Authors: Nelson DeMille
I replied, “I know the house has fifty rooms, and it would take an assassin a week to check them all out.” To be less flippant, I added, “As far as I know, he lives there alone with his wife, but there could be live-in help. I saw one female servant.” I advised him, “You can ask Mrs. Sutter. She’s more familiar with the domestic situation at Stanhope Hall.”
Mr. Mancuso noted that, then asked me a few questions about our living habits, our travel plans, if any, and so forth. He suggested, “You might consider an alarm system and a dog.”
“We’re working on that.”
He also advised, “If you have the resources, you should seriously consider engaging the services of a personal security company.”
I suggested, “How about Bell Security?”
He forced a smile and replied, “That might be counterproductive.”
I said to him, “It sounds to me as though we may be in great danger.”
He thought about that and replied, “At this point, I’d say the danger level is yellow, and moving toward orange.”
“But not red?”
He replied, “Let’s not become too focused on threat levels.” He added, “There is a threat, and I will speak to the police again, and to the appropriate people in the Bureau, and we will evaluate the situation and keep you posted.”
I nodded, then asked him, “Why did you say to me on the phone that you thought the threat was not imminent?”
He didn’t reply for a few seconds, then said, “It’s a bit complicated, but it has to do with John Gotti’s death, and with Salvatore D’Alessio, and with some changes that may occur in the next few weeks.”
“In other words, Anthony Bellarosa is occupied with other things.”
“Basically, that’s the situation.” Mancuso further explained, “Anthony Bellarosa has some security concerns of his own, and that may be the primary reason for his disappearance.” He let me know, “The word is that one of them—Bellarosa or D’Alessio—will be retired within a few weeks. Traditionally, there is a moratorium on vendetta during the period of a wake and funeral.”
“That’s a very civilized custom.” I asked, “Does that include any vendettas against the Sutters?”
“No. But it does give Anthony and Sal a quiet week in regard to each other.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” I asked, “Why wasn’t this settled ten years ago?”
He replied, “Again, it has to do with Gotti’s death, and the truce that was brokered by him after the incident at Giulio’s.” He further explained, “Organized crime is about making money—it’s not about gang wars or making headlines and color photos on television that upset the public. And that is why Anthony and his uncle have coexisted in an uneasy truce for all these years. But now . . . well, as with your situation, Mr. Sutter, the chickens are coming home to roost.”
I didn’t reply.
Mr. Mancuso added another, agricultural image to his explanation. “What we sow, we reap.”
That wasn’t exactly what I wanted to hear from Felix Mancuso, who I thought of as a white knight, not the Grim Reaper. But maybe he was referring to only Anthony and Uncle Sal, not Susan and me.
Mancuso concluded his explanation of the present state of affairs by saying, “You and Mrs. Sutter are not Anthony’s first priority, and maybe not even his second. But after he takes care of his other business with his friends and family—or they take care of their business with him—then he has to settle the score with Mrs. Sutter. That’s personal, but it’s also business in regard to his image.” I thought he was going to ask, “Capisce?” but he said, “That’s the situation as we believe it stands now.”
“I see.” I thought a moment, then said, “But you could be wrong.”
“Possibly, so you should not relax your guard.”
“I had no intention of doing that.”
“Good. And I’ll say this . . . if Salvatore D’Alessio disappears, or is murdered, then that should be a signal to all of us that Anthony Bellarosa is alive and settling some scores.” He added, “And if it’s Anthony who is found dead, then you, and Salvatore D’Alessio, and some others, can breathe easier.”
“I understand.” I told him, “I’m rooting for Sally Da-da.”
Mr. Mancuso did not comment.
I thought about all of this and said, “Well, as a practical matter, we need to be here this week, but—”
“I would advise you to go about your normal business this week.” He added, “You’ll have company, and you’ll be around people for this wake and funeral, and as I said, Anthony Bellarosa and his uncle need to settle their differences first. That’s the only strategy that makes sense.”
“Right.” But I was sure no one ever accused Anthony of being as logical or intelligent as his father. I asked Mancuso, “So, you don’t think there is any danger to my houseguests . . . my children?”
“I can’t say that with a hundred percent certainty, but I seriously doubt if Anthony Bellarosa would do anything that would shock the public consciousness, or bring down the full weight of the law on his head, or most importantly, anger his friends and associates to the point where they’d turn on him.” He added, “And your daughter is an assistant district attorney. That makes her bulletproof.” He reminded me, “It’s Mrs. Sutter that he wants, and possibly you as well, and that’s the license he has gotten from his organization.” He reminded me, “Whoever put out the contract on Frank Bellarosa—let’s say it was his brother-in-law—did not want you, or Mrs. Sutter, or Mrs. Bellarosa harmed, which is why you’re here now.” He concluded, “These are professionals—not street gangs.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” So maybe I should offer William and Charlotte our bedroom, and I’d loan William my raincoat and hat.
I said to Mr. Mancuso, “Mrs. Sutter and I may leave the area next week, after our guests depart.”
He replied, “That’s your decision. But if you do leave, keep your destination to yourselves.” He added, “Don’t even tell friends or family, and don’t write postcards home until you’ve moved on to a new destination.”
“Understood.” But, as of fifteen minutes ago, I wasn’t sure if Susan and I were going anywhere together.
Mr. Mancuso concluded his briefing by saying, “I know that you, and I’m sure Mrs. Sutter, as good, law-abiding citizens, can’t quite believe this is happening to you, and you may be thinking that the forces of law and order should be doing more to protect you, but rest assured, we are doing everything we can to see that no harm comes to you, and that we are treating this very seriously, and also know that your problem is being addressed as part of our larger issues with organized crime.”
I could have commented on several points in Mr. Mancuso’s standard speech, but I said only, “Thank you.”
We both stood, and I walked him to the front door. I asked him, “Are you going to call on Amir Nasim?”
He replied, “That would make sense while I’m here.”
I said, “I don’t know if he’s in, but he usually is.”
Mr. Mancuso informed me, “He’s in.”
I didn’t ask him how he knew that, because he certainly wasn’t going to tell me. He did say, however, “I’m going to inform Nasim that you and Mrs. Sutter have some security issues, as he does, and I’ll ask him to contact the local police if he sees anything unusual or suspicious.”
“He asked me to do the same for him.”
“Good. This should be a very safe compound.”
I never thought of Stanhope Hall as a fortified compound, but I replied, “We can provide mutual security. Maybe we should sign a treaty.”
Mr. Mancuso smiled and said, “Just be good neighbors.”
I asked him, “Do you have anything in your files on Amir Nasim?”
“I can’t comment on that.”
“I know, but you can tell me, as his neighbor, if there is any credible threat against him.”
Mr. Mancuso thought a moment, then said to me, “In confidence, I will tell you that Amir Nasim plays a dangerous but lucrative game of providing information and logistical resources to anyone who can afford his services. So he’s made a lot of friends, but also a lot of enemies, and his problem is he can’t tell one from the other.”
I inquired, “Why don’t you arrest him?”
Mr. Mancuso did not reply, but he gave me a final heads-up. “When you leave this estate, be extra cautious and do not hesitate to call 9-1-1 if you feel you’re being watched, followed, or stalked.”
I nodded, and thought about buying a personal defense weapon for the road.
Mr. Mancuso further briefed me, “It won’t be Anthony Bellarosa— you understand that.”
“I understand, but . . . in this case, it’s so personal that I wonder if he wouldn’t—”
“Not in a million years. And if something happens to his uncle, Anthony won’t be within a thousand miles of the hit, even though that, too, is personal.”
I asked, “Whatever happened to personal vendetta and family honor?”
He replied, “It exists, but now it’s outsourced.”
He gave me two of his cards, and we shook hands and I thanked him for coming. He asked me to say goodbye to Mrs. Sutter, and asked, too, that she call him when she was up to it.
I watched him get into his gray government sedan, and continued to watch as he went down the connecting driveway to the main drive and turned toward Stanhope Hall.
Well, I had a few balls up in the air—wake, funeral, in-laws and children coming, an Iranian double-dealer in the main house, the police, the FBI, and last but not least, Anthony Bellarosa, who was negotiating a contract on me and Susan. All things considered, the pirates off the Somali coast were a lot less of a problem.
And then, of course, there was Susan. I was feeling more protective toward her, and that made me realize that I was in this for the long haul. But I had no idea what
she
was feeling at this moment, so I should go upstairs and find out, or I should get in my car and take a drive to clear my head and stock up on armaments.
I went back into the house and climbed the stairs to the second floor. The door to the family room was closed, and I hesitated, then opened it.
Susan was still sitting on the couch, but she was now curled up in the corner of the couch, surrounded by throw pillows. I know what that position and that body language means, and it doesn’t mean “Come here and give me a big hug and a kiss.”
I said to her, “I’m going to the sporting goods store.”
She didn’t reply.
“Is that store in Glen Cove still there?”
No reply.
I was instantly annoyed, which is one of my many personality flaws, and I said to her, “I’m staying in the house, but if you’d like, you can move my things into a guest room, or I’ll do it myself.”
She looked at me, but didn’t respond.
I left the family room, went downstairs, and checked the phone book in the office and discovered that the sporting goods store was still where it had been ten years ago.
I went out into the rain, got into my car, and drove down the long drive and onto Grace Lane.
Not one of my better days, but on the bright side, maybe I didn’t have to be nice now to William and Charlotte.
I took my time driving to Glen Cove, and I used the time to think about today, tomorrow, and the days ahead. It occurred to me that there was nothing here for me, except unhappiness and bad memories. So as soon as I was through here with whatever I needed to do, I’d go back to London. Susan, who was quite capable, would have to make her own decisions and take care of herself. I’d advise her to return to Hilton Head, but beyond that, I felt no further obligation toward her, and no desire to be part of her life.
That wasn’t true, of course, but that would have to be my exit line as I packed my bags—then maybe we could try again, ten years from now.
I
remembered the sporting goods store owner, a Mr. Roger Bahnik, who had always been helpful and patient when I’d brought Edward or Carolyn in for various camping and sporting items. I’d also come here myself for deep-sea fishing gear as well as some nautical odds and ends, so I considered reintroducing myself, but Mr. Bahnik could possibly remember Susan’s misuse of a firearm, and since my purpose here was to buy a weapon and ammunition, I thought it best to remain anonymous until I had to show my ID.
I stated my purpose, feigning little knowledge of firearms or ammunition, though I’m sure I was being unnecessarily devious. Mr. Bahnik showed me to the big boys’ gun shop in the rear of the store, and he asked me if I was shooting skeet or birds, and if birds, what kind.
I replied, “Very big birds.”
Mr. Bahnik suggested an appropriate heavy game load, and I also bought a box of rifled deer slugs, which can put a very big hole in a person.
Mr. Bahnik was wearing a holster with a handgun, as is required when you sell guns, and I would have liked to buy two of Mr. Bahnik’s handguns—one for me, and one for Susan’s purse—but as I said, I’d need a special permit to carry a concealed weapon; I could possibly obtain this permit, but it would take about six months, and that would be six months too late. Susan, unfortunately, had that prior problem with a handgun, and I doubted if the authorities would look favorably on her gun permit application.
But I still needed a personal defense weapon for the road, so I asked to see some carbines, which Mr. Bahnik was happy to show me.
He unlocked the gun case and laid out a few small carbines on the counter. I examined an old World War II Winchester .30 caliber M-1 carbine, which I’d fired in the Army. These rifles are only about three feet long and fit nicely under a car seat, and maybe even into one of those big handbags I see the ladies carrying.
Mr. Bahnik briefed me, “The M-1 will be accurate to about three hundred yards, and it will bring down a deer, but mostly it’s used for small game, and also as a personal defense weapon.” He inquired, “What are you using it for?”
I didn’t want to tell him I was going to carry it in the car because the Mafia were after me, so I replied, “Home security.”
“Ah. Excellent. The missus will like this—lightweight, about five pounds, semi-automatic, and a soft recoil.”
“She’ll love it.” I confessed, “It’s an anniversary gift.”
Mr. Bahnik knew I was joking—or hoped I was—and laughed.
I got a box of .30 caliber carbine rounds, and a cleaning kit for the carbine and one for the shotgun, and Mr. Bahnik threw in an American flag patch that I could sew onto my hunting jacket, or pajamas.