Authors: Nelson DeMille
He said to me, “Usually, we hear from the complainant first, but . . . I’ll take your statement first.” He swiveled his chair back to the keyboard and said, “I type fast, but take a breather now and then.”
I reminded him, “I’m an attorney.”
“Okay, Counselor. Ready when you are.”
After the preliminaries of who I was, where I lived, and so forth, I began my statement by mentioning the murder of Frank Bellarosa ten years ago, then I stated that I had been living in London for the past seven years, but that I was still admitted to the New York State Bar. Detective A. J. Nastasi typed as I spoke.
I then recounted the night that Mr. Anthony Bellarosa paid me an unannounced visit at the gatehouse where I was temporarily living, and without getting into everything that was said that night, I got to the crux of the matter and recounted my conversation with Mr. Bellarosa regarding my former wife, Susan Sutter.
Detective Nastasi continued to type, appreciating, I hope, my clear, factual narrative as well as my good grammar and diction.
Susan, who was hearing some of this for the first time, didn’t react, but just sat there staring into space.
I then told of my dinner with Mr. Bellarosa at Wong Lee’s restaurant, and I mentioned his offer to hire me as one of his attorneys.
Detective Nastasi glanced at me for the first time, then continued to type.
I’m obviously good at sworn testimony, despite what two of my incarcerated tax clients may think, and I stuck to the pertinent facts of the complaint—omitting any facts that might be misconstrued as me and Anthony negotiating a job offer.
I then went on to the chance meeting I had with Bellarosa when I had been jogging on Grace Lane, and my car ride with him and his driver to Oyster Bay, and our visit to the building that Mr. Bellarosa was thinking of buying, and his further attempts to convince me to work for him.
Some of this wasn’t relevant to the issue of the threats, but I could tell that Detective Nastasi was intrigued by all of this. Susan, however, seemed to be getting a bit annoyed, perhaps about my flirting with her dead lover’s son. I could almost hear her say, “Are you
insane
?”
I explained, for the record, that I had negative feelings about Mr. Bellarosa’s interest in me, but I was concerned about Susan’s safety, so I thought it might be a good idea to continue to engage in these conversations with Mr. Bellarosa so that I could better determine the threat level, and also determine my next course of action.
Detective Nastasi interrupted me for the first time. “You and Mrs. Sutter had at this time decided to remarry.”
I replied, “No.”
“Okay. But you were speaking about it?”
I replied, “We were not speaking at all.” I added, “We hadn’t spoken in about three years.”
Susan said, “Four.”
“Right, four.” I was glad she’d been listening.
Detective Nastasi nodded, then asked me, “So why were you bothering to go through this trouble?”
I glanced at Susan and replied to Detective Nastasi, “I . . . I still had positive feelings toward her, and she is the mother of our children.” Plus, I wasn’t paying alimony, so there was no good reason for me to want her dead.
There was a silence in the room, so I continued, “Because we weren’t romantically involved, my growing concern about Bellarosa’s intentions toward Mrs. Sutter was not colored by emotion.” I added, “Now the situation between Mrs. Sutter and me has changed, so I was able to discuss this with her, and we decided to come here as a precaution.”
Nastasi nodded, probably wondering how much spin I was putting on this for him and for Susan. He said to me, “I think I understand why you were speaking to Bellarosa, Mr. Sutter.” He then editorialized, “But it’s not a good idea to talk about business opportunities with a man who may be involved in organized crime.”
“Thank you for the advice, Detective. But as you say, his rap sheet is as clean as I assume yours is.”
Detective Nastasi smiled for the first time, then turned back to his keyboard and said, “Please continue.”
I concluded with my visit to the Bellarosa home for Sunday dinner, mentioning that by this time, Mrs. Sutter and I had reunited, and that she had advised against this. I also mentioned that Mr. Salvatore D’Alessio, a.k.a. Sally Da-da, had been there briefly.
Detective Nastasi asked me, “And you’d met him before?”
“Yes. Ten years ago when I was doing some legal work for Frank Bellarosa.”
“Right.” He commented, “These are very bad guys you were having Sunday dinner with, Mr. Sutter.”
“I didn’t actually stay for dinner.”
“Good.” He stopped typing, and I could tell he was thinking about something, and he said to me, “Hey, you were at that failed hit in Little Italy.”
Apparently, he’d made a word association between Salvatore D’Alessio, Frank Bellarosa, and the attempted whack. I replied, “That’s correct.”
“You saved Bellarosa’s life.”
“I stopped the bleeding.” I added, “Good Samaritan.”
He glanced at Susan, probably thinking about the irony of me saving the life of my wife’s lover, and the further irony of her later killing the man whose life I’d saved. But if Detective Nastasi had anything to say about that, or about us, he kept it to himself and continued, “Okay, so on this occasion—at Anthony Bellarosa’s house yesterday, did Anthony Bellarosa make any threats against Mrs. Sutter?”
“He did.” I related some of our conversation out on the front lawn and quoted Anthony directly. “He said, apropos of something I said, ‘None of that changes what your wife did. Just so you know.’”
Detective Nastasi asked me, “And that was a direct quote?”
“Word for word.”
“Okay. And you said?”
“I asked him if that was a threat, and he replied, quote, ‘Take it any way you want.’” I added, “The last thing he said to me was, ‘You think guys like you don’t have to worry about guys like me. Well, Counselor, you’re wrong about that.’”
Detective Nastasi finished typing that, then asked me, “Did you take that as a personal threat?”
“I did.”
“Okay. Anything else to add?”
I replied, “Just that I take these threats against Mrs. Sutter—and me—seriously, based on what I heard and based on the fact that Mrs. Sutter killed Anthony Bellarosa’s father.”
Detective Nastasi duly recorded that on his keyboard, and looked at Susan and asked, “Do you want to add anything to Mr. Sutter’s statement?”
“No.”
“Do you want to say something about how you feel about this possible threat on your life?”
Susan thought a moment, then replied, “Well . . . having heard all of this—some of it for the first time—I believe the threat may exist.”
Detective Nastasi typed that without comment, then swiveled around and said to us, “Usually, these guys never threaten. They just do. So maybe this is all talk.”
I responded, “I know that. But this guy is young. He’s not his father.” I added, “I think he’s a hothead.” I didn’t tell him that I’d said a few things that made Anthony very angry, hoping he’d make an actual, quotable threat. And neither did I tell Detective Nastasi that I’d had a minor meltdown and slashed a painting in Anthony Bellarosa’s office—that was irrelevant except to Anthony, who would have a shit fit when he discovered it. I did tell Nastasi, however, “The threat may or may not be real, but it was made, so that in itself could be considered harassment and threatening under the law.”
“Right. I got that, Counselor.” He added, “Let’s see what he says when I talk to him.”
“All right. So, what’s next?”
Detective Nastasi hit the print button and said, “You read this and sign it.” As the pages printed out, he further informed us, “This will be part of the case report. We take threats seriously, and we will follow up with the party named. Meanwhile, I advise you both to avoid all contact with this man.”
“Goes without saying.”
“Right. But I have to say it.” He added, “I’d advise you also to take some normal precautions, but I’ll leave that to you to decide what kind of precautions.” He looked at us and said, “After I speak to him, I’ll get back to you and advise you further.”
I asked, “When will you speak to him?”
“Very soon.”
My statement was hot out of the printer, and Detective Nastasi handed it to me and said, “Look it over, then if everything is in order, I’d like you to sign it.”
I scanned the pages, then took my pen and signed where my name was printed.
Detective Nastasi gave each of us his card and said, “Call me if you think of anything else, or if you see him around, or if you see anything that arouses your suspicion.” He added, “Or call 9-1-1.”
I nodded and asked him, “Do you intend to put him under surveillance?”
He replied, “I’ll take that up with my supervisors after we speak to Bellarosa.”
That seemed to be about it for now, so Detective Nastasi walked us back through the squad room and up the stairs and into the big reception room. I said to him, “Thank you for your time and your attention to this matter.”
He didn’t reply to that, but said to us, “If you intend to leave the area for any reason, please let us know.” Then he assured us, “You did the right thing by coming in.”
We shook hands, and Susan and I left the station house and walked toward the car. I said to her, “We
did
do the right thing, and this is going to be all right.”
She asked me, “Can we change the subject now?”
“Sure. What would you like to talk about?”
“Anything.”
We got in the car and I headed home. We drove in silence awhile, then Susan said, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Do you care about me, or my money?”
“Your money.”
She pointed out, “But you were worried about me even before you proposed to me.”
Did I propose? Anyway, I replied, “I’ve always cared about you, Susan, even when I wanted to break your neck.”
“That’s very sweet.” She thought a moment, then said, “This is all my fault.”
I assured her, “It is. But it’s
our
problem.”
She thought about that, then said, “I didn’t know he threatened you.”
I didn’t respond.
She asked me, “What did you say to him that made him say that to you?”
I told him that his father was going to abandon his whole family for Susan Sutter, and it felt good saying it.
“John? What did you say to him?”
“I just turned down his job offer without showing the proper respect.”
“That hardly warrants the kind of threat he made.”
I changed the subject and said, “I think we should take a vacation right after Ethel’s funeral.”
“I’ll think about it.” She said, “Meanwhile, it’s a beautiful day, and I need a break, so why don’t we drive out to the Hamptons for the day?”
If she meant a mental health break, we’d be gone a few months, but I replied, “Good idea. We’ll stop and get our bathing suits.”
“There’s that beach in Southampton where we don’t need bathing suits.”
“Okay.” I made a course correction, and within ten minutes we were on the Long Island Expressway heading east to the Hamptons for a skinny-dip in the ocean.
I had once owned a summer house in East Hampton, and so had my parents, and the Sutter family would spend as much of the summer as possible out east. When my children were young, and when I was still on speaking terms with my parents, those had been magical, barefoot summers, filled with awe and wonder for the kids, and with peace and love for Susan and me.
I had sold the house because of my tax problems, and I hadn’t been back to the Hamptons in the last decade, so I was looking forward to spending the day out east, and not thinking about this morning, or tomorrow.
Susan said, “This will be like old times.”
“Even better.”
“And the best is yet to come.”
“It is.”
T
here are no officially sanctioned nude beaches in the Hamptons, but we found the secluded ocean beach in Southampton that was unofficially clothes-optional.
I parked the car in the small windswept lot and we got out. The beach was nearly deserted on this Monday in early June, but there were two couples in the water, and when the surf ran out, we confirmed that they were skinny-dippers.
Susan and I ran down to the wide, white-sand beach, shucked our clothes, and dove in the chilly water. Susan exclaimed, “Holy shit.”
It
was
a bit cool, but we stayed in for about half an hour, and before hypothermia set in, we ran back to the beach. As we pulled on our clothes over our wet bodies, Susan said, “I remember the first time we did this together, when we were dating.” She reminded me, “I’d never done this before, and I thought you were crazy.”
“Crazy in love.” In fact, there were a lot of things that Susan Stanhope hadn’t done before she met me, and maybe I was attracted to that sheltered rich girl who was gamely going along with my silly antics. I was trying to impress her, of course, and she was trying to show me she was just like everyone else. Eventually we both started being ourselves, and it was a relief to discover that we still liked each other.
We jogged back to the car and drove into the formerly quaint, now boutiquified village of Southampton, and had a late lunch at one of our old haunts, a pub called the Drivers Seat. At Susan’s strong suggestion, I ordered a grilled chicken salad and sparkling water, but when I got up to go to the men’s room, I changed it to a bacon cheeseburger with fries and a beer. Susan apparently remembered this trick, and when she went to the ladies’ room, she reinstated the original order. A good friend once said to me, “Never date or remarry your ex-wife.” Now I get it.
After our salads, we took a walk along Job’s Lane, which, according to a marker, was laid out in 1664, and was now filled with trendy shops, restaurants, and adventurous settlers from Manhattan Island.
Susan said, “Let’s buy you some clothes.”
“I have some clothes.”
“Come on, John. Just a few shirts.”
So we stopped in a few shops and bought a few dress shirts, and a few sports shirts, a few ties, and a few jeans, and a few other things I didn’t know I needed. She bought a few things for herself as well.