The Gate House

by Nelson DeMille

  Harriet seemed to be more popular than I’d realized, which was surprising, but good. Also good was that her car was here, and I didn’t need to drive her home.

  I spotted William and Charlotte standing by themselves, sipping the awful punch. I watched carefully to see if William sneezed or coughed, but he seemed more bored than terminally ill. Damn it. Also, I was annoyed that Susan hadn’t dragged Edward and Carolyn over to keep them company and suck up to them. There weren’t that many opportunities left, and Susan was letting one get by. I looked around for the kids, but I didn’t see them, though I did see the Corbet kids.

  Maybe I should give up my matchmaking and also my attempt to get the kids to hang around with their grandparents. Susan was no help in either case, so why should I worry about it? Love? To hell with it. Money? Who cares? Leave it to Fate.

  I love to mingle in a crowd of people I don’t know, especially if most of them are elderly; you can really get into some interesting conversations. The punch helps, of course. I did see Tom Corbet and Laurence, so the three of us stood in the outcast corner and chatted.

  I spotted the Reverend James Hunnings, and his wife had joined him, so I went over to say hello to her—and him—and I noticed that Mrs. Hunnings had aged in the last ten years. This was a big disappointment; I hate it when my fantasy women get old. Nevertheless, she still had a sparkle in her eye and she was charming. Her name, I recalled now, was Rebecca, and she said to me, “Jim tells me that you’re back, and that you and Susan have reunited.”

  Who’s Jim? Oh, James Hunnings. Her husband. I replied, “God works in mysterious ways.”

  Hunnings butted in, as I’m sure he does often, and said, “Indeed, He does. And wondrous ways.”

  Right. Take, for example, your wife not leaving you. I said, “That was a beautiful church service and a touching eulogy.”

  “Thank you, John. It’s not difficult to eulogize Ethel Allard. She was a lady of great faith and spirit.”

  Rebecca Hunnings smiled at me, then excused herself, leaving me alone with Jim, who said to me, “I hope you’ve given some thought to what we discussed.”

  “I’ve spoken to Susan, and she agrees with me that we would not benefit from premarital counseling.”

  “Well, with your permission, John, I’d like to speak to her about that.”

  “You don’t need my permission.”

  “Fine.” He informed me, “I just spoke to William and Charlotte, and we have an appointment in my office this afternoon to discuss . . . well, their concerns.”

  “Good. But keep in mind that they hate me.”

  That took him aback, but he recovered and said, “Their concern is for their daughter’s happiness.”

  “Mine, too.”

  “I know that, which is why this is so troubling.”

  “Right.” I asked him, “Did William seem under the weather?”

  “I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, he looked a bit unwell at graveside, and I was concerned.”

  “He looked fine.”

  “No cough or anything?”

  “Uh . . . no. Oh, by the way, I did take the liberty of speaking to Elizabeth about that letter, and she informs me that it’s in her possession and she has not yet given it to you.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Well, I must be frank with you, John—I’ve advised her to examine the contents herself, then discuss it with me before she delivers it to you.”

  “Really? And why did you do that, if I may ask?”

  “Well, as I said, Ethel discussed with me—in general terms—the contents of the letter, and Ethel herself was unsure if you should see it.”

  “Well, the last I heard from Elizabeth, her mother had instructed her to give it to me after her death.”

  “I see . . . well, there seems to be some confusion then.”

  “Not in my mind. But I’ll take it up with Elizabeth.”

  He seemed to be struggling with something, then he said, “This letter . . . may contain what could be construed as gossip . . . or scandal.” He looked at me and continued, “Not the sort of thing a Christian lady such as Ethel Allard should concern herself with, or perpetuate.”

  Why not? I love gossip and scandal. Where’s my letter? I pointed out, “Ethel is dead.”

  He explained, “Neither Elizabeth nor I want her mother’s memory to be . . . let’s say, sullied, in any way. So, of course, Elizabeth wants to see the letter first.”

  I wonder who put that idea in her head? Well, if Father Hunnings wasn’t blowing smoke, then the letter wasn’t about money. I like gossip better. Scandal is good, too. It was time to go, so I asked him, “Will I see you—and Mrs. Hunnings—tonight at Elizabeth’s house?”

  “Rebecca and I will try to be there.”

  “Good.” I moved off and found Susan, but I didn’t tell her what Father Hunnings and I had just discussed. Instead, I asked her, “Were the kids sucking up to their grandparents?”

  “John, that’s awful.”

  “I meant to say, are Edward and Carolyn interacting in a loving way with Grandma and Grandpa?”

  She replied, “They spoke briefly, but Mom and Dad have left.”

  “Already? Are they feeling all right?”

  “Yes, but . . . this is not really their crowd.”

  “Ah. So, Lord and Lady Stanhope just popped in to say hello to the peasants.”

  “Please.” She added, “It was good of them to come.”

  “I think they actually came to see Father Hunnings for a moment.” I informed her, “Your parents have an appointment with him this afternoon.”

  “Really?” She thought about that, then said, “That’s really annoying.”

  “Your parents are only concerned about your happiness.” I announced, “Prince John is ready to leave.”

  She ignored that and asked me, “Have you seen Elizabeth?”

  “No, but we’ll see her tonight and that would be an appropriate time for me to ask her about the letter.” I added, “I hope she’s invited a better class of funeral mourners.” I asked her, “Did Edward and Carolyn spend any time with Betsy and Tom?”

  “I don’t know. Why are you pushing that?”

  “I think it would be great if they married people from their hometown. Like we did.”

  “No one does that anymore.”

  “Too bad. Ready? Let’s collect the kids.”

  “They left.”

  “They don’t have a car.”

  “They had a ride to the train station, and they needed to leave quickly to catch a train, so they asked me to say goodbye to you.” She added, “They’re going to the city to meet friends.”

  “Did you tell them to be home in time to go with us to Elizabeth’s house?”

  “They’re staying at Carolyn’s apartment tonight.”

  “All right . . . well, they’ve been good troupers. They should spend some time with their friends.”

  Susan pointed out, “One less night for them to be in the house.”

  I looked at her and nodded.

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  Susan had turned off her cell phone ringer on the way to St. Mark’s, and she’d left it off during the burial service—phone calls at graveside are not good—and then she and I forgot it was off.

  So it wasn’t until we got home at about 2:00 P.M. and went to our office to check e-mails and phone messages that she remembered to look at her cell phone display. She said, “I have four calls from Felix Mancuso . . . the first at ten forty-seven.” She put the phone on speaker and played the first message. Mancuso said, “All right, to keep you informed regarding Anthony Bellarosa—I arrived at the Papavero Funeral Home early, and there was no one there except John Gotti. There was a big floral display from Anthony Bellarosa and family, and also from Salvatore D’Alessio and family. Anthony’s flower display, for your amusement, was shaped like a Cuban cigar, and D’Alessio’s was a royal flush—in hearts—and there were some others shaped
like racehorses and martini glasses.”

  I hadn’t seen anything that creative at Walton’s for Ethel. WASPs are boring.

  Mr. Mancuso continued, “Stretch limos arrived all morning, but most of the mourners were hiding their faces with umbrellas on their way in and out. And the police and media are definitely not invited inside. All right, they’re carrying the coffin to the hearse and it looks like the cortège is ready to roll, so I’m going to join the procession. Bottom line here, we can’t determine if Bellarosa or D’Alessio are here, but we’ll see at Saint John’s.”

  Susan and I looked at each other, and I said, “We need to be more creative with the flowers for the next funeral.”

  Susan ignored that and played the next message, which came at 11:36: “Mancuso. Okay, quick update—I’m still in the funeral procession, and we’re now in Ozone Park, where he had his headquarters at the Bergin Hunt and Fish Club . . . which I’m now passing . . . there are hundreds of people standing in the rain and waving. I’m waving back. FYI, there are four or five news helicopters overhead, so you can see this on television if you want. I’m in the gray car waving. Call me when you get this.”

  Susan said, “Next message came at twelve thirty-three.” She played message three: “Mancuso. I am now at Resurrection Mausoleum, at Saint John’s Cemetery. About a hundred people from the limos filed into the chapel, but again they were all holding umbrellas in front of their faces, but I did see Salvatore D’Alessio—he’s easy to spot—and his wife. But no Anthony Bellarosa, which doesn’t mean he’s not here. The press and the police are not invited inside the chapel. All right, next stop is the gravesite. I’ll call you after that.”

  Susan said, “Last call from him—came in at one thirty-seven.” She played the message: “Mancuso. Here is the bottom line—to the best of our knowledge, Anthony Bellarosa was not at the burial. During and after the graveside service, the Bureau and the NYPD got a good look at every man’s face, and we conducted some informal interviews with the usual suspects regarding Anthony Bellarosa’s whereabouts. No one was very cooperative and nobody knows nothing. I did pull D’Alessio aside, and I’ll fill you in on that when we speak. Call me.”

  I thought about Anthony not being at Gotti’s funeral, and I hoped that meant he really was at the bottom of the East River.

  Susan dialed Felix Mancuso’s cell from the house phone, and put it on speaker.

  He answered, “Mancuso.”

  “Sutter. Susan is here with me on speaker.”

  They exchanged greetings, and Susan said to him, “I had my cell off for the funeral, and forgot to turn it on. Sorry.”

  “No problem.” He said to us, “So Anthony did not show up, which is significant.”

  “I guess so.” Italians show up at anyone’s funeral.

  He explained, “That means that he’s either dead, or he’s in hiding.”

  “Dead sounds good.”

  He didn’t comment on that directly, but further explained, “If Anthony Bellarosa is not dead, then he thinks he will be if his uncle can find him.” He added, “That is the working theory.”

  “Good theory.” I asked Mr. Mancuso, “What did Uncle Sal say to you?”

  “He said that he thinks his nephew is dead.”

  Susan and I exchanged glances, and I asked Mancuso, “He actually said that?”

  “He did. And he told me who probably killed Anthony.”

  “Who?”

  “John Sutter.”

  That took me by surprise, but I’m quick and replied, “I have an alibi.”

  Mr. Mancuso allowed himself a small chuckle, then said, “D’Alessio told me to pull you in for questioning.”

  I remarked, “I didn’t think Uncle Sal had a sense of humor.”

  “Apparently he thinks this is a funny subject.”

  I glanced at Susan, who was not smiling. She just doesn’t get sick humor. I asked Mancuso, “What do you think? Is Anthony dead or alive?”

  Mancuso replied, “Well, D’Alessio has had extra bodyguards with him for the last week—three or four men, though not today at the funeral, of course—so if D’Alessio has that many men with him tonight and tomorrow and so forth, then we have to assume that Anthony is alive and that he has a contract out on his uncle.”

  Susan asked him, “What contract?”

  Mr. Mancuso explained, “A . . . call it a death warrant.”

  “Oh.”

  “Signed by Anthony Bellarosa.” Mr. Mancuso further explained to her, “It’s not actually in writing.” He added, “And Salvatore D’Alessio most probably has a contract out on Bellarosa’s life.”

  Susan had no comment. But certainly she had a flashback to her lover, who not incidentally had the same last name.

  Felix Mancuso recapped for us, “So, it appears that Anthony Bellarosa has chosen to go into deep hiding rather than go about his business surrounded by bodyguards, as his uncle is doing.” He added, “I think we’ll know within a week or two who made the right move.”

  I inquired, “Why do you think it will be that soon?”

  He replied, “Every day that Anthony is not around to run his half of the business is a day that his uncle gets more control and more power.” He informed us, “I did this for . . . well, a very long time. So I’ve seen this, and I know how they think and how they act.”

  I thought about that, then asked him, “If you had to make a bet—and if you were looking at the odds—which one of them would you bet on to be alive next week?”

  He hesitated, then replied, “Actually . . . well, I hate to say this, but we have a . . . a sort of pool here.”

  “Can I get in on it?”

  He forced a chuckle and replied, “Sure.”

  Susan said, “Please.”

  Mr. Mancuso got professional again and said, “The odds are really fifty-fifty. D’Alessio is not overly bright, but most of the underbosses and the old Mafiosi are with him, so that gives him an advantage in regard to getting to Anthony and having the job done professionally. Anthony’s strong points are that he’s young, energetic, and ruthless, and he has a lot of young talent around him. He’s also cautious, as I said, but he’s a hothead, as you said, and he’ll forget about caution for this job, which may be his downfall—or may lead to a surprise win.”

  I thought about all that, and my instincts and my intellect said to go with the old guy—Uncle Sal, who was also my sentimental pick. I inquired, “So, you’re giving even odds?”

  “That is correct.”

  “What’s the maximum bet?”

  “Fifty.”

  “John.”

  That was Susan, and I motioned for her to be quiet. I said to Mr. Mancuso, “Could you front me fifty on Uncle Sal?”

  “Done.”

  “I’ll give it to you when I see you.” I added, “Let me know if the odds change.”

  “I certainly will do that.”

  I would have asked him how I’d know if I won, but that was a silly question. I did ask, however, “Why did hundreds of people line the funeral route of a Mafia don?”

  He replied, “Probably thousands, actually. And I don’t have a single answer for that. Maybe curiosity . . . maybe just the herd instinct . . .” He added, “Some people thought Gotti was a hero, so maybe that’s something we need to think about.”

  I glanced at Susan, then I said to Mr. Mancuso, “Well, we went to the funeral of a lady who lived quietly, died peacefully, and was buried without a lot of fuss. And I’m sure she’s with the angels now.”

  Mr. Mancuso replied, “I’m sure she is.” He then said, “Well, I have nothing further. Any questions?”

  I looked at Susan, who shook her head, and I said, “Not at this time.”

  He said, “Have a happy Father’s Day.”

  Actually, I would if William was sick with pneumonia. I replied, “You, too.”

  I hit the disconnect button and said to Susan, “I feel good that Felix Mancuso is on top of this.”

  She nodded.
/>   “And the FBI, and the county police, and Detective Nastasi.”

  Again, she nodded, but she knew I was just trying to make things sound better than they were. We were both disappointed that Anthony Bellarosa hadn’t shown his face and hadn’t given the FBI and NYPD a crack at him. Usually, if the police or the FBI could question a suspect or a person of interest, they could, at the very least, instruct him to keep them informed of his whereabouts. And they could follow him. But Anthony had done a disappearing act, which made everyone nervous.

  Mr. Mancuso’s odds of fifty-fifty were either too optimistic, or he was trying to make us feel better. The odds were really in favor of Anthony killing Uncle Sal before Uncle Sal killed Anthony. But that wasn’t a bet I wanted to make.

  And then, when Anthony took care of Uncle Sal, he’d turn his attention to the Sutters. That was my bet.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  We spent a few lazy hours of a rainy Saturday afternoon in the upstairs family room, reading and listening to music.

  I went downstairs at 4:00 P.M. to ask Sophie to bring us coffee and pastry, then I went into the office to check my e-mail.

  There was no reply from my law firm to my Friday night resignation letter, but I knew I’d hear from them Monday.

  There was, however, a reply to my letter to Samantha. Bottom line, she was not happy. In fact, she was pissed.

  She pointed out, quite correctly, that I’d not called, not written, and had generally left her in the dark until I dropped the bombshell. She also said she was hurt, devastated, and deeply wounded. It was a really well-written letter for an e-mail, and she’s very much a lady and didn’t use words like “shithead,” “asshole,” or even “fuck you.” I mean, that was what she was saying, but she said it in a more genteel way.

  Well, I felt awful, and I wished I could have delivered my bad news to her in person or at least by phone—she deserved better than an e-mail—but the situation had gotten away from me, and I’d done the best I could, considering her imminent arrival and what was going on here.