Authors: Nelson DeMille
We decided to stay overnight, so we also bought workout clothes and bathing suits, and Susan called Gurney’s Inn, out near Montauk Point, which has spa facilities, and she booked a room with an ocean view. We then drove east, through the remaining villages of the Hamptons, including East Hampton, where we’d once had our summer house, and I asked her, “Do you want to drive past our old house?”
She shook her head and replied, “Too sad.” She reminded me, “The children really loved that house, and loved being here.” Then she brightened and said, “Let’s buy it back.”
I replied, “You can’t buy back all your old houses.”
“Why not?”
“Well, money, for one thing.”
She informed me, “I don’t want to sound crass, John, but someday I’ll inherit my share of a hundred million dollars.”
That was the first time I’d ever heard what the Stanhopes were actually worth, and I almost drove off the road. I mean, the Stanhope fortune, when it was mentioned at all, was always preceded by the adjectives “diminished” or “dwindling,” which made me feel sorry for William and Charlotte. Not really, but I always pegged their net worth at about ten or maybe twenty million, so this number came as a surprise. Now I was
really
in love. Just kidding.
Anyway, I knew that Edward and Carolyn, the only grandchildren, would be in William’s will, and then there was Susan’s brother, Peter, the Lotus Eater, and, of course, Charlotte, if she survived William. Charlotte, however, was not a Stanhope, so in the world of old money, the bulk of the Stanhope estate would bypass her—who, in any case, had her own family money—and through some clever tax and estate planning, and complicated trusts, most of the Stanhope fortune would pass to William’s lineal descendents. That was how William got it from Augustus, and how Augustus got it from Cyrus.
So some quick math would reveal that Susan Stanhope should pop a bottle of champagne at William’s funeral.
Unless, of course, she married me, so I reminded her, “Your share may be closer to zero.”
She had no reply to that, but I could tell reality was setting in.
We continued on, past the villages and through a stretch of desolate dunes. Farther on was the Montauk Point Lighthouse, on the easternmost tip of Long Island. The last time I’d seen the lighthouse, it was from the water, ten years ago, when I’d rounded the point on my sail to Hilton Head, and I’ve wondered about a million times what would have happened if I’d actually stopped there and seen her.
I still don’t think either of us would have been ready for a reconciliation, but if we’d spoken, I don’t believe I would have stayed away ten years. But who knows?
Before we reached the point, Gurney’s Inn came up on the ocean side of the road, and I pulled in and parked at reception.
We checked into the ocean-view room, then we changed into our newly purchased workout clothes and spent a few hours using the spa and exercise facilities.
Susan had scheduled a beauty treatment of some sort, so I took the opportunity to go back to our room, and I called the general number of the Federal Bureau of Investigation in Manhattan.
After a bit of a bureaucratic runaround, I got someone in the Organized Crime Task Force, and said to him, “My name is John Sutter, and I am looking for Special Agent Felix Mancuso.”
“And what is this in reference to, sir?”
I replied, “He handled a case that I was involved in ten years ago. I would like to speak to him about a new development, if he’s there, please.”
“And he’ll know what this is about?”
“He will.”
“All right. I can’t confirm that he’s here, sir, but if you leave your contact information, I will have him, or someone, get back to you.”
“Fine.” I gave him the number of Gurney’s Inn, which I said would be good until morning, then I gave him the number of the guest cottage as my home phone.
He asked, “Is there a cell number we can reach you at?”
I replied, “I don’t have a cell phone.”
He didn’t respond for a second, and I thought I’d committed some sort of criminal offense, so I explained, “I’ve just transferred here from London.” I added, “I’ll have one soon.”
“All right, so someone can leave you a message at these numbers?”
“Correct.” I added, “Please tell Special Agent Mancuso that it’s important.”
“Will do.”
I hung up and went back to the spa for our scheduled couples’ massage.
Susan had booked a masseuse for herself, a tiny East Asian lady, and a masseur for me, who may have once been convicted of torture.
As we were lying side by side on the tables, Susan said to me, “I went to the business office and e-mailed the children and my parents to update them on Ethel’s condition, and told them they should think about getting here soon.”
“Did you tell your parents our good news?”
“No, and in my e-mail to the children, I told them not to say anything to anyone until you made the announcement.”
“Right.” I hoped when I told Mom and Dad the good news, they’d drop dead before they disinherited their daughter.
A hundred million?
Maybe I should have been nicer to them. Or maybe I should call Sally Da-da and work out a deal.
Actually, I used to know people on the Gold Coast and here in the Hamptons who were worth hundreds of millions, so that number didn’t completely stun me. What stunned me was that William, who always acted as though he was a paycheck away from being homeless, actually had that kind of money. This really annoyed me. I mean, that cheap, tightwad bastard . . . but maybe Susan had the number wrong. It wouldn’t be the first time. Actually, I thought, it could be
more
.
Susan asked, “What are you thinking about?”
“Oh . . . I’m thinking about getting your oiled-up body back to the room.”
The masseuse tittered, and the masseur chuckled, and Susan said, “John.”
We finished our massages in silence, then took our oiled-up bodies back to our room. The message light wasn’t on, and we made love, napped, then dressed and went down to the cocktail lounge and watched the ocean and the darkening sky.
We had a dinner reservation at the hotel, and we got to the restaurant late and tipsy as the last of the sun faded from the sky.
Susan looked at me across the candlelit table and said, “I never thought I’d see you again sitting across from me in a restaurant.”
I took her hand and said, “We have many good years ahead of us.”
“I know we do.”
Her cell phone rang, and she looked at it, and said to me, “I don’t need to take it.”
She shut off the phone and slipped it back into her purse.
I wasn’t sure if I should ask who’d called—it could be her parents, or our children responding to her e-mail, or Elizabeth with some bad news. Or it could be a man. And if she wanted me to know who it was, she’d have told me.
However, she seemed suddenly less cheerful, so I did ask, “Who was that?”
She replied, “Nassau County Police Department.”
I said, “Play the message.”
“Later.”
“Now.”
She retrieved her cell phone, turned it on and punched in her password, then handed it to me.
I put the phone to my ear and heard, “Hello, Mrs. Sutter, this is Detective Nastasi, Nassau County PD. I just want you to know that I called on the subject tonight, at his home, and his wife informed me that he was out of town for an unspecified period of time. Call me back at your convenience.” He added, “Please pass this on to Mr. Sutter.”
I hit the replay button and handed her the phone. As she listened, I thought about Anthony Bellarosa being out of town. That didn’t comport with him needing to stay close to home for John Gotti’s imminent death and funeral. Maybe, though, Uncle Sal had jumped the gun—pardon the pun—and Anthony was somewhere out there in the ocean, feeding the fishes as they say. Wouldn’t that be nice? But if not, then Anthony’s sudden disappearance was more worrisome than it was comforting.
Susan shut off her phone again and put it back in her purse.
I said, “We’ll call him tomorrow.”
She changed the subject and said, “I want you to order from the spa menu.”
“Why? What did I do wrong?”
She informed me, “You are what you eat.”
“Well, then, I need to change my name to Prime Rib.”
“I recommend the steamed halibut.”
“I had fish oil for breakfast.”
“I want you around for a long time.”
“Well, it’s going to seem like a long time if I have to eat that crap.”
“Go ahead, then, order your steak, and kill yourself.”
“Thank you.”
The waitress came and we ordered.
The halibut wasn’t that bad with a bottle of local chardonnay.
When we got back to the room, I saw that the message light still wasn’t lit.
I didn’t
need
to speak to Felix Mancuso, but if there was one person in law enforcement who understood this case—not only the facts and the history, but also the human element of what had happened ten years ago—it was this man, who’d not only tried to save my soul from a great evil, but who also had been troubled by his colleagues acting as pimps for don Bellarosa.
Well, for all I knew, Mancuso was retired, transferred, or dead, but if he wasn’t any of those things, then I knew I’d hear from him.
Susan and I went out on the balcony and looked at the ocean. On the distant horizon I could see the lights of great ocean liners and cargo ships, and overhead, aircraft were beginning their descent into Kennedy Airport, or climbing out on their way to Europe, or the world.
Susan asked me, “Do you think you want to sail again?”
I replied, “Well, what good is a yacht club without a yacht?”
She smiled, then said, seriously, “I never want you to sail alone again.”
I hadn’t been completely alone, but I understood what she meant and replied, “I won’t sail without you.”
She stayed quiet awhile, and we listened to the surf washing against the shore, and I stared, transfixed by the night sky and the black ocean.
She asked me, “How was it?”
I continued to look out into the dark, starry night, and replied, “Lonely.” I thought a moment, then said, “It’s easy to imagine out there, at night, that you are the last man left alive on earth.”
“It sounds awful.”
“Sometimes. But most of the time I felt . . . as though it was just me and God. I mean, you can go a little crazy out there, but it’s not necessarily a bad kind of crazy.” I added, “You have a lot of time to think, and you get to know yourself.”
“And did you think about me?”
“I did. I honestly did. Every day, and every night.”
“So what stopped you from setting a course for home?”
There were a lot of answers to that question—anger, pride, spite, and the total freedom of being a self-exiled man without a country or a job. But, to Susan, I said, “When I know, I’ll let you know.”
We stretched out in the lounge chairs and watched the sky, then fell asleep under the stars.
Through my sleep, I heard the ocean, felt the sea breeze, and smelled the salt air, and I dreamed I was back at sea. But this time, Susan was with me.
The Present is the living sum-total of the Past.
— Thomas Carlyle “Characteristics”
T
he 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.”