The Man in the Blizzard

A Novel
Before Sleep

I don't know when I first discovered that Detective Bobby Sabbatini, of the Saint Paul Police Department, had a photographic memory for poetry. He always tucked a couple of slim volumes of verse into the flapped pockets of his silk jacket, or curled them into the pouches of his bomber.

I heard that the stuff came spewing out of him all day. He'd recite Ginsberg or Gary Snyder to some kid making espressos at Dunn Brothers. A bit of a blue-collar poem, by Philip Levine, to an ancient gal scanning groceries at Kowalski's. Everybody loved it, because Sabbatini did it with a light touch.

A tall, slender man, with silvered temples, Sabbatini dressed better than any cop I've known. Dude was his own man. Played viola in the university orchestra at Michigan State, just as I played cello at Berkeley. He was also a long-distance runner during college. Claimed he kept himself going by humming bar ... read full excerpt from The Man in the Blizzard: A Novel ebook