She was standing now. So was Whitlow.
“We can find it together,” Heavenly said.
“Yes.”
“That may be the most touching thing I’ve ever seen,” I said. They both glared at me as if I had told them the ending of a movie they had both just paid nine bucks to watch. “Seriously. Seeing unbridled greed bringing you two kids back together—heartwarming.”
“Do you have anything more to tell us, McKenzie?” Whitlow said.
“No.”
Heavenly pointed. “What else is in the envelope?”
“Just something for the adults to talk about. Nothing that involves Jelly’s gold.”
Heavenly stared as if she didn’t believe me. Whitlow took her elbow and gave her a nudge to the door. “C’mon, Hep,” he said.
“We don’t need you anymore, McKenzie,” Heavenly said.
I showed her the palms of my empty hands as they both headed for the French doors. Allen held them open. When they passed through, I called to Allen. “You, too.”
Allen looked to Dahlin for instructions. He nodded, so Allen stepped out of the library, closing the doors behind him.
“I thought they’d never leave,” I said.
“What is in the envelope?” Dahlin said.
I set it on the blotter in front of him. “Copies of all the letters that your mother wrote Rose while she lived in Paris and New York. The cops have the originals. Shelly Seidel wants them back when the cops are done with the letters, so you’re going to have to negotiate with her.”
Dahlin used both hands to pull the envelope across his massive desk to his chest. “You read them?” he said.
“Yes.”
“What do they tell us?”
“They tell us that your parents were remarkable people who loved their son very much.”
Dahlin stared into my eyes as if he were searching for some truth and hoped to find it there.
“Let me tell you a story,” I said. I deliberately deleted all references to mothers and fathers from the tale to avoid interruptions. “Kathryn was very young when she married Brent Messer, a man twenty-three years her senior. He was well thought of in St. Paul society, famous, rich; he built her a magnificent house on Summit Avenue. I have no doubt that Kathryn loved him. At least for a while. Messer had many friends in both high and low places. He introduced Kathryn to them, seemed to enjoy introducing Kathryn to them. One of the men he introduced her to was a notorious bank robber named Frank Nash. Messer enjoyed carousing with what some people called ‘the trouble boys.’ It made him feel a bit notorious himself. However, his relationship with Nash was different. The two of them were partners of a sort; Messer was using his connections to help fence Nash’s loot. They spent time together, the Messers and Frank Nash. During one of those meetings, at the Hollyhocks Casino, Kathryn and Frank—let’s just say they were indiscreet and let it go at that.” When I said those words, Dahlin stirred in his seat but did not speak. “We don’t know why Kathryn slept with Frank. Maybe she was lonely. Maybe she genuinely loved him. Maybe it was just for the excitement. In any case, Messer somehow learned about the indiscretion. We can speculate that it made him very angry.
“On June 8, 1933, Frank Nash stole thirty-two bars of gold bullion from the Farmers and Merchants Bank in Huron, South Dakota, and stashed it with Brent Messer. The two of them—and their wives—were seen celebrating at the Boulevards of Paris nightclub in St. Paul later that evening. Nash and his wife spent June 9 with Alvin Karpis and the sons of Ma Barker at their hideaway on Vernon Street, where they learned that Karpis and the Barkers were planning to kidnap William Hamm. On June 10, to avoid the fallout that they knew was coming, Frank and Frances left St. Paul, leaving the gold in Messer’s hands. All the while, Messer was plotting his revenge.
“I believe that Messer, using Jack Peifer, an infamous gangland fixer, as a go-between, hired Verne Miller to murder Nash. Miller might have been friendly with Nash, but he was also a stone assassin, a killer for hire. The fact that Nash had been arrested by the FBI was only an inconvenience to him. The Kansas City Massacre wasn’t a botched rescue attempt, as most historians believe. I think it was a hit. Pure and simple. Apparently, Kathryn thought the same thing. When she heard about the massacre, she became terrified. She immediately ran to Europe to hide. The item about her vacation in the newspaper was a ruse. It got the name of her ship wrong as well as her destination. Truth was, Messer didn’t know where Kathryn went. She kept it a secret from him.” I pointed at the envelope on Dahlin’s desk. “The letters say so.
“While in Europe, Kathryn met James Dahlin. This was not a chance encounter. Apparently, James had loved Kathryn from afar and saw this as his opportunity to win her for himself. He was helped in this by Kathryn’s sister.” Again, I pointed at the envelope in Dahlin’s hands. “Kathryn fell in love with James. She used her knowledge of Frank Nash’s gold to blackmail Messer into giving her a divorce, knowing full well that the man was more than capable of having her killed as well. She did it because she wanted to marry James. Certainly James loved Kathryn; everything he did from that moment on was for her and for her son. He married her, even though she was carrying another man’s child. He then conspired with Kathryn to protect the child from Messer and bad gossip by convincing the world—and the child itself—that the boy was his son. This included bribing a ship’s captain to forge a birth certificate. They then exiled themselves from St. Paul, from their families, for fear that Messer might see the child and recognize himself. A remarkable thing, if you ask me.”
“I didn’t ask,” Dahlin said.
“Just so,” I said. “Meanwhile, back in St. Paul, the O’Connor System had shattered into tiny pieces. The gangsters who had used St. Paul as a safe haven were being arrested or killed in droves. The cops and politicians who had given them that safe haven were going to prison or in the process of being publicly ruined. Brent Messer, in an effort to save himself, decided to go state’s evidence and testify against his friends. Probably he knew that such an act would ruin him as well, but he still had Jelly’s gold, which I am sure he intended to sell when the price was right. Among those friends Messer was going to rat out was John Dahlin, the owner of a construction company and sometime partner with Messer—and, as coincidence would have it, father to James Dahlin. John was crooked. I think James found out about it when he went to work for him. That’s why he quit. It also explains why he refused to discuss him with Kathryn. A short time later, Messer was killed—blown to bits in his car. Three weeks following that, Kathryn and James Dahlin moved back to St. Paul with their healthy, happy son, Timothy, where they all lived happily ever after.”
“Have you forgotten something?” Dahlin said.
“Kathryn met Louis Lepke in New York,” I said. “Lepke was head of Murder Incorporated. A few weeks later, Messer was killed by eastern gunmen. You think that Kathryn arranged the hit. That she had her ex-husband murdered. So did I. I was wrong. She didn’t do it.”
“Who did?”
I went into my pocket for the folded sheet of paper and gave it to him. “I don’t know if this will make you feel better or not,” I said.
Department of Public Safety
Bureau of Police
City of St. Paul
September 23, 1936
Mr. Michael Kinkead
Attorney Ramsey County
St. Paul, Minnesota
Re: Wallace Jamie investigation of John Brand
Michael:
I must say that I am impressed by the energy displayed by Mr. Wallace Jamie. So much so that I intend to see that he is appointed to the position of Deputy Commissioner of the Department of Public Safety. I am sure I have your support in this. Unfortunately, I must concur that the information he gathered concerning an informant in the Ramsey County Attorney’s office, although telling, is hardly prosecutable.
Through Jamie’s efforts we know that Mr. John Brand of your office was in the same restaurant at the exact same time as Mr. Joh
n Dahlin on the day Mr. Brent Messer agreed to testify in our corruption probe. We also know that Brand was in the same restaurant at the same time as Dahlin on the day Messer was killed and that the following morning Brand deposited $5,000.00 cash in his bank account. However, as Jamie expressed in his report, we cannot prove that they actually met in the restaurant or spoke together. Nor can we connect the $5,000.00 to either Dahlin or the Dahlin Construction Company. As for the phone calls to New York City that Dahlin made the evening of his first meeting with Brand and immediately following Messer’s murder, we cannot determine with any accuracy with whom he spoke. What’s more, Dahlin had family in New York at the time and could easily explain the phone calls that way. (My information suggests that there is some estrangement between father and son dating back to the son’s brief employment in the father’s company, but whether or not it could be used to leverage the son’s testimony against the father is problematic since the son was in New York when Messer was killed.)
I agree with your conclusion that Dahlin had Messer killed in order to protect himself from prosecution, probably utilizing the services of the infamous Murder Inc. Messer claimed he was in a position to name individuals who conspired to defraud the city and county through building contracts. Who would he be more likely to name than Dahlin, with whom he had worked on more than a few municipal construction projects? Unfortunately, knowing is not the same as proving, as you well appreciate. Even with Jamie’s efforts, we simply do not possess enough evidence to bring this matter to a grand jury, much less secure a conviction against Dahlin’s considerable resources. My advice is that you dismiss Brand immediately for cause, but that you keep the reasons to yourself. If the public should learn that the Ramsey County Attorney’s Office was compromised, it would become even more difficult to secure future testimony against any gangster. As for Dahlin, certainly we will both keep a judicious eye on all of his future activities.
Sincerely,
H. E. Warren
Public Safety Commissioner
When he finished, Dahlin looked up at me. There was an odd expression on his face that I could not read.
“’Course, there was no way your grandfather could have known of your relationship with Brent Messer,” I said. “Whether or not that would have made any difference …” I shrugged my uncertainty.
For the first time since we met, Dahlin smiled. The smile didn’t last long.
“We do not have a confidentiality agreement, you and I,” he said.
“You’re still afraid that I’ll reveal your secrets,” I said.
He didn’t reply. Just stared.
“Don’t worry about it.”
Dahlin leaned back in his chair. I didn’t know if he liked my answer or not.
“There are still so many questions that remain unanswered,” he said. “Questions that I’ll never have the answer to.” To emphasize the point, he pulled out a photograph of Messer and a photocopy of a shot of Frank Nash he had downloaded from the Internet and carefully set them on the blotter in front of him.
“Whom do you think I resemble most?” he said.
I understood in that instant Dahlin’s dilemma, why he originally fired Heavenly and Whitlow, what kept him awake at night. Did Kathryn and James Dahlin conspire to hide his origins because they didn’t want people to know he was Brent Messer’s son, or because they didn’t want them to suspect he was Frank Nash’s son?
I reached for a framed photograph on his desk, a shot of Kathryn and James taken when they were both young and happy and full of life. I set it in front of Dahlin.
“I think you look like this couple,” I said.
Dahlin picked up the frame in both hands and studied the photograph. Without looking up, he said, “People have always told me that I have my father’s strong chin.”
“Good luck to you, Mr. Dahlin,” I said. A few moments later, I left his office, his house, and Sunfish Lake.
21
I was on Highway 110 heading for 35E and St. Paul when my cell rang. I wasn’t going to answer it until I saw the name on the display. Genevieve Antonello.
“Hello,” I said.
“It’s Genevieve Antonello,” she said.
“Yes, I know.”
“Oh. Umm, Uncle Mike would like to talk to you. He asked me to give you a call.”
“Sure, put him on.”
“He’s wondering if you would drop by the nursing home.” “Now?”
“No time like the present, that’s what Mike said.”
“I take it you’re not there.”
“I’m at Bethel, but I’ll be going over soon.”
“If it’s about Jelly’s gold, I’m afraid there’s not much to talk about.”
“I don’t know. Mike said—if you’re too busy to visit him …”
“Not at all. I can drive right over.”
“Good.”
I asked, “How are you?”
“Fine,” she said.
“You seem upset.”
“Do I?”
“Are you still upset with me?”
“Why would I be?”
Because I ratted you out to the cops, my inner voice said. “I’m sorry about the police,” I said.
“I’m sorry, too, Mr. McKenzie. I’m sorry about the things I said before.”
“You have every right to say them and more.”
“Maybe I’ll see you at the nursing home.”
I checked in at the office on the left side of the nursing home entrance, stepping up to the counter and announcing that I was expected. The woman informed me that my name wasn’t on her list. I asked her what it took to get on the list, and she stared at me as if she didn’t know. After a few moments, she announced that she would make some calls. I said I’d wait and moved across the hallway to the chapel. The carpet was a deep red, and it matched the cushions on all the chairs set in neat rows before the lectern. There was a crucifix in a stand on one side of the lectern and an American flag on the other, and I wondered what religion they preached here. Maybe it was just the gospel according to the AARP.
Before long, the woman informed me that I was allowed to go to the commons to meet Mike. I told her I knew where it was, but she accompanied me nonetheless. Mike was waiting for us when the elevator doors opened.
“There he is,” he said. “How you doin’, copper?”
I stepped off the elevator. “Not bad, convict. How are you?”
Michael was grinning broadly. I hurried to his side and shook his fragile hand. He was standing; there was no wheelchair in sight.
“Where are your wheels?” I said.
Mike looked around me at the woman in the elevator; he watched until the doors closed. His smile dimmed as the elevator took the woman down. That should have told me something, but it didn’t.
“Gotta exercise the old legs,” he said. “Use ’em or lose ’em, the docs say. Let’s go inside.”
Mike led me into the commons. I would have taken his arm, given him something to lean on, but he seemed to be moving all right, if a tad slow, and I didn’t want to embarrass him. A pretty young thing like Genevieve could get away with doting on Mike; I doubted he would take it from me.
Mike was dressed as he had been the other day, in black slippers, black slacks, and black shirt, only this time he wore a sky blue cardigan sweater and matching dress cap. I asked him if he played golf.
“Not so much anymore,” Mike said, “but back in the day, yeah, I chased the little white ball. We all did. It was a dangerous hobby. You know, that’s how the Feds got Jimmy Keating, Tommy Holden, and Harv Bailey. Grabbed ’em up on the eighth hole at the Mission Hills Country Club in Kansas City. Almost got Dillinger the same way over here in Maplewood at the Keller Golf Course. Tried to nab ’im on the third hole, only he escaped. Yeah, dangerous hobby. We used to have two caddies. One to carry the clubs and the other to carry sub guns and rifles. How ’bout you, copper? You play?”
“Yes, but I never carry. The way I score, someone might get
hurt.”
He gestured as if he were holding a tommy gun. “I once shot up a green to teach it a lesson. You know what I mean.”
I told him I did as we moved deeper into the room. Mike glanced about carefully. We were alone.
“I remember one time I was playing with Leon Gleckman,” he said. “If it wasn’t for his bodyguards, I would have shot him down on—what’s the hole on Keller, the one that overlooks the big lake?”
“Eleven.”
“Yeah, I would have shot him down on the eleventh hole. The sonuvabitch was cheating. Cheating at golf. Imagine that! How low can you get?”
Mike took three cautious steps backward, putting distance between us. “That’s not what you call a rhetorical question,” he said. He reached behind his back and produced a small, shiny revolver from under his sweater. He pointed it at my chest. “How low can you get, McKenzie, jamming up a sweet kid like Genevieve with the cops? What, you didn’t think I’d find out?”
I looked first at the gun, then up at Mike. His words came flooding back to me.
You see me as this nice, harmless old man, maybe colorful, I don’t know. Only I wasn’t so nice back then. I sure wasn’t harmless … I had a rule like everybody else. If it was between you getting hurt and me going to prison, it wasn’t going to end good for you. I didn’t like guns. Didn’t like to hurt. But if it was a choice of you or me or if you messed with my family—I would do what needed to be done.”
I slowly raised my hands and began backing away. “You don’t want to do this.”
“Why not? It’s not like I haven’t done it before.”
“Berglund?”
“That’s right.”
I kept moving backward, casually, cautiously, trying not to call attention to it. Chairs and sofas facing the TV were behind me and to the right. My plan was to get behind one, use it for cover while I tried to get through the door into the hallway. I didn’t like my chances. Mike might have been ninety-five, but the handgun made him as tough as any gangbanger.
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