I heard the door close and the air suddenly became cold, and black flies appeared out of nowhere, then green slime began oozing out of the walls. The Stanhopes had arrived.

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

Susan and I had decided that she’d meet with Lucifer and the Wicked Witch of the South in the living room, and I would stay behind closed doors in the office so she could consult with me, or call me into the discussion, if appropriate.

I’d negotiated a lot of tax settlements this way, as well as some nasty family disputes about inheritances; different rooms for different people so that the parties could not get ugly or physical with each other. It usually works.

I checked my e-mail, and there were some messages from friends in London, inquiring about what they’d heard, either from Samantha or from my law colleagues. Well, I couldn’t reply to any of these e-mails until the jury came in from the living room with the verdict. So I played poker with the computer, and I was on a winning streak – lucky at cards, unlucky at love?

About fifteen minutes after the Stanhopes arrived, there was a knock on my door, and I said, “Come in.”

Sophie appeared and informed me, “I go now.”

“Well, thank you for all you did.”

The door was still open, and I could hear voices in the living room, and the tone and the cadence was distinctly somber and grave.

Sophie handed me a piece of paper, and I thought it was a note from Susan, or Sophie’s bill, but a quick glance showed me it was a list, written in Polish.

She said, “You give to food store.”

“Huh…? Oh, right.” During my romantic month in Warsaw. Why do I have to be such a wiseass? Well, maybe I could pick this stuff up in Glen Cove, or Brooklyn.

Sophie hesitated, then said, “Missus is sad. Maybe you go…” She pointed her thumb over her shoulder.

I replied, “All right. Thank you. You’re a very nice lady. We’ll see you when we return.”

“Yes.” She left and I closed the door behind her.

I heard her leave through the front door, and saw her get into her car and drive off.

Well, I suppose I could go in and resolve the matter by putting William in a choke hold and making him sign a blank sheet of paper that I’d fill in later. There is a legal basis for that – necessitasnonhabetlegem – necessity knows no law.

But I did promise Susan I’d sit tight and not interfere with this family business, and she promised me she’d speak to me before they left.

So, to kill time, I pulled up a few online news sources and read about Salvatore D’Alessio’s last supper. Most of the coverage was straight reporting, with not much new that I didn’t already know from Jenny Alvarez and Felix Mancuso, my man on the scene. One story, however, did say, “Calls to the Bellarosa residence on Long Island have not been returned, and calls to Mr. Bellarosa’s place of business, Bell Enterprises in Ozone Park, Queens, have been met with a recorded message.”

Well, I thought, that’s no way to run a business. What if someone needed limousines for a funeral? Like the D’Alessio family?

The story went on to say, “Sources close to the investigation say that it is likely that Tony Bellarosa has left the country.”

I hope he’s not in London or Paris. I mean, I wouldn’t want to run into him at the Tate Gallery or the Louvre. I should definitely avoid Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum.

Anyway, I had an idea, and I found Anthony’s card in my wallet and dialed his cell phone. After three rings, a recorded message said, “This number has been disconnected at the customer’s request. No further information is available.”

That didn’t sound like Anthony had met with a sudden accident; it sounded like he didn’t want to be tracked through his cell phone signal.

In any case, if I’d reached him, it would be a silly conversation – Anthony, where are you? John, where are you? I asked first, Anthony.

I then e-mailed Carolyn regarding the murder of Mr. Salvatore D’Alessio, a fellow resident of the borough of Brooklyn, and a man who I was certain had been well known to the Brooklyn District Attorney’s office. I was also certain that Carolyn’s office was abuzz with this mob hit, and her colleagues were busy working with the NYPD and the FBI to develop leads regarding the killers, and Uncle Sal’s runaway bodyguard – and most importantly the identity of the person who paid for the whack. Well, figuring out that Anthony Bellarosa was the lead suspect was a no-brainer; finding him would not be so easy.

I let Carolyn know, if she didn’t already know, that Mom and Dad might be mentioned in the news. I did not say, “I hope this doesn’t cause you any embarrassment,” but she understood that. She also understood by now – or someone in the office had mentioned to her – that Anthony Bellarosa might be looking to settle the score with Mom. I did not mention this to her, but I did tell her that we were leaving for Europe the next morning and that we’d be in touch by phone before we left. She would understand what that was about.

I recalled that Anthony and Carolyn had met once, at Alhambra, and though I was not present, I was fairly sure that Carolyn had not been taken with the dark, handsome thug next door; in that respect, she had better judgment than her mother.

Anyway, Carolyn Sutter, Brooklyn ADA, might possibly have more information than I had, and I was sure she’d share that with her mother and father if appropriate.

So, having taken care of Bellarosa news and business, I went online and found some good Web sites for Paris, one of which had the name of two restaurants where Americans were welcome.

At about 10:00, Susan opened the door and entered. She looked pale and shaken, but not weepy. I sat her on the couch, then I sat next to her.

She took a deep breath, then said, “Well, their position is clear. If we marry, then my allowance is cut off, and I am disinherited, and disowned. Even if we don’t marry, they’ll do the same thing unless you leave the country.”

I took her hand and said, “We knew that.”

“Yes… but…” She took another breath and continued, “My father also said that he will disinherit the children… and stop the disbursements from their trust fund… and hold up the disbursement of the principal until they reach the age of fifty.” She looked at me and asked, “Can he do that?”

I replied, “As I said, he can disinherit them at any time. As for the trust fund, I would need to see the trust documents. But I did see them once, and I know that Peter is the trustee, and your father, through Peter, can stop the distributions and hold the corpus and appreciation – the whole amount – until Edward and Carolyn reach the age of fifty.”

She did some math and said, “That’s almost twenty-five years from now.”

I tried to show her the bright side of that and said, “Without the distributions, the fund should quadruple by then.” Unless the fund administrators made some really bad investment choices.

She said, “I’m worried about now. Not twenty-five years from now.”

“I know.” I tried to get a sense of what she was thinking, and I got a hint when she withdrew her hand from mine.

So this was the moment that I knew would come, and I’d already given her my solution to the problem, which she’d rejected when it was just me laying out the problem and the resolution. But now that she’d gotten the final word from dear old Dad – and I was sure he was not bluffing – it had hit her like a judge handing down a life sentence.

Out of curiosity, I asked, “How about your mother?”

She shook her head, then replied, “She said that all I had to do was tell you to leave and everything would be all right again.”

That wasn’t true, but I didn’t respond.

Finally, she asked me, “What should I do, John?”

Well, if you have to ask, Susan, you already know the answer.