rifles are only about three feet long and fit nicely under a car seat, and maybe even into one of those big handbags I see the ladies carrying.

Mr. Bahnik briefed me, “The M-1 will be accurate to about three hundred yards, and it will bring down a deer, but mostly it’s used for small game, and also as a personal defense weapon.” He inquired, “What are you using it for?”

I didn’t want to tell him I was going to carry it in the car because the Mafia were after me, so I replied, “Home security.”

“Ah. Excellent. The missus will like this – lightweight, about five pounds, semi-automatic, and a soft recoil.”

“She’ll love it.” I confessed, “It’s an anniversary gift.”

Mr. Bahnik knew I was joking – or hoped I was – and laughed.

I got a box of.30 caliber carbine rounds, and a cleaning kit for the carbine and one for the shotgun, and Mr. Bahnik threw in an American flag patch that I could sew onto my hunting jacket, or pajamas.

I noticed an orange hazmat suit hanging on a wall, along with a nice selection of gas masks. These items seemed to be a new addition since my last visit, and I asked him, “Are you selling many gas masks and hazmat suits?”

He glanced at his display on the wall and replied, “I sell a few gas masks… but no takers for the hazmat suits.” He informed me, “I am, however, selling a lot of freeze-dried rations and jerry cans for water.” He added, “And a few radiation detectors.”

“And weapons?”

“Business has picked up.” He added, “And candles, Coleman lanterns, flashlights… that sort of thing.” He joked, “We don’t do this well even during the hurricane season.”

I didn’t respond, but I was happy to learn that Mr. Bahnik was doing well and that the Gold Coast was prepared. Life in the USA had certainly changed.

Mr. Bahnik tallied up my purchases as I completed some paperwork for the carbine and ammunition. The government forms didn’t ask too many silly questions, and I used my passport for photo ID. My American Express card was still working, though I don’t recall having paid the bill for a while, and we completed our transaction.

Mr. Bahnik wrapped my M-1 carbine in plain brown paper so that I could carry it to the car without upsetting shoppers or law enforcement people, and he put my other purchases in a big shopping bag that said “Sporting Goods – Camping Equipment – Guns.” No mention of gas masks.

My name, and maybe my address on the paperwork as well as my face seemed to be registering now with Mr. Bahnik, and I could see that he was recalling something – perhaps my happy visits to his store with my children. Or, more likely, he was recalling something he’d read or seen on TV about ten years ago. He looked at me and said, as if to himself, “Oh… yes.”

I thanked him for his help, and as I walked toward the door, I could see he was looking at me, perhaps concerned that he’d see me and Mrs. Sutter on the evening news again. Well, he might.

The rain had stopped, but the sky was dark, and I could hear thunder in the distance, and I knew it would start again.

Back at Stanhope Hall, I had the good fortune of running into Amir Nasim, who was standing outside his newly acquired gatehouse, speaking to two men in suits. Decorators? I thought not. I stopped and got out of my Taurus, and Mr. Nasim excused himself from his company and approached me.

We exchanged greetings, and he was a bit cool to me, which could have been because I’d refused his suggestion that I convince Susan to sell her house to him. Also, he realized that my status on the property was apparently permanent. On the other hand, he’d gotten his gatehouse back sooner than either of us could have foreseen.

Perhaps, too, he was upset about Felix Mancuso’s visit. And there were two reasons he’d be upset about the FBI calling: one, he just didn’t want the FBI to come calling; and two, Mancuso had told him about the Sutters’ problems with the Mafia. Or all of the above.

But Mr. Nasim is a polite chap, and he kept his forced smile as he said to me, “So, I understand that congratulations are in order for you and Mrs. Sutter.”

I didn’t want to spoil his good wishes by giving him the update that Mrs. Sutter and I were not speaking at the moment, so I replied, “Thank you.”

He inquired, “Is it your plan to continue living here?”

I actually didn’t know if I’d be living here until I got back to the guest cottage to see if my bags were packed. Also, if I expressed any thought about us leaving, then his offering price would go down, and I’d also lose my ten percent commission. But seriously, I replied, “We love our home.”

“Well… you will let me know if your plans change.”

“You’ll be the first to know.”

Mr. Mancuso’s visit did not seem to be on Nasim’s agenda, and he said to me, apropos of the two gentlemen walking around the gatehouse, “I have engaged the services of a private security firm to analyze my needs and to make recommendations for enhancing my security here.”

I assured him, “Good idea.” Then I advised, “Don’t use Bell Security.” I explained, “That’s a Mafia company.”

I couldn’t tell if he thought I was being funny or serious, but he assured me, “It is not that company.”

“Good. And on that subject, I assume that you spoke to Special Agent Felix Mancuso of the FBI this morning.”

He nodded and replied, “Yes, I did.” He informed me, “He spoke of your and Mrs. Sutter’s concerns about a possible problem regarding events that took place some years ago and which may now be resurfacing.”

“Correct. So we all seem to have some security issues, and I would be very happy if we could coordinate our efforts in that regard.”

He thought about that and probably concluded that I was trying to get some free security service. He replied, “Of course, we can do that.” He observed, “As a practical matter, this is the same property, and your egress and mine are the same, so we do need to discuss the issue of authorized visitors.” He added, “Just as they do next door at Alhambra Estates.”

Poor comparison, but I replied, “Correct.”

He further informed me, “The first thing I am doing, as of now, is having this gatehouse occupied by two uniformed guards who will arrive shortly.” He continued, “I am having the remote control frequency changed, as well as the pass code, and I will have the gates closed more often than they are now open.” He assured me, “But, of course, I will give you and Mrs. Sutter the new codes and new remote controls.”

“Thank you.” Mr. Nasim was certainly making life a bit more secure for the Sutters, but he was also happy to make our coming and going a little more inconvenient. Well, that was his right – the guest cottage was smack in the middle of his property, and while the deed for the guest cottage included a right-of-way up the main drive, it was now Amir Nasim who controlled the gates, and thus the access to that right-of-way. If we all didn’t have similar security concerns (people who were trying to kill us), I was sure I’d be in court with Mr. Nasim within a month. But for now, everyone’s concerns and needs coincided, so it was serendipitous for the Sutters that Amir Nasim believed that people were trying to whack him. Talk about luck.

On the subject of visitors, he asked me, “Are you expecting any company, Mr. Sutter?” He added, “Or anyone who you do not want to have access?”

I replied, “Well, I’m not receiving any calls from the Mafia today.”

He seemed taken aback at my direct response, or perhaps he was surprised at my making a little joke of something he probably didn’t find too funny. Along the lines of unwanted visitors, I thought about giving him the description of William and Charlotte and telling him to have them stopped and strip-searched in the gatehouse. But that would get back to Susan, and she wouldn’t understand that this was just a joke that Mr. Nasim didn’t get.

I did say, however, “With Mrs. Allard’s death, we are expecting some company.” I briefed him on the Stanhope arrival at about 5:00 P.M., and the arrival of Edward and Carolyn tomorrow evening, either by car or by taxi. It slipped my mind to mention Peter’s possible arrival on Saturday or Sunday, and with any luck, the guards would imprison the wastrel in the gatehouse basement. I did mention, though, Elizabeth Allard, whom he knew, and my mother, whom I described as a sweet old lady. I also mentioned the small army of service people and tradesmen that Susan engaged.

Mr. Nasim nodded as I briefed him, and he said, “Yes, perhaps then you can deliver to me a list of these people, and I will be certain to inform the security guards.”

I said to him, “We will need to work out some system that is not inconvenient for me or for Mrs. Sutter.”

“Of course.”

“I need to be in contact with your security people, and they need to be in contact with us. Also, Mrs. Sutter and I need to be authorized to give them instructions.”

He didn’t seem to like any of that, but he replied, “I am sure we can coordinate all of that, Mr. Sutter.”

“Swell.” I advised him, “That ten-foot wall that runs for over a quarter of a mile along Grace Lane will not keep any motivated trespassers out. Also, the remainder of the perimeter is basically wide open, except for a stockade fence in the rear of your property and tree lines on either side, so while the gate may be secure, you have close to a mile of unsecured perimeter around the property.”

He informed me, “We are discussing sensor devices, and I should tell you that there will be an all-terrain vehicle with a security person and a dog patrolling the property during the evening hours. I will keep you informed.”

“Please do.” I inquired, “Will those security people be armed?”

“Of course.”

Most of these guys were moonlighting or retired cops, or former military, and they could be trusted with a weapon. But I had the impression – from Anthony Bellarosa, actually – that security was now a growth industry in America, and that always meant hiring marginal people to fill the ranks, just as the FAA did at the airports. I advised Mr. Nasim, “Be certain that all these security guards have had background checks, and that they are licensed to carry a handgun, and that there are at least two active or retired law officers on each and every shift.” I added, “Get this in writing.”

He remarked, “I am glad I spoke to you, Mr. Sutter.”

“Likewise.” And to be an even better neighbor, and to acknowledge my benefits from Mr. Nasim’s fortification of Stanhope Hall, I offered, “I would be happy to contribute a fair share toward your costs.” Actually, Susan would.

He assured me, “I am not incurring any extra cost as a result of your presence here, and I am happy to include the guest cottage and your acreage in my security arrangement.”

“Thank you, but, as we say, you get what you pay for, so I need to insist that I be a party to your contract, and that I pay, directly to your security company, my share, pro rata, based on my ten acres.”

He smiled and said, “Ah, you are ever the lawyer, Mr. Sutter, and a man who knows his numbers.”

“Is that agreeable – or should I get my own security service here, which may be inconvenient and confusing?”

He understood my concerns, as well as my power play, and he nodded and agreed, “All right.” He suggested, “Perhaps you can give me some legal advice about the contract.”

“You can be sure that our contract with the security company will be up to my standards.”

It was his turn to make a power play, and he said to me, “Those hedges which encircle your ten acres are a possible problem in regard to my security, and yours as well. So perhaps you will consider removing those.”

“I would, but Mrs. Sutter likes to sunbathe in the nude, and I assume you wouldn’t want to see that.”

Mr. Nasim may have thought I was being provocative, or that I was baiting him, and he replied tersely, “I should think that security would take precedence, so perhaps you can ask Mrs. Sutter if she would perhaps consider removing the hedges and constructing a small enclosure for her… nature hours.”

Good one, Amir. And actually quite reasonable. I replied, “I’ll discuss that with her.”

“Thank you.” He thought a moment, then said to me, “If you and Mrs. Sutter find this situation not to your liking, perhaps you will reconsider my offer to purchase your property.”

Actually, I might. But it wasn’t my property. I realized, too, that Susan’s house and property – surrounded by foreign-held territory, whose paranoid or justifiably frightened owner was hiring armed guards with dogs – was no longer prime real estate. Even the local realtors, who could sell a toxic waste dump to a couple with children, would find this one a challenge. And this beautiful English cottage is situated in the middle of a grand estate owned by a wonderful Iranian couple who are under a death threat, so you may see some dogs and armed men around the well-manicured grounds, but the dogs are friendly, and the men will not shoot during the daylight hours. Offered at three million.

“Mr. Sutter?”

“Well… that is Mrs. Sutter’s decision, and I believe you already have her decision. But, I will…” I thought if I could get William and Charlotte shot, or eaten by the dogs, then Susan might be able to buy back the whole estate with her inheritance. But the maintenance costs… I crunched some numbers as Mr. Nasim waited patiently for me to finish my thought. I said to him, “I will raise the question again, but only because you asked.”

“That is all I want you to do. And you might mention to Mrs. Sutter that I am happy to be able to provide some measure of safety for her during this time of… uncertainty in her life, but that unfortunately this security comes with some inconvenience.” He gave me another example of the inconvenience by saying, “I’m afraid, for instance, that I need to limit your use of my grounds – on the advice of my security advisor.”

More bullshit, but he was making a good case for us selling to him at a reduced price.

He continued, “As an example of my concerns, I saw Mrs. Sutter running yesterday, and I am not sure that would be a good thing with the dogs and the patrols.”

I asked, “Are you sure that was she? What was she wearing?”

“Well… she was dressed modestly, but that is not the issue.”

“Right. I get it.” I knew she wasn’t running naked.

He concluded his pitch, “And while it is my sincere hope that Mrs. Sutter’s situation is resolved quickly and happily, my situation is, unhappily, of long duration. So I don’t believe that these acres will return to peace and tranquility at any time in the near future.”

“Loud and clear, Mr. Nasim.”

“Yes? Good. Well, then, please pass on my condolences to Mrs. Allard’s family, and perhaps I will have the pleasure of meeting your family in the next few days.”

I thought about asking him if he had an extra bedroom for William and Charlotte – actually, he had about twenty – but I wasn’t sure if the Stanhopes and the Nasims would get along. I mean, they might – William could give Amir the history of the house, and explain the significance of the blackamoors, and Charlotte could show Soheila how to shake a mean martini.

Anyway, I said to Mr. Nasim, “Perhaps we can all get together for tea.”

“Let me know.”

“I will. And in the meantime, please keep me fully apprised of your security arrangements, and have the contract drawn up in both our names.”

We parted without a handshake, and I got back in the car and continued on to the guest cottage.

I didn’t see my luggage on the lawn, and that was a good sign, but I didn’t know what awaited me inside.

I mean, there were two ways to look at what I had done ten years ago to break up Frank and Susan’s happy affair: one, I did it to get Susan back because I loved her; and two, I did it out of spite and anger because I hated both of them. Maybe it was the usual combination of both those things, and I’m sure Susan understood that, but she loved me, so she was inclined to think I did it more for love than for hate. And she was right.

And bottom line on her shooting Frank – I’m sure all three of us wished it hadn’t happened, especially Frank, and especially now that, as Mr. Mancuso was kind enough to point out, twice, the chickens were coming home to roost.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

I carried my purchases into my home office, and Susan was there, multitasking on the phone and the computer, while scribbling notes on a pad.

She gave me a distracted smile, then continued her phone call and her e-mail.

I unwrapped my carbine and put it on the coffee table, then I began feeding rounds into the magazine.

Susan ended her phone call and asked, “What is that rifle for?”

“For the car.”

She didn’t reply.

I laid the loaded magazine on the coffee table and got right to the point, asking, “Where am I sleeping?”

“In the master bedroom.”

“Good.”

“I’m sleeping in the guest room.”

I saw that she was joking, so I said, “I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted some time to think about… what I said, and what I did.”

“I thought about it.”

“And?”

“And… I understand why you did it, and I truly don’t believe that you meant for… what happened to have happened.” She restated the obvious and said, “I had the affair, and I killed him. Not you.”

“All right.”

She continued, “I know that all you were trying to do was to get me to come back.”

“Right.” I reminded her, “All’s fair in love and war.”

She recalled where she’d heard that, and said, “That’s… true.” She continued, “It’s impossible for us, now, to really understand what we were thinking and feeling ten years ago, so neither of us should judge the other for what happened then.”

“I agree.”

She concluded, “You realized, before I did, the problem with Anthony Bellarosa, and you could have cut and run, but instead you tried to help me, even before we were together, and now you’ve made my problem your problem, and put your own life in danger.”

I couldn’t have put it better, and if I’d just met John Sutter and heard that, I’d say he was a hell of a guy. Or an idiot. I said to her, “I love you.”

She stood and we embraced, and I could feel her tears on my neck.

She said, “I love you. And I need you.”

“We’re good together.”

“We are.”

She composed herself, looked me in the eye, and she said, “This is the end of it. I never again want to talk about what happened then. Ever.”

“I agree. There’s nothing more to say.”

“That’s right.” She took a deep breath and said, “So, I see you found the sporting goods store.”

“I did, and the proprietor remembered me, and he also remembered that we have an anniversary coming up at the end of the month, so he suggested I buy you this small rifle, which is called a carbine, so we could go down to the dump and shoot rats together.”

She played along with my silliness and said, “How sweet.” She looked at the rifle and exclaimed, “You didn’t have to be so extravagant, John.”

“Ah, it’s nothing.”

I picked up the carbine and explained its operation and its many fine points, then I handed it to her and said, “Feel how light this is.”

She took the rifle, hefted it, and agreed. “I could carry this into Locust Valley and walk around with it all day.”

“And it fits nicely under a car seat.”

“I can see that.”

I took the rifle from her, slapped in the magazine, checked the safety, and chambered a round. I said, “You just click it off safety, aim, and pull the trigger. It’s semi-automatic, so it will fire each time you pull the trigger – fifteen rounds. Okay?”

She nodded.

I then demonstrated how to get off a hip shot for close targets, then I raised the rifle to my shoulder and said, “For a shot of let’s say, over twenty feet, aim it as you would aim a shotgun for skeet, but you don’t have to lead the target, and-”

Unfortunately, Sophie appeared at the door just then, screamed, and fled.

I thought I should go after her – without the rifle in my hands – but Susan said, “I’ll be right back,” and left to track down Sophie.

I used the time to make us two light vodka and tonics. I was feeling good that Susan and I had finally and completely put the past behind us, and also I was feeling good about buying the rifle and the shotgun ammunition, and good, too, that Felix Mancuso was on the case.

What was also good was that Amir Nasim had decided to put in a full security system, which, if he was really concerned, he should have done some time ago. Then, I had this thought that Felix Mancuso had taken the opportunity to scare the hell out of Nasim, telling him perhaps that it had come to the attention of the FBI that the threat to his life was real and imminent. Condition Red, Amir.

But would Mancuso have done that to Nasim just to get him to pay for the Sutters’ round-the-clock security service? Or was it just a coincidence that Nasim was talking to those security advisors after Mancuso’s visit? Possibly Nasim had called them as soon as he discovered that the gatehouse was in his possession. In any case, I had the feeling that Felix Mancuso had given Nasim the same advice he’d given me: Hire some guns.

Susan returned and told me, “I gave her a raise.”

“Will she clean my guns?”

“No, John, but I assured her that you’re fairly normal, and I gave her the raise because there’s an extra person in the house now.”

“Good. Did you tell her that the Mafia is after us?”

“No, I did not. But I will brief her again about answering the door to strangers.”

I informed Susan, “There won’t be many strangers calling. Nasim has instituted a new regime for Stanhope Hall.”

“What do you mean?”

I handed her her vodka and tonic and said, “I just ran into him, and he was talking to some security advisors.” I toasted, “To a new Iranian-American mutual defense treaty.”

I briefed Susan on my conversation with Nasim, and she commented, “This is going to be very inconvenient… and it affects my quality of life.”

I pointed out, “So does getting killed.”

She thought about that and said, “This is not what I hoped for when I returned.”

“I’m sure not. But… well, we all have to give up some freedom for security.”

“No we don’t.”

I’d had this argument in London, and here in New York with Susan. It was a matter of degree – how much personal freedom do we want to give up and how much freedom from fear are we getting in return? I said to Susan, “Let’s see how it works. Meanwhile, no more running around the property naked.”

She smiled.

I also told her, “He’d like us to take out our hedges for our mutual security.” I added, “I told him, however, we like our privacy.”

Susan thought about that and said, “If he didn’t have such a problem with the dress code… or the undress code… well, I think Nasim is just putting the pressure on me to sell.”

“That is certainly part of it.” I looked at her and said, “You should think about that.”

“I will not.”

“Then buy the estate back from him.”

“And where would I get that kind of money?”

My eyes drifted, unconsciously, to the carbine on the coffee table.

She made a few mental connections, looked at me, and said, “That’s not funny.”

“What?” I asked, innocently.

She changed the subject and asked, “What did you and Mancuso talk about?”

I briefed her on our conversation about Anthony Bellarosa’s disappearance, and the possible scenarios that might play out in the next week or two. I also discussed with her Felix Mancuso’s reassurances concerning our houseguests and our children.

On this subject, she asked me a lot of questions, so I gave her Mancuso’s card and said to her, “He wants you to call him, and you should ask him all your questions, and mention any concerns you have.”

“All right. I’ll do that today.”

“Good. Also, you should know that Special Agent Mancuso paid a visit to Mr. Nasim, and that may have prompted the fortification of Stanhope Hall.”

Susan thought about that and asked, “How did we get involved with all of this? All these people…?”

I hoped that was a rhetorical question, because if I had to answer it, I’d have to begin by bringing up things we’d just agreed not to speak about ever again. Of course, the Nasim problem was not of Susan’s making, but if Susan had not urged Frank Bellarosa to buy Stanhope Hall, then the estate would not have been seized by the government, and quite possibly it would now be owned by a nice family who didn’t know anyone who wanted to kill them, and so forth. And if Susan hadn’t had an affair with and murdered Frank Bellarosa, then Susan and John would have been living here in marital bliss for the last decade, without worrying about being the object of a Mafia vendetta. And so forth.

But rather than mention any of that, I replied, “This will pass.”

She looked at me, and asked, “What would I have done without you?”

I had a similar question, but… well, I’d made this decision with my heart, not my head, so… I shouldn’t ask myself too many questions.

Susan moved on to more important subjects. “I have a caterer coming to help me shop and cook for the week, and I have Sophie all week, and I think we have enough wine, beer, mixers, vodka, Scotch, and everything, but Mom and Dad drink gin martinis and we don’t have any gin. They drink Boodles. So, would you mind running out for gin?”

“I just went out for guns.”

“Please, John.”

“Okay. I’ll see if I can get a pass to leave the compound.”

She ignored that and asked, “Should I call my parents and tell them about the new security at the gate?”

“That might be a good idea.” I suggested, “Tell them it has to do with Nasim, not us.”

“Of course. And I’ll let Edward and Carolyn know. Peter, too.”

“And Nasim wants the names of our guests in writing. So please take care of that.”

“I will.”

“Don’t forget our household staff, tradespeople, and delivery people.”

“I’ll take care of it.” She commented, “This sucks.”

“Right. Okay, I’ll be back within the hour. Meanwhile, take the shotgun shells upstairs and put the carbine in the hall closet.”

“Don’t you want to take the carbine?”

“No, I’ll take the Taurus.”

“I mean… do you believe we’re having this conversation?”

I didn’t reply to that, and said, “I’ll see you later.”

She decided to walk me out to the car, and before I got in the Taurus, she gave me her cell phone and said, “Call me.” Then she gave me a big hug and a kiss, and said, “Be careful.”

I got in the car and headed down the long drive toward the gatehouse.

The gates were still open and unmanned, and I turned right onto Grace Lane.

After about a minute, I saw a black Escalade coming toward me, and it slowed as it got closer.

I couldn’t see through the tinted windows, and it was too far to see the license plate, but obviously the Escalade was slowing for a reason. I was now sorry I hadn’t taken the carbine.

The Escalade stopped in the middle of the road, about thirty feet from me, and as I got closer, I could see the American flag decal on the side window, and I could also see that it was Anthony’s license plate.

But was Anthony in the car? And would he use his own car to whack John Sutter? He was stupid, but this was like Mafia Hit 101 – don’t use your own car or your own people, and don’t whack anyone in your own neighborhood.

I could speed past the Escalade, or make a U-turn, but for the above reasons, and because I was curious about who wanted to speak to me, I drew abreast of the Escalade and stopped.

The driver’s window went down, revealing Tony.

I lowered my window, and he said to me, “Hey, Mr. Sutta. I thought that was you. How ya doin’?”

“I’m doing very well. And how are you doing?”

“Great.”

I could see movement in the back seat, and I had the Taurus in drive and my foot ready to hit the accelerator. And if I had the carbine across my lap, I’d really feel better about this conversation.

He asked me, “Whaddaya up to?”

This idiot always asked the same stupid questions, and I replied, “Same old shit.”

“Yeah? How’s Mrs. Sutta?”

I almost said, “Fuck you,” but instead I asked, “Where’s your boss?”

He smiled, and if we’d been closer, I’d have buried my fist in his face. He kept smiling and replied, “I don’t know. Why do you want to know?”

I divided my attention between Tony and the movement in the back seat. I said to Tony, “Tell him I’m looking for him.”

“Yeah? Why ya lookin’ for him?”

I recalled that these conversations with Tony, even when he was doing business as Anthony, were not very enlightening or meaningful. I replied, “I remembered some other stuff about his father that I wanted to tell him.”

“Yeah? He likes to hear that stuff. Me, too. Tell me.”

Well, he asked, so I said, “If Frank had lived a little longer, he would have given you up to the Feds, and you’d still be in jail.”

“Hey, fuck you.”

“No, fuck you, Tony. And fuck your boss, and fuck-”

The tinted rear window went down, and I was ready to cut the wheel and ram the Escalade, but Kelly Ann said, “You’re cursing! No cursing!”

I took a deep breath, and said to her, “Sorry, sweetheart.” I said to Tony, “Tell your boss to stop hiding and act like a man.”

Tony would have said, “Fuck you,” but Kelly Ann was waiting to pounce, and I could hear Frankie, sitting next to her, mimicking his older sister, “No cursing, no cursing.”

Tony said to me, “I’ll let him know what you said.”

“That’s very kind of you. But I’d like to tell him in person.”

“Yeah. We’re workin’ on that.”

“Good. And my regards to his future widow.”

That seemed to confuse him, then he got it, and said to me, “Yeah, you too,” which wasn’t exactly the correct reply, but I got it.

We rolled up our windows and continued on our ways.

The question would be, “Why are you making things worse?” And the answer is, “Things could not be any worse, so there’s no downside to pissing off the guy who already wants to kill you.” In fact, it makes me feel better, and it might cause him to make a mistake. And that’s all I wanted – one mistake on his part, so I could kill him myself.