Authors: Nelson DeMille
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.”
B
ack 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.