Authors: Nelson DeMille
“I know that.”
“But you’re much brighter than that.”
“I know that, too.”
“So what are you going to do, John?”
I thought about that and replied, “Well, my situation has obviously changed.” I forced a smile and said, “I’m in love and engaged to be married, as of a few hours ago, so I don’t have any need to be flattered by anyone else, and all my ego needs have been met, and I’m no longer vulnerable to the temptations of the devil.”
Susan looked at me again and said, “Tell the devil to go to hell.”
“I will . . . but I’m still concerned about you.”
“Don’t be.” She took my hand again and said, “I am so touched that you were thinking about protecting me when you hated me.”
“I never hated you. I loved you.”
“I see that.” She found a tissue in her pocket, dabbed her eyes, and said, “I do see that.”
We sat quietly for a while, then Susan asked me, “Do you have any plans to see or speak to him again?”
I glanced at my watch and replied, “Yes, in about five minutes.”
“Where?”
“At his house. I’m invited for Sunday dinner.”
“Don’t go.”
“My instincts say to go. And you need to trust me on this.”
She stayed silent for some time, then asked, “What is the
purpose
of going?”
I replied, “I feel if I don’t go, I might miss a last opportunity to learn something . . . to get a better understanding of the man, and of his thinking about . . . well, you.” I explained, “If I can get him to make a threatening remark, then when I go to the police, I’m sure they’ll take it seriously because of what Anthony Bellarosa has said, and also because of what happened ten years ago.”
Susan stayed silent a long time, then said, “If I had that moment to live over again, I would not pull the trigger.”
Three times, actually. And that reminded me to ask, “Do you own a gun?”
She looked at me and replied, “I did skeet and duck shooting in Hilton Head. I have a shotgun.”
I was happy to hear that she owned and knew how to use a shotgun, but recalling Emily Post’s advice on the subject of guns, and considering that I was about to move in with her . . . but, well, I’d take her at her word that she regretted her moment of explosive rage against her lover, and I would also assume that she’d developed better coping skills when angry. I asked, “Where do you keep the shotgun?”
“I don’t know . . . I think it’s in the basement.”
“You need to look for it.” I stood and said, “I should be going.”
She stood and asked me, “Who will be there?”
“Anthony, of course, his wife, Megan, probably their two children, and I suppose, Anna. I don’t know who else.”
“All right . . . I’ll trust your judgment on this.”
We walked back into the kitchen, and I said to her, “I’m not actually staying for dinner, of course.”
I took my car keys from the key peg, and Susan reminded me, “You should actually bring a hostess gift for his wife.”
There was something almost comical about Susan’s suggestion that I not forget social etiquette, even when dining with a man who quite possibly wanted her dead. Well, in Susan’s world, one thing had nothing to do with the other.
I opened the pantry, but I was out of wine, so I took a jar of Ethel’s crabapple jelly that had her personal label on it with the date it was made. I said, “This is a 1999. It will go well with lasagna.”
Susan had no comment, then said to me, “While you’re gone, I’m going to pack your things and take them to our house.”
“Thank you.” I reminded her, “But I’m moving back here when your parents arrive.”
“It would be nice if we could all stay under the same roof.”
“There isn’t a roof big enough for that.”
“Let’s see how it goes when they arrive.”
I didn’t want to discuss this now, so I said, “Well, ciao.”
“When you leave, tell him, ‘Va al inferno.’”
“I will do that.”
We kissed, and she said, “Good luck.”
I left the gatehouse, got into my car, and headed out through the open gates of Stanhope Hall, turning left onto Grace Lane for the short trip to Alhambra.
My first visit to Alhambra, ten years ago, had been a monumental mistake; this visit was a chance to correct that mistake.
A
nd so, to Sunday dinner at the Bellarosas’.
The distance between the gatehouse of Stanhope Hall and the gatehouse of Alhambra is about a quarter of a mile, and for the first half of that distance Grace Lane is bordered by the gray stone wall of the Stanhope estate, which ends where the Alhambra wall of brick and stucco begins.
The Gold Coast, at the height of its wealth and power, which was the day before the stock market crash of ’29, boasted over two hundred grand estates and an equal number of smaller manor houses and country homes.
A gentleman and his family living in a Fifth Avenue mansion could be here, at his country estate, in an hour, traveling by private railway car, or he could take a leisurely two-hour cruise in his motor yacht. The gentleman also had the option to travel here in his chauffeured limousine via the Vanderbilt Toll Road, which Mr. William K. Vanderbilt Jr. constructed for himself and his friends, and which he allowed others to use for a fee. Those were the good old days, as they say.
Most of the estates are fronted by walls or wrought-iron fences, punctuated by gates and gatehouses, and many of these structures have survived and are reminders of a past that had flourished briefly, but which nonetheless still loomed large in the consciousness of those who now lived here. The problem with living in a place like this, I think, is the physical evidence around us that said maybe there really
was
a golden age that was better than now.
So to return to Mr. Anthony Bellarosa’s analogies to the fall of the Roman Empire, I’d once read that during the Dark Ages, the last few thousand benighted inhabitants of Rome, awestruck by the magnificent ruins around them, believed that the ancient city must have been built by giants or gods.
I had no such belief here, though I think that archaeologists digging on the Gold Coast a thousand years from now might possibly conclude that stockbrokers and lawyers were barbarian tribes who cooked the landed gentry in something called Weber grills.
And while I was in this mind-set, I recalled, too, the story of the Roman Senate who continued to meet long after the fall of the Empire, and who became, in effect, no more than a tourist attraction for curious citizens and barbarians who wandered down to the Forum to see these living ghosts in their quaint togas.
I was never a full-fledged member of the senatorial class, being more of the equestrian class, but whenever I put on my blue blazer, tan pants, and Docksiders, and go into town with my preppie accent, I sometimes feel I am one of the Gold Coast tourist attractions, along with the walls, and the ruins, and the estates now open to the public. “Look, Mommy, there’s one of them!”
I slowed down as I approached the former gatehouse of Alhambra, which now served as the guard booth for the gated community.
A sign read alhambra estates—private—stop at security.
I turned left into the driveway. The large wrought-iron gates were open, and I saw that a speed bump and a yellow stop line had been added to the cobblestone allée, which was still lined with stately Lombardy poplars.
I drove through the gates, then stopped as instructed at the old gatehouse.
On the door of the house, I could see a small sign that said alhambra estates—sales & management. I noticed, too, that a big window had been cut into the side of the gatehouse, and behind the open window appeared a man dressed in a khaki military-style shirt. He greeted me with an insincere smile and asked, “How can I help you?”
A metal sign read bell security service, which I remembered was a division of Anthony Bellarosa’s Bell Enterprises, which conveniently had the contract for Alhambra Estates. So, since I was an F.O.B.—friend of the boss—and not in the best of moods, anyway, I indulged myself in a little petulance and replied, “I don’t know how you can help me. What are my choices?”
“Sir?”
I was briefly nostalgic for Frank Bellarosa’s goons—Lenny and Vinnie, both now deceased, and Anthony, now known as Tony. I said, “I’m here to see”—I was feeling reckless—“don Bellarosa.”
The guard looked at me closely, then informed me, “Mr.
Anthony
Bellarosa.”
“Right. And his brother, Don.”
He seemed not amused, but since I was apparently a guest of the boss, he played it safe and inquired, “Your name, sir?”
I replied, “John Whitman Sutter.”
Without consulting the list of invitees in his hand, he said, “Right,” then gave me directions and remembered to say, “Have a nice day.”
As I pulled away, I could see in my side-view mirror that the guard was on the phone, calling, I assumed, the Bellarosa house; so there was no turning back now.
I continued up the straight cobblestone drive that had once ended in the courtyard of the villa called Alhambra. But now I could see that the road continued on in blacktop, running over the site where the mansion once stood. Branching off the main road were smaller roads, which ran to the five-acre parcels and the faux villas. Some of the old trees had survived the construction of houses, roads, swimming pools, and underground infrastructure, but mostly the terrain was bare between the newly landscaped houses.
I suppose it could have been worse—but not much worse. I hadn’t been too thrilled when I discovered that Frank the Bishop Bellarosa had bought Alhambra—I mean, we’ve all had bad neighbors, but this was a bit much—though looking back, I realized that one Mafia don and his family was actually better than a hundred over-mortgaged stockbrokers, or whoever these people were.
In any case, it was not my problem. I recalled that a good deal of my time here had been spent engaged in cocktail-party and country-club chatter about how our world was changing around us, and I’d belonged to too many committees that were involved in legal actions to hold the line against the developers—in essence, trying to freeze some moment in time that had already passed. I’m sure they were still at it.
I stopped the car at the place where the old cobblestone and the poplars ended and the blacktop began. Here Alhambra had stood, and I got out of the car and looked around. This was the highest point of land, and from here I could see a dozen mini-villas sitting on their manicured acres with their three-car garages and their driveways and patios. There was a lot of barbecuing going on, and blue smoke rose into the cloudless sky, like the campfires of a bivouacked army. Other than that, there didn’t seem to be much human activity on God’s little five-acre parcels.
Beyond the acres of what had been Alhambra, I could see the golf course of The Creek Club, and I recalled that after Susan and I had taken Mr. and Mrs. Bellarosa to The Creek for dinner, Mr. Bellarosa had asked me to sponsor him for membership. Well, that’s always a problem when you take a marginal couple to the club for dinner; the next thing you know, they want you to get them in. I was fairly certain that the club membership committee would not approve of the application of a Mafia don, so, without wasting too much tact, I explained to Frank that even Jesus Christ, who was half Jewish on his mother’s side, couldn’t get into The Creek.
I have to admit, at least to myself, that despite all that happened that spring, summer, and fall, and despite the tragic end of a life and a marriage, I did have some fun with all this—which, I suppose, is like Mrs. Lincoln answering the question of, “Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how did you like the play?” with the honest reply, “It was a funny comedy, and I was laughing until the shot rang out.”
I looked to where the reflecting pool and the classical Roman garden had once been, but the landscape was so different now that I couldn’t be sure exactly where it was, though I thought it may have sat in a low piece of land where a house now stood.
The disturbing images from my dream took form in my mind, but I didn’t want to see them any longer, so I wished them away and they were gone.
I looked back down the long sloping allée toward the gatehouse and the road. On the other side of Grace Lane was a big colonial-style house set back about a hundred yards on a hill. This house was owned by the DePauws, though I didn’t know if they were still there. But ten years ago the FBI had used their property as an observation post to see and photograph anyone coming and going at Alhambra.
On the night of the failed hit outside of Giulio’s restaurant in Little Italy, I’d been escorted to the police station at Midtown South, where I had the opportunity to see many of these photos taken with a telescopic lens, and the police and the FBI asked me to try to identify if any of Frank Bellarosa’s photographed visitors were the same two men that I’d seen outside of Giulio’s.
Among the photographs of Mr. Bellarosa’s friends, family, and business associates were a few nice shots of Susan and me on the occasion of our first visit to the Bellarosas’ for coffee and cannolis. It occurred to me then that the FBI knew, long before I did, that Susan and Frank were going at it. I now wondered if the FBI already knew that Anthony Bellarosa and I were on our fourth tête-à-tête. I also wondered what had happened to Special Agent Felix Mancuso who’d tried so earnestly to save me from myself. Maybe I needed to call him.
I got back into my car and proceeded to a small road on the left called Pine Lane, which led me into a large cul-de-sac where three stucco villas with red-tiled roofs stood a hundred yards apart.
I realized that I was now close to the property line of Stanhope Hall, and in fact, I could see, behind the three villas, the line of towering white pines that separated the two estates. So, as the crow flies, or as the horse trots, Susan’s guest cottage and Anthony’s villa were only about five hundred yards apart.
The three villas on the cul-de-sac were slightly different in style and color, and the security guard said it was the yellow house, so I steered toward the last house on the left and stopped in front of the neat lawn of Casa Bellarosa. I got out, remembering the crabapple jelly.