Authors: Nelson DeMille
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.
S
usan 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.
W
e 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.