Authors: Nelson DeMille
She nodded, but I could see that she still seemed unsatisfied with my explanation. Susan, for all her aloofness and intermittent nuttiness, had an uncanny ability to spot bullshit. Especially when it came from me.
She looked at me and asked, “Are you telling me everything?”
I turned the question around and asked her, “Are you telling
me
everything? About you and Frank?”
She looked me in the eye and replied, “I did. I told you I loved him, and that I killed him because he told me it was over, and told me that he used me, and never loved me, and that he was going to Italy with Anna. And I also told you that I didn’t kill him for us—that was a lie. What more can I tell you?”
I took a deep breath and replied, “Nothing.”
She asked me again, “Are you telling
me
everything?”
We both stayed silent for a while, and I realized that the time had come—actually, I never intended for this time to come, but this was still bothering me more than I realized, and she’d been honest with me, so I needed to do the same, and if she reacted badly, then we’d both learn something new about each other.
I suggested we sit, but she remained standing, so I did, too. I said, “All right . . . here’s the missing piece—here’s why Anthony lost control of himself.” I let her know, “I told Anthony that you and his father were in love, and that you were both planning to abandon your families and go to Italy together.” I added, “He didn’t believe me, and insisted that his father was just—quote, sport fucking. But I convinced him that his father was ready to say arrivederci to his wife and sons.”
She nodded, and I could have left it there because that explained Anthony’s sudden change of heart toward John Sutter, the messenger of this unwanted news. But having begun, I needed to finish, so I said to her, “There’s more. And it’s not something you want to hear.”
“I’m used to that by now.”
“All right.” So I began by telling her what I’d already told Anthony—that Frank Bellarosa offered me any favor that it was in his power to do, in exchange for me having saved his life. Then I told her, “The favor I asked him was . . . to tell you it was over, Susan, and that he never loved you, and that he was using you to get to me, and that he was not taking you to Italy with him.” I added, “And, obviously, he did that. For me.”
I looked at her, and we made eye contact. I could see she was having trouble grasping this, but then she understood that everything that Frank Bellarosa had said to her that night came from my mouth, not his heart. And so she’d shot the man she loved, and who still loved her.
Susan sat on the couch and stared blankly at the wall.
I said to her, “I told all this to Anthony—that his father would have abandoned him, his mother, and his brothers, and the only reason he didn’t was because his father owed me his life.” I added, “I didn’t need to tell Anthony that, but . . . I was angry at him, and I wanted him to know that his sainted father was not only a government stool pigeon, but also not such a good father and husband.” I was also trying to divert some of Anthony’s attention away from Susan, and toward me, but if I said that, it would sound self-serving, so I concluded, “
That
is why Anthony went into a rage and threatened me.”
Susan kept staring at the wall, and I couldn’t read anything in her face.
I now needed to tell her something I hadn’t told Anthony, and something I’d never really come to terms with in my own mind. I said to her, “When I asked Frank to tell you it was over, I thought, or hoped, that you would get over him . . . but maybe subconsciously I thought you would get even with him.” I took a deep breath and continued, “But maybe that occurred to me afterwards because . . . well, when you killed him, I couldn’t be sure in my own mind if that was something I wanted or hoped for when I set this in motion . . . I wasn’t sure if I should be taking credit for his death, or if I felt guilty and was taking some of the blame . . . and even today, I’m not sure about that.”
Susan looked at me, and there was still no expression on her face.
Then I said to her, “I wanted you back, and I wanted you not to love him . . . though I’m not sure I wanted him dead. But if I did, then you were right about that—I should have killed him myself.”
She remained seated, and I could see she was past the shock, and I was sure she was thinking about her killing a man who still loved her, and who did not really betray her, but who was just following my offstage direction—as a matter of honor—to repay a favor.
I couldn’t even begin to guess how she felt now about what she did, or how she felt about me.
There wasn’t much left to add, but I did say, “I’m not sure I need to apologize to you for asking him to lie to you—you both lied to me often enough—and I’m certainly not asking you to forgive me. But I do want you to know that I take some of the blame for what happened.”
She spoke for the first time and said, “I killed him. Not you.”
“All right. But . . . when you think about all of this—”
She said, “I think he loved you more than he loved me.”
“He owed me a favor.”
She took a deep breath and continued, “He was always talking about you, and that made me uncomfortable, and . . . angry . . . and—”
“All right. I don’t need to hear that.” I said to her, “You have a lot of thinking to do before you decide . . . how you feel. I’m going to finish up with Mancuso. You don’t need to join us.”
I turned and headed toward the door.
“John.”
I looked back at her, and she asked me, “Did you really want me back?”
“I did.”
“Then why didn’t you take me back after he was dead?”
“I changed my mind.”
“Why?”
“Because . . . I realized afterwards that . . . I wanted you to leave him because you
wanted
to leave him—I wanted you to come back to me because you loved me more than him . . . so, him leaving you, and him being dead, was not quite what I wanted.”
She didn’t reply.
I was about to turn and leave, but she again said, “John.”
“I need to go.”
“You need to tell me why we didn’t get back together after I killed him.”
“I just told you.”
“No you didn’t.”
As I said, Susan knows me, and I can run, but I can’t hide. So I said, “All right. I was . . . humiliated. In public. When your affair with him was just between the three of us—and, of course, the FBI—I could have forgiven you. But when it became national news, and the subject of tabloid humor and locker-room jokes, then . . .” I looked at her and said, “And you wonder why I got in my boat and got the hell out of here?” I asked her, “What kind of man do you think I am?”
She put her hands over her face, and I could see she was crying. I wasn’t sure
what
she was crying about—her murder of Frank Bellarosa, which she’d just discovered was less justified than she’d thought, or maybe she was crying because she finally understood the havoc she’d unleashed on everyone around her. Or possibly she realized that I was having second thoughts about us being together again.
I turned and left the room.
F
elix Mancuso was still in my office, and he was on his cell phone. I remained standing until he finished, and I said, “Mrs. Sutter is not feeling well, so we should reschedule this.” I offered, “I can come to your office tomorrow, if that’s convenient.”
He looked at me, then asked, “Is everything all right?”
I replied, “She’s upset.”
He nodded and said, “This is very stressful for her. But I do need ten more minutes of your time.” He added, “And I’ll need to speak to her when she’s ready.”
I replied, “I don’t think there’s much more she can add to what I’ve said, or to what you already know, but that’s your decision.” I suggested, “You can phone her.” I sat at my desk and said, “Please continue.”
He looked at me again, then began, “First, you should know that Anthony Bellarosa seems to have disappeared.” He explained, “We’re not sure if that has anything to do with this problem or problems of his own, or with John Gotti’s death, or if it’s just one of his normal disappearances.” He explained, “Many of these people just disappear for a time. Sometimes it’s business, but more often it’s pleasure.”
I wasn’t fully attentive to Felix Mancuso, because my mind was still on Susan, but I did manage to ask, “Could he be dead?”
Mr. Mancuso replied, “He could be. But we’re not hearing that, and according to Detective Nastasi, Bellarosa’s wife, Megan, didn’t seem to be particularly upset that he left with no explanation other than business.”
I suggested, only half jokingly, “Maybe she also wants him dead.”
Mancuso did not respond to that, but said, “The police would have liked to speak to him, to put him on notice that you’d made a complaint, and to let him know he was being watched. And of course, they’d have liked him to make an incriminating statement so they could place him under arrest. But unfortunately, for reasons unknown, he has disappeared.”
Ironically, if I had been his
consigliere
, I’d have advised him to make himself available to the police, and politely tell them that he refused to answer any questions without his attorney present. In my world, this is what you do—but in his world, you didn’t play along with the cops. So, yes, disappearing, before the police instructed you to keep them informed of your whereabouts, was a very street-smart move. Plus, it’s not illegal to leave home. I did ask, however, “Can you or the police get a warrant for his arrest?”
He replied, “We’re working on several ways to present this to a state or Federal judge, but other than the fact that he is wanted for questioning, based solely on your complaint, we don’t have a lot to convince a judge.” He added, “But we’ll give it a try.” He further informed me, “I’m discovering, since 9/11, that my new job with the Terrorist Task Force is easier in regard to what the courts and the law allow, but Anthony Bellarosa is not a suspected terrorist. He’s an old-fashioned mobster, with all his civil liberties intact.”
I said to Mr. Mancuso, “Did I mention that I saw a signed photograph of Osama bin Laden in his den?”
Mr. Mancuso smiled and continued, “In any case, Anthony Bellarosa’s disappearance, while not unusual, is troubling in regard to this problem, and perhaps interesting in regard to his problems in the organization.”
I asked, “Do you mean problems with Salvatore D’Alessio?”
“Perhaps.” He said, “We’ll see if Anthony Bellarosa surfaces for John Gotti’s funeral.”
“Well,” I said, “I hope someone finds his body so I can get a good night’s sleep.”
Mancuso asked me, on that subject, “Do you own a gun?”
I replied, “We have a shotgun.”
“Do you know how to use it?”
I replied, a bit curtly, “You put a shell in each chamber, take it off safety, aim, and pull the trigger.” I added, “I was in the Army, and Mrs. Sutter was a skeet and bird shooter. It’s her shotgun.”
“All right.” He advised me, “Neither the FBI nor the police encourage civilians to confront an intruder, or to own or buy a weapon for the purpose of—”
“Mr. Mancuso, I understand. Rest assured that neither I nor Mrs. Sutter is going to ambush Anthony Bellarosa on his front lawn, but if anyone enters this house with intent to do bodily harm, then we will take appropriate action.” I reminded him, “I know the law.”
“I know you do.” He continued, “If Anthony Bellarosa returns to his house, or if we discover his whereabouts, then someone from the Bureau or the local police will advise you of that.”
“I hope so.”
He went on, “I’ve confirmed with the Second Precinct that their patrol vehicles have been alerted regarding this situation.” He further informed me, “The Bureau may also have a presence in the area.”
I nodded, and he continued on to a few more points, and also asked me to clarify or expand on a few of my previous statements. He seemed to have good short-term recall for everything I’d said, and I already knew that he had a good long-term memory for events that happened ten years ago. In that respect, we had something in common.
I was still not quite myself after what happened with Susan, and though I was relieved that I’d finally gotten that off my chest, I realized that digging it all up, yet again, had put me in a bad mood. And in addition to my full confession to Susan, I had to revisit my humiliation at being America’s Number One Cuckold of the Week.
“Mr. Sutter?”
I looked at Mancuso.
“I asked, is anyone else living in this house?”
“No . . . well, an old family friend has just passed away—Mrs. Allard—and we’re expecting house company for the funeral.”
He inquired, “And who will that be?”
I replied, “Our children, Edward and Carolyn.” I gave him their ages, and he made a note of that. I continued, “And possibly Mrs. Sutter’s parents, William and Charlotte Stanhope, though they may stay elsewhere.” I added, “Also, Mrs. Sutter’s brother, Peter, may be here for Father’s Day.”
He nodded, and said, “That’s right. It’s this Sunday. Hard to believe the month is going so quickly.”
“It’s not for me.”
He didn’t respond to that and continued, “Is anyone living in that small house I saw near the gates?”
I explained, “That is the gatehouse, where the recently deceased lady, Mrs. Allard, lived, and where I was living until Sunday.”
“I see. Is anyone there now?”
“The gatehouse has passed into the possession of Amir Nasim on the death of Ethel Allard.”
“She left it to Amir Nasim?”
It would have taken too long to explain to Mancuso about Ethel Allard fucking Augustus Stanhope, and life tenancy, and all that, though as a lawyer himself, Mr. Mancuso would understand the legal concept; but as an ex-seminarian, he wouldn’t be happy to hear that the wages of sin were sixty years of free rent. In any case, I said to him, “Mrs. Allard was a life tenant.” I added, “It’s my understanding that Nasim wants to beef up his security, so he may put some people in there.”
Mr. Mancuso nodded and inquired, “Do you know anything about the situation in Nasim’s house?”