Authors: Nelson DeMille
I remembered how fast it had happened in front of Giulio’s—actually, I didn’t realize
what
was happening until it was almost over. With no point of reference in my life, my brain did not comprehend what my eyes were seeing. In fact, it didn’t even register when Vinnie’s face disappeared in a cloud of blood, brains—
“Mr. Sutter?”
“Yes . . .”
“I said, you may not want Mrs. Sutter to see this on TV.”
I glanced at Susan, who was curled up on the couch, staring off into space. I replied, “Right.”
“And perhaps you should not have any of the tabloids lying around tomorrow.”
“Right . . . well, I guess that answers the question of whether or not Anthony Bellarosa is alive.”
“Correct. I think we should assume that he ordered the hit.” He pointed out, “It seems like the kind of message he would want to send to his uncle’s colleagues. Meaning, this is what happened to my father in front of my mother.”
“Right . . . well, I wouldn’t have given Anthony that much credit for showmanship, or symbolic acts, but maybe he does have a little of his father in him.” So maybe he could appreciate my act of slashing his painting; his father would have.
Mr. Mancuso stayed silent a moment, then said, “I, too, was surprised at how the hit went down. I had expected something . . . quieter. A disappearance, so as not to draw the full attention of the law, or too much public attention. Or, if it was going to be violent, then I didn’t think Anthony would make it so obvious that he was behind it.” He added, “He might as well have had the killer say, ‘Happy Father’s Day, Uncle Sal.’” He speculated, “This hit may cause him some problems. And that brings us to another subject.” I didn’t respond, so he went on, “It is possible, as we’ve discussed, that Anthony will now turn his attention to Mrs. Sutter, and possibly to you.”
I glanced again at Susan, who was now looking at me. She needed to hear this, so I hit the speaker button, replaced the receiver, and said to Mancuso, “Susan is back.”
He said to us, “Based on the usual modus operandi, I’m fairly certain that Anthony Bellarosa is, and has been, out of town for this last week, and he can document this when we ask him where he was on the night of his uncle’s murder. In any case, wherever he is, my guess is that he will stay put for another week or so, or at least until he’s certain that he’s coming home as the undisputed boss.” He concluded, “Probably he’ll wait until after his uncle’s funeral, though he may actually show up for that.”
I pointed out, “Well, he should if he was the cause of the funeral.”
He allowed himself a small chuckle, but Susan didn’t smile.
He went back to the more immediate subject and informed us, “Anthony’s absence, however, does not preclude him from taking care of business here, as Mr. D’Alessio’s murder obviously demonstrates. In fact, if there is any more such business, it may be done while Anthony Bellarosa is still out of town.”
Susan thought about that, then asked, “So what do you suggest we do?”
“I suggest taking extra precautions, including hiring a personal bodyguard.”
I pointed out, “That didn’t help Uncle Sal.”
“No, it didn’t. But hopefully your bodyguard will not be working for the other team as D’Alessio’s was. Also, I’d advise you both to stay within your security zone at Stanhope Hall as much as possible. Meanwhile, I’m asking the county police to see if they can assign you a twenty-four-hour protection detail. Also, I’ve asked if the Bureau can assign one or two agents to you, but quite frankly, we’re shorthanded since 9/11.”
Susan looked at me, then asked Mancuso, “How long are we supposed to live like this?”
He replied, “I wish I could tell you.” He tried out some good news and said, “Bellarosa will surface soon, or we will find him. And when that happens, the NYPD will take him in for questioning regarding the murder of Salvatore D’Alessio, and the FBI will assist if requested. The county police will also speak to him about the threats he’s made against both of you. With any luck, as I’ve said, we can make an arrest. At the least, we can make sure he’s on notice and under constant surveillance.” He reminded us, “The problem now is that he’s missing. And missing people, if they’re not dead, are more dangerous than people who are present and accounted for.”
Susan had believed that it was good that Anthony Bellarosa was missing, but now she understood the problem with that. She asked, “Why can’t you find him?”
Mr. Mancuso, who’d probably answered this question many times, replied, “It’s a big country, and a big world.” He added, “He has the resources to remain missing indefinitely.” He reminded us, “He’s not a fugitive from the law, so we’re assuming that he’ll just appear when he thinks it’s best for him to do so.”
What Felix Mancuso said sounded logical, of course, and certainly if I were Anthony Bellarosa, I’d be more worried about my
paesanos
and the law than thinking about killing any more people—especially people who, for all he knew, were being protected by the police and the FBI. And yet . . . I knew, deep inside, that this had more to do with revenge than business, and that the revenge murder of Salvatore D’Alessio was just the first of two. Maybe three.
I had a thought, and I said to Mancuso, “I have business in London . . .” I glanced at Susan, who was nodding—“so, I’m thinking that this might be a good time for me and Mrs. Sutter to take a week or so in London, and then maybe a week or two on the Continent.” I added, “In other words, we, too, should go missing.”
He replied without hesitation, “That would be a very good idea at this time—until the situation here becomes more clear.” He added, “If you stay in touch with us, we can keep you up to date on developments.”
“We’ll certainly be interested in news from home. And please don’t hesitate to call us the moment Sally Da-da’s friends whack Anthony.”
Mr. Mancuso never responded well to my murderous remarks regarding Anthony Bellarosa—he was a professional—but he did say, “We’re hoping to locate him first.”
“I hope Uncle Sal’s friends locate him first.”
He ignored that and asked me, “When do you plan on leaving?”
I looked at Susan, and she said, “Tuesday is fine with me.”
Mancuso agreed, “That would be good.” He reminded us, “Keep the particulars of your itinerary to yourselves.”
“We will.”
“And enjoy yourselves. You need a break.”
Mr. Mancuso seemed happy that we were getting out of his bailiwick. Again, he liked us, and he would be personally saddened if we got whacked. And professionally, of course, he would be more than saddened; he would be in the same embarrassing situation he’d been in when Susan whacked his star witness. He certainly didn’t need that aggravation again.
He assured us, “I’m confident that we will catch some breaks while you’re gone, and that Anthony Bellarosa will be either in jail, under tight surveillance, killed by his own people, or frightened into permanent retirement and relocated to Florida or Vegas, where many of his colleagues wind up when they need to give up the business.”
I wasn’t so sure about Anthony retiring and moving away, but I did agree with Felix Mancuso that Anthony’s career was at a crossroads. Not my problem, as long as none of those roads led back to Grace Lane.
I thought, too, of Anthony in hiding, or in exile, and I wondered if he had normal human feelings of missing his family, and not knowing when or if he’d see them again. On the other hand, this was the life he’d chosen. And then, of course, I thought about my own exile. That was not the life I’d chosen—well, maybe it was—but it wasn’t my first choice.
Anyway, Anthony Bellarosa didn’t even know where London was, and he thought Paris was the name of a Vegas hotel. So this was a good idea, and we’d have fun while Anthony was trying to figure out if he was the boss, or if he was in trouble.
I said to Mr. Mancuso, “We’ll call you Tuesday from the airport.”
“Please do.”
I asked him, “Other than being called to the scene of a murder, did you have a good Father’s Day?”
“I did, thank you. And how about you?”
“I had a wonderful day with my children, and my fiancée.” I added, “My mother and future in-laws were here, too.” I informed him, “Everyone will be out of here by tomorrow morning.”
“That’s good.” He asked us, “Are you being . . . cautious?”
“We are,” I assured him. “However, Susan and I did go to Giulio’s for coffee and pastry on Thursday.”
“Did you? Well . . . that was probably a good thing.”
“It was, actually.”
He stayed quiet a moment, then said to me, or really to us, “I’ve often wondered . . . what would have been different in all our lives if you hadn’t stopped him from bleeding to death.”
“Well . . . you can be sure I’ve wondered about that myself a few times.” I glanced at Susan, who wasn’t looking at me, and said, “But I would never have let him bleed to death.”
“I know that. And neither would I. But I mean, if you couldn’t have saved his life, and he’d died then and there . . . well, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“We would not.” And Susan wouldn’t have killed Frank on Felix Mancuso’s watch, and I wouldn’t have divorced her and been in self-exile for ten years, and Anthony would not now be a threat to our lives. But who knows if something worse might have happened in these last ten years? Like me running off with Beryl Carlisle. I said to Felix Mancuso, but also for Susan, “Well, if we believe in a divine plan, maybe this is going to have a better ending than if Frank Bellarosa had lost one more pint of blood on the floor in Giulio’s restaurant.”
He stayed quiet a moment, then said to me, and to Susan, “I’ve thought the same thing. I really believe that . . . well, that there is a purpose to all this, and that part of that purpose is to test us, and to impart some wisdom to us, and to show us what is important, and to make us better people.”
Susan said, “I believe that. And I believe that we have a guardian angel who will watch over us.”
Well, then, I thought, why bother to go to London? But to be on the team, I said, “Me, too.”
Mr. Mancuso said, “Someone here needs to speak to me. Have a good trip, and don’t hesitate to call me anytime.”
“Thank you,” I replied, “and have a good evening.”
“Well . . .”
“Right. Then have a good day tomorrow.”
“You, too.”
Susan said, “And thank you.”
I hung up, and we looked at each other.
Finally, Susan said, “I, too, wonder how our lives would have been if I hadn’t—”
“Stop. We will never—and I mean
never
—discuss that again.”
Susan nodded. “All right. But maybe there really is a purpose to what happened.”
“Maybe.” And I was sure we didn’t have long to find out what it was.
I
suggested to Susan that we go up to the family room and watch a little of
The
Godfather, Part IV: Anthony Whacks Uncle Sal
.
She didn’t think that was either funny or something she wanted to do.
Susan picked up the phone and dialed.
I asked, “Who are you calling?”
“Edward.”
“Why? Oh, okay.” A mother’s instinct to protect her children is stronger than a man’s instinct to watch television.
Edward answered his cell phone for a change, and Susan said to him, “Sweetheart, I’d like you to come home now.”
He said something, and she replied, “You have an early morning flight, darling, and your father and I would like to spend a little time with you. Yes, thank you.”
She hung up and said to me, “Fifteen minutes.”
I nodded. Well, if left to his own devices, Edward would roll in at 3:00 A.M., and we’d be up all night with the shotgun waiting for him. I said to Susan, “At least he’ll be out of here tomorrow, and we’ll be in London Tuesday.”
She asked me, “John, do you think there is any danger to the children? I won’t go to London if—”
“They’re in no danger.” I thought about Anthony’s nice, clean hit at Giovanni’s Ristorante, and I also recalled what Anthony himself said to me on his front lawn, and I assured her, “Women and children get a pass . . . well, children anyway.” I further noted, “Carolyn is a district attorney, and that makes her virtually untouchable.”
Susan nodded, “All right . . . then I’m looking forward to London.”
“And then Paris.”
“Good. I haven’t been out of the country since . . . the time we went to Rome.”
Cheap boyfriends. Or provincial bumpkins. Meanwhile, I’ve been out of the country ten years, and I would have liked to stay around here awhile—but back to London.
She asked, “Am I going to enjoy London with you?”
“I hope so. I want to show you the Imperial War Museum.”
“I can’t wait.” She asked me, “Will there be ladies calling and knocking on your door in London?”
“Ladies? No. Of course not. But maybe we should stay in a hotel.”
She reminded me, “We can’t afford it.”
Another new reality.
So we sat in the office and talked a little about what Mancuso had said, and about how we really saw this situation. Susan was optimistic, and I, too, thought that maybe Anthony Bellarosa had more problems with his
paesanos
than we had with Anthony. But I wasn’t betting my life, or hers, on that.
We heard Edward pull up, and Susan went to the door and opened it before he unlocked it.
The three of us went up to the family room, and Sophie brought us the leftover cake, then wished us good night.
So we chatted about the day, and about sailboats, and about Susan and me visiting him in Los Angeles, and maybe bringing Grandma Harriet along. Hopefully, she’d like L.A. and stay there. We also told him that we were going to London for a few days, and then someplace else. Edward didn’t need to know where until we got there, and maybe not even then. He also didn’t need to know right now about the Mafia hit in Brooklyn. If he heard about this when he was in L.A., he’d probably put two and two together and realize why we were going to Europe on short notice. Or Carolyn would do the addition for him.
Apropos of nothing that we were discussing, Edward asked, “How did it go with Grandma and Grandpa after we left?”