The Man in the Blizzard, page 18
Finally, we climbed the stairs. After Synge pushed the bell for the third time, Katherine Kunz came to the door. She looked at the three of us standing in front of her and shook her head. “I’m sorry, my husband isn’t here.”
I stepped forward and held out my hand. “August Boyer, Ms. Kunz; I was here yesterday with your niece.”
“Oh, yes.”
I looked into her eyes, which were red and watery, and I could tell that she’d been drinking. She couldn’t wait to get rid of us and back to her vodka grapefruit. “This is Detective Sabbatini from the Saint Paul Police Department and Agent Synge from the FBI.”
Synge took off his Panama and said, “How do you do, ma’am?” Without his hat, Synge’s shock of white hair was just that.
The lady of the house’s eyes grew large as she shook each of our hands. “I’d invite you gentlemen in, but our housekeeper is off today….”
“No need, ma’am,” Sabbatini said. “Though it’d be great to have a quick word with you.”
“Is anything wrong?”
“We’re not sure yet,” Synge said, smiling. “But I’ve got to tell you, if you don’t mind my saying, I love the gray streak in your hair.”
“Thank you,” she said, looking away.
Synge wasn’t done. He knew a pickled, charm-starved woman when he saw one. “Me, I turned white all over at forty. My mother wanted me to dye my hair. My own mother. But yours, yours is quite a beautiful look. Natural, too, isn’t it?”
“It’s just the way it grows,” Mrs. Kunz said. “Would you gentlemen like to come in?”
“That’d be nice,” I said. “We’ll only stay a moment.”
“I can run and make tea.”
“Don’t bother,” Sabbatini said. “We just had tea before we came out.”
Synge pushed it a little further. “But I don’t think we’d mind a sip of sherry, ma’am.”
Katherine Kunz returned a moment later with a tray holding four glasses and a bottle of Tio Pepe. She led us into the same large library where her husband had brought me.
“Maybe you’ll each pour yourself what you want,” she said.
“Absolutely.” I stood beside her and looked at her hands. There was no way they’d be steady enough to fill sherry glasses. “May I pour you a glass, ma’am?”
“Yes, that would be nice. I’m not supposed to have people in,” she said, sitting and taking great pains to smooth out her skirt.
“Why’s that?” Synge asked innocently.
“Oh, my husband’s funny that way. He likes to have control over things.”
“In what way?” Synge asked, furrowing his brow.
“Well,” she said, sipping her sherry, “I used to say that if Fred were in politics, he’d only participate if the votes were guaranteed before they were cast.”
“That sounds like smart politics,” Synge said.
My phone started ringing and I turned it off. Synge nodded to us, and Sabbatini and I sat back, happy to let the FBI agent lead the interview. He was fun to watch. He reminded me of Tony Bouza, the former Minneapolis chief of police, a cop with an intellect whom I once saw at a Francisco Clemente opening at the Walker. The chief was the most elegant creature in the room. Synge was a larger man, but he still moved like a cat.
“Why do you think we’ve come out here today, Mrs. Kunz?” Synge asked, freshening the lady’s sherry glass in a flash.
“I suppose you gentlemen want to talk with Fred about the Born Free rally this weekend.”
“How did you know?” Synge’s face went bright with wonder.
“Well, he doesn’t talk with me about it, but I hear things.”
“Like what?”
Mrs. Kunz finished her sherry in a gulp and floated a hand over the Sontag gray streak at her temple. “Like who he’s going to have lunch with this afternoon and where.”
“You know that?” Synge said with a mischievous smile, refilling her glass again.
She nodded. “Well, I don’t really know the men, but I know that they have something to do with the Born Free rally.”
“And you know where they’re meeting for lunch?”
Mrs. Kunz looked away. She knew she was about to cross a line. She turned back and gave Synge a naughty smile. “You didn’t hear it from me.”
“Of course not.”
“They’re having lunch at Cecil’s in Saint Paul.”
“The Jewish deli? Why there?”
“Oh, Fred loves their Russian Reubens and the matzo ball soup. He used to take me there, but that was many years ago. Plus, it’s just a few blocks from the Planned Parenthood on Ford Parkway. There’s a big protest in front, all weekend.”
“Of course,” Synge said.
Sabbatini stood. “We’ll be good to our word, Mrs. Kunz, and not take any more of your time.” Synge and I stood as well.
“One more thing,” I asked, as Katherine Kunz led us up the long hallway to the front door. “Do you happen to know Dr. Jules McCracken?”
“No, I don’t,” she answered too quickly.
“Are you sure you don’t know of him, Mrs. Kunz?” I asked. “Dr. Jules McCracken?”
Although it was me asking the question, Mrs. Kunz grabbed hold of Frankie Synge’s arm. “It brings back a very difficult period in my life. I spent some time in Dr. McCracken’s Saint Paul clinic.”
“He has a clinic in Saint Paul?” I asked.
“Yes. It’s very small; you wouldn’t know it was there. Two-forty-five North Snelling. It’s behind a used-bicycle store and a drive-through coffee booth.”
“That’s in my backyard,” I said, smiling at Mrs. Kunz.
She smiled back. “What do you know?”
A TASTE FOR PASTRAMI
As Synge powered his Beemer down Snelling Avenue, I pointed out the low building behind Java Jive that must have served as McCracken’s clinic.
“You want me to drop you off?” Synge asked.
Sabbatini overruled the idea. “Nah, you stick with us, Augie; we’ll come back and visit the good doctor.”
Synge shot down Snelling, catching the lights all the way to Ford Parkway. A mile west, the block surrounding Planned Parenthood was swollen with protesters. The street had been closed off.
“Did you know they were closing the street, Bobby?” Synge asked.
“How would I know? I can’t keep up with all this bullshit.”
We drove as close as we could to the barricades. Two of the ugly antiabortion trucks flanked a street party of protesters.
“Recognize anyone, Augie?” Synge asked.
“Bunch of cretins,” I said, looking out over the crowd. “Let’s get over to Cecil’s.”
“Sure,” Synge said, “I’ve got a taste for pastrami.”
I spotted Kunz sitting with three men at the rear of the restaurant. “There he is, guy in the back, in the tan sport coat. He sees me now.” The three men with Kunz bent their heads toward him.
Meanwhile, Synge pushed past a fat waiter and led us up the long aisle to the gang at the last table. Synge was quite a sport to hang with, a modern-day Eliot Ness.
He pulled out his wallet and flashed his badge. “Mr. Kunz, Francis Synge, FBI.”
“How do you do?”
Each of the three men sitting with Kunz looked as if he was going to shit in a different way. I took a good look at them. All white men, two middle-aged, blue-collar guys who could be brothers and a guy in his twenties with greased-back hair and a big crucifix dangling in front of his shirt.
“This is Detective Sabbatini, Saint Paul Police,” Synge said. “Isn’t he a hell of a dresser for a cop?” Everybody turned to look at Bobby in his linen coat and slacks. “And I think you know Augie Boyer.”
Kunz looked as if he wanted to spit. “Mr. Boyer, good to see you.”
“Nice to see you, Kunz. Hey, I’m still waiting for my Christo Snoopy.”
Kunz forced a laugh. “A little joke between us.”
“I didn’t think it was a joke,” I said.
“Sorry to disturb your lunch, gentlemen,” Synge said with a wrinkle of contrition. “How’s the pastrami, by the way? I love the pastrami here. I could fantasize about it, like another guy fantasizes about some babe to cheat on his wife with. I don’t do that shit. I keep it clean. But a nice Russian Reuben, a bowl of matzo ball soup, a bottle of Vernors ginger ale. Hey, that’s what you’re having, Mr. Kunz. What do you know?” Synge shot Kunz his Curious George smile. “Look, we need to talk with you guys. We can either have a little chat here or we can go over to Minneapolis.”
“I’m not talking to anybody,” Kunz said, “without my attorney. And neither are they.”
“That’s a mistake, Mr. Kunz. We could have a very comfortable conversation here.”
Kunz looked up at Synge. “You’re fishing, sir, but there are no fish in this lake.”
“Aw, there’s plenty of fish, Kunz,” Synge grinned. “We’ve got a couple of dozen e-mails you sent, all very fishy, if you ask me. We’ve got you soliciting the ‘elimination’—that’s your word—of three abortion doctors in the Twin Cities. We’ve got you offering shooters fifty grand a pop. Is that you guys?” Synge asked, giving the three men a big smile.
“You’re fishing,” Kunz said.
“The fuck I’m fishing.”
Kunz, smirk-faced, said, “You’ve got a national political convention coming into Saint Paul, a huge gang of anarchists and other disreputables ready to disrupt it, and you guys are out fishing.”
Sabbatini jumped forward and was about to grab Kunz by the collar until Synge stood between them. I noticed people from other tables turning their heads to get a look at us.
I took a step toward the table. “Tell me where Elizabeth is, Kunz.”
“How should I know? I sent her home with my driver last night after dinner.”
“You know where she is.”
“You have a rich fantasy life, Boyer.”
Once Synge had gotten Sabbatini calmed down, he pulled a digital camera out of his pocket and moved around to the side of the table. “Let me get a shot of you guys. My daughter just gave me this camera for my birthday. I can’t believe the technology. To think I used to get excited about a Polaroid. Okay, let’s get a nice table shot first.” Synge backed a little away from the table and looked in the window at his composition. “A photographer I used to know told me that the history of photography is the history of figuring out where to stand.” Synge backed up a little, leaned to the left, then to the right. He finally snapped a picture of the four men, sitting expressionless. He took a moment to look at what he got. “Not bad. Let’s get another shot, but this time with you smiling. Say cheese, you guys.” Synge demonstrated with a wide, cheesy grin. “Come on, say cheese. Say cheese, you fuckheads!” A quiet chorus of “Cheese” followed. “Good,” Synge said, looking at the picture he’d just taken. “That’s a nice one.” He leaned his head close to them now. “Listen, gentlemen, we are going to be on your asses so tight that you’ll be able to feel our fingers wiggling around up there.”
Back in the car, Synge said, “Made one fatal error in there—left without any pastrami.”
We went by McCracken’s clinic, which was dark and looked as if nobody had been in it for years. On the drive across Selby, I mentioned what I’d heard from Nina about McCracken.
“Yeah, I remember that case,” Synge said. “It was quite a while ago. I worked on the investigation. On the front end. I never got as far as McCracken. They called that shit ‘false memory syndrome.’ Something like that. You had therapists practicing ‘recovered memory therapy,’ convincing their patients that they were repressing a trauma, usually incest. Some lost their licenses. McCracken came along later, when the parents got outraged. He did a little reverse brainwashing. I don’t know what they called that; ‘reversed recovered memory therapy’? Trouble is, McCracken was indiscriminate and convinced some real victims that they hadn’t been touched. He was sued later and settled out of court. I remember the press exposé. One of McCracken’s former patients called him ‘the king of mind control,’” Synge said with a giggle.
“Yeah,” I said, “well, I think he’s trading in his kingdom for a bit of Nazi gelt.”
Sabbatini perked up. “And the guy’s mode is outdated. He should be using poetry to manipulate her behavior. Just a little assonance could go a long way.”
Synge grinned in the mirror. “You’re right, Bobby. Think what a guy could do with a handful of spondees.”
“I figure Kunz is having McCracken erase the violinist’s incest memory,” I said. “But there’s something else.”
“Maybe he’s still banging her,” Sabbatini said.
I shook my head.
“She knows what Kunz is planning,” Synge said, taking out a handkerchief and blowing his nose. “She’s been trying to spill the beans. A loose cannon like that, I wouldn’t be surprised if he has her eliminated.”
RELATIVE ANGST
“How about a quick one?” Sabbatini asked, after Frankie Synge dropped us where we had left our cars, on Selby and Western.
“Sure.”
“There’s something I’ve got to tell you,” he said, not looking happy about it.
“Yeah, you haven’t been quite your mellow self this afternoon, Bobby. Frost’s or Moscow on the Hill?”
Sabbatini flashed five cents of bravado. “Hey, if I wanted vodka, if I wanted blinis and caviar, Augie, I’d say Moscow. But what I want is a good, stiff Maker’s Mark.”
The bar at Frost’s was practically empty in the midafternoon, and we took a window table near the front. Sabbatini excused himself to the bathroom and I thought about Rose and Jesse Ventura, as I do every time I go into Frost’s, even if I’m on the bar side. Then I thought about Erica and how I saw trouble coming there.
I ordered a Surly Furious, a tart-forward ale from the sorry suburb of Brooklyn Center. It would have been better if I could have lit up a doobie to go along with it. But I’d been smoking so much lately I could pretty much call up the condition. I stared absently out the window at the Blair House, a beautifully restored brick and brownstone monolith. It was pure Edward Hopper in the winter.
Garrison had his good bookstore in the basement of the building. I liked the place, with its checkerboard floors and cave-like feel. A decade or so to smudge the patina, and it would really have some character. Garrison had a desk down there with a sign pinned to it that named the books he’d written on it and the various typewriters he used. It was almost as good as being at the John Steinbeck museum in Salinas.
I sipped my ale, wondering if Garrison carried any Hannah Arendt. He had a honorable poetry section, a heroic collection of Fitzgerald, and his people knew how to put the right new books down on the tables so you were tantalized by most everything. I could have spent a fortune in there. But who has time to read? Garrison also had a big self-help section, but I doubted he went deep into Hannah Arendt. If it were Woody Allen’s bookstore, there’d be a whole wing of Arendt.
It seemed to me that Lutheran angst didn’t hold a candle to the Jewish version. The Lutherans went in for self-help, the Jews for self-flagellation. Of course, the Catholics seemed the sorriest when it came to guilt. It dripped off them. As for the born-agains, they were as angst-free as a can of Fresca. They carried a guarantee, right beside their Wal-Mart charge card, that they’d be saved.
Anyway, I figured that Nina had probably polished off The Human Condition. It would be fun to find some more light reading for her. Pick up a copy of Hannah Arendt’s Men in Dark Times and have it gift wrapped. The idea made me chuckle and I was laughing out loud by the time Sabbatini came back with a glass of bourbon and sat across from me.
DON’T BLAME IT ON THE POETRY
Sabbatini shook his head. “You’re scaring me, Augie. I leave for a minute and by the time I get back you’ve gone daft.”
“I just had a funny thought.”
“Yeah?”
“My wife in bed with Garrison Keillor.”
“She slept with Garrison, too?”
“Not that I know of.”
“You need a vacation, Augie.”
“Probably do. I’d sure feel better if we came up with a search warrant and I could find that damn violinist.”
Sabbatini lifted his glass of bourbon and sipped it slowly. “Don’t worry, Augie, all this stuff is going to sort itself out.”
“I wish I believed you.”
“So what did you think of Frankie Synge?”
“Hell of a guy, but he kind of put the fear of God in me when he started talking about the poetry epidemic at Guantánamo Bay. I don’t see poetry as the big problem with Gitmo.”
“He was joshing, Augie.”
“I’m not sure he was joshing. He’s quite the bureau spook.”
Sabbatini nodded. “He takes his job seriously.”
“Agreed.” I faced Sabbatini directly. “Hey, Bobby, you wanted to talk to me about something.”
“About the violinist…”
“Yeah?”
Sabbatini took a swill of Maker’s Mark. “Blossom and I weren’t exactly forthcoming with you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I happened to be over at Blossom’s when Elizabeth disappeared. She was tucked away on the futon the last I saw her. Blossom and I were in her bedroom. I performed a few Kenneth Patchen love poems for Blossom, and one thing led to another. Afterward, when I went to the kitchen for a glass of water, I saw that the violinist was gone.”
“What time was that?” I asked.
“About three in the morning.”
“So you went out looking for her.”
Sabbatini shook his head.
“You left her to wander around Lowertown at three in the morning?”
“She could have left much earlier. We were in the bedroom for a couple hours.”
“What did you do, go back to bed? You didn’t even call me.”
“It was three in the morning, Augie.”
I stood up and glared at Sabbatini. “You’re a fucking police detective, supposed to be one of the best, but you just blow this off.”
“I think it’s the poetry, man. It’s having a strange effect on me.”
