“Don’t do that. Let us do that for you.”

“I see… well, Detective Nastasi, at my suggestion, said this morning that he would contact the FBI Organized Crime Task Force to alert them to this problem. Do you know of any such call?”

“No, I don’t. But I’ll make some calls and get back to you.”

I said, “I thought we could meet.”

He reminded me, “As an attorney, you know that the FBI has no direct jurisdiction in a case of what appears to be a personal threat that is not related to Anthony Bellarosa’s possible connection to organized crime.” He added, “That is a matter for the local police.”

“I understand that. But-”

“But we may be able to assist the local police. And we may be able to determine if some Federal law pertains to this.”

“Good.”

He then informed me, “I’m no longer with the Organized Crime Task Force. But… because I worked on the original case, and because you’ve called me directly, I can make a request that I meet with you. Then I can put you together with the right people here, if appropriate.” He added, “I still have a personal interest in the case.”

“Do you?”

“I always have, Mr. Sutter.”

I understood that he’d taken a personal interest in me, perhaps as part of a continuing education study of how attorneys of high moral integrity become Mafia lawyers. Or maybe he just liked me. His other interest in the case, personal or professional, had to do with the general suspicion that U.S. Attorney Alphonse Ferragamo, who few people seemed to like, had framed Frank Bellarosa for a murder he did not commit. And finally, Mr. Mancuso could not have been happy when the Justice Department – the great wheel of slow but fine-grinding justice, of which Mr. Mancuso was a small cog – told Susan to go home and sin no more.

Mr. Mancuso mused, “That case has always bothered me.”

“Me, too.” I informed him, “I don’t need my soul saved this time.”

He chuckled and reminded me, “I didn’t do a very good job of that last time.”

“Better than you know.”

“Good. And I hope you’ve learned something from that.”

“We all have, Mr. Mancuso. Yourself included.”

He thought about that, then replied, “Yes, we all learned something about ourselves and about how justice works, or does not work, Mr. Sutter. But all’s well that ends well, and I’m happy to hear that you and Mrs. Sutter have reunited.”

Actually, he wanted Mrs. Sutter in jail – nothing personal, just business – but I replied, “Thank you.” In the interests of re-bonding, I asked him, “And how are you doing?”

“Very well, thank you.” He added, “I was about two weeks from retiring when the planes hit the Towers. Now I’m with the Joint Terrorist Task Force.”

“I see. Well, I suppose that’s where the action is these days.”

“Unfortunately, it is.” He let me know, “Organized crime is far from a thing of the past, but it’s not the problem it once was.”

“It is for me, Mr. Mancuso.”

He agreed, “Position determines perspective.”

“Right. Well, I appreciate you calling me back, and your interest in this.”

“And I appreciate you thinking of me, Mr. Sutter, and I thank you for your confidence in me.”

“Well, I’m about to be a taxpayer again, Mr. Mancuso, so I thought I’d take advantage of some government service.”

Again he chuckled, recalling, I’m sure, how entertaining I could be. He asked me, “Is there a cell phone number where I can reach you?”

I replied, “I’m embarrassed to say no. I need to set up credit and all that. But I’ll give you Mrs. Sutter’s cell number.” I gave it to him and said, “I’ve mentioned to her that I called you, and I’ll tell her we spoke, so she won’t be surprised at your call, though you may find her…”

“Distraught?”

“What’s the opposite of distraught?”

“Well… you mean to say that she is not distraught about Anthony Bellarosa’s proximity and his statements to you?”

“That’s what I mean to say. But I am concerned.”

“Rightfully so. In fact… well, I don’t need to add to your concern, but I spent twenty years dealing with these people, and I think I know them better than they know themselves. So, yes, Anthony Bellarosa needs to do something, whether or not he wants to risk that. He needs to live up to the old code, or else he will lose respect and his position will be weakened.” He added, “It’s about personal vendetta, but it’s also about Anthony’s leadership position.”

“I understand. And I’d like you to make Mrs. Sutter understand. Without frightening her.”

“She needs to be frightened.”

I didn’t reply to that, and hearing it from Special Agent Mancuso was a jolt.

He continued, “But stay calm, and take some precautions, and keep in touch with the local police.” He added, “I believe there is a danger, but I don’t believe it is imminent.”

“Why not?”

“We can discuss that when I see you.” He concluded, “All right, I’ll make every effort to come out to you tomorrow. Are you free?”

“Yes, I’m unemployed, and so is Mrs. Sutter.”

He didn’t respond to that and said, “Please give her my regards.”

“I will…” I was about to sign off, then I had a thought and said, “I may have more work for you, Mr. Mancuso.”

“Maybe I should have retired.”

I laughed politely, then said, “Something to do with your current assignment on the Terrorist Task Force.” He didn’t respond, so I continued, “The person who bought Stanhope Hall, Mr. Amir Nasim, is an Iranian-born gentleman, and in a conversation with him last week, he indicated to me that he believes he may be the target of a political assassination plot, originated, I believe, in his homeland.”

“I see.”

He didn’t seem overly interested in this for some reason, so I said, “Well, we can discuss that when you get here if you’d like.”

“Please go on.”

“All right…” So I gave him a short briefing and concluded, “Nasim could be paranoid, or he could have other motives for sharing his concerns with me. But I’m just passing it on to you.”

Mr. Mancuso said, “Thank you. I’ll look into it.” He added, “As we say now to the public, ‘If you see something, say something.’”

I assumed that also pertained to law enforcement agencies, so I reminded him, “Please call Detective Nastasi.”

Mr. Mancuso wished me a good day, and I did the same.

Well, I felt that I was covering all bases – including reporting on possible terrorist activities in the neighborhood – and that I was being proactive and not reactive, and also that this little corner of the world, at least, was a bit safer than it had been two days ago.

Having said that, I still needed to find the shotgun.

So I went into the basement and spent half an hour among packing boxes, most labeled, but none labeled “Shotgun,” or even “Boyfriends, ashes of.”

I did, however, find a box marked “John.” I assumed that was me, and Emily Post would tell me not to open it. But with the justification that Susan snooped through the gatehouse… better yet, the shotgun could be in there, though the box was a bit short. Anyway, I cut open the tape with the box cutter I’d found, and opened the lid.

Inside were stacks of love letters, cards, photos, and some silly souvenirs for Susan that I’d brought back from business trips.

There were also a few printed e-mails on top of the older items, and I took one out and saw that it was from Susan to me in London, dated four years ago. It read: John, I’m sorry to hear about Aunt Cornelia. I will be in N.Y. for the funeral, and Edward says you will be, too. Just wanted you to know. Hope to see you there, and hope you are well. Susan.

My reply was attached: I will be there, as per Edward.

Short and not so sweet.

I had no idea why she printed this out. Well, I did have an idea, and oddly – or maybe not so oddly – seeing this was painful. She’d been trying to reach out to me, and I was unreachable.