Mr. Sandman: A Thrilling Novel

by Lyle Howard

  “How are you doing, Mr. Kaplan?” one exuberant young­ster yelled up to him.

  Harry recognized the boy as the one who always offered to wash his car on the weekends. “I’m fine, Ricky. How you doing?”

  The boy never broke his stride as he tightened the straps on the leather backpack he wore on his back. “Doing great,” he said. “Want your car washed this weekend?”

  Harry pointed to the sky. “If it doesn’t rain.”

  The boy spun around and began walking backward as he held his hands in the air. “Rain? It’s only the middle of the week, but I’ll bet we’re going to have a beautiful weekend.”

  Harry leaned against a wooden pillar which supported the porch roof. “Well, we weathermen have been known to be wrong before,” he called out.

  The youngster stepped off the curb and headed across the street. “It won’t be the first time! Have a good rest of the week, Mr. Kaplan!”

  Harry looked over at the porch swing which hung limply from two rusting chains. In his mind, he could imagine his Vivian sitting there, swinging gently and doing her needle­point. Why doesn’t anyone ever stay and visit anymore? he questioned.

  He could see her ageless smile. “Answer the boy,” he thought she told him.

  “You have a good week, too, Ricky,” he called out. A few moments later the boy disappeared around the corner and was gone. Harry drew in a sorrowful sigh and then put his hand up to his mouth to squelch a burp. To his right, a trio of children were coming up the block, laughing and carrying on. But since he had left his glasses inside the house, Harry couldn’t identify them yet. He was just about to turn around and go back inside to see if any of the local weathermen would screw up on the early news when something off to his left caught his attention. The old, beat-up brown van that had been parked across the street yesterday afternoon was back.

  Kaplan turned his gaze just in time to see the same man he had spoken to the day before hobble across the street from Julie Chapman’s house, and then climb into the driver’s seat of the brown wreck. Harry bolted for the front gate, but before he could reach the sidewalk, the clunker sped away, trailing a thick cloud of gray smog from its corroded tailpipe.

  The old meteorologist ran out into the street, but by the time the cloud of exhaust had settled, the van was gone. He was so intent on not losing sight of the vehicle that the group of children coming up the sidewalk behind him caught him off guard. When he jumped, they all jumped. Harry clutched at his chest in mock anguish.

  “Are you all right, Mr. Kaplan?” one of the freckle-faced young girls asked.

  The company of kids turned out to be the two Mathews girls … Adrian and Sara from five houses down, and their next-door neighbor, Jesse Parker. Harry rested his hand on the older girl, Adrian’s, shoulder. “Yeah, I’m fine. I hope I didn’t scare any of you.”

  “Scare us?” Sara, the smaller girl, asked. “We just hope that we didn’t scare you too bad.”

  Harry winked to show that he was all right. “Say,” he inquired, pointing across the street and hoping that one of the kids’ eyes might have been sharper than his own. “Did any of you happen to see the brown van that just pulled away?”

  “What about it?” asked Jesse, whose teeth attacked his wad of bubble gum the way a paper shredder would grind through a classified document.

  “I just wondered if any of you might have caught his license plate number.”

  The young boy blew a bubble that covered the entire lower part of his cherub-like face, and then sucked it back into his mouth with a popping sound. “Why should we care about some old trashy van?”

  Harry shrugged. “I guess you wouldn’t.”

  Jesse blew another bubble with gusto.

  “A van’s a van, right?” Adrian asked.

  Harry put his hand in his shorts’ pocket and nervously jingled his spare change. “You’re probably right. I’m always making too big a deal … “

  Just then Sara interrupted him. “Did you hear that?”

  Harry put his hand gently on the top of her head. “I don’t hear anything…”

  She put her finger over her mouth. “Shhh, Mr. Kaplan … listen …”

  It was the same sound Harry had heard while watching television a few minutes earlier, only now it was obvious that it was coming from the vicinity of the Chapman house next door. “What is that?”

  The boy stopped his chomping momentarily to listen. “It sounds like a real low growl to me.”

  Without the slightest bit of hesitation, or cause for con­cern, Sara bolted from the midst of the group until she came to a stop less than a hundred feet away in front of Julie’s yard. “There’s a box in front of the door,” she yelled, pointing across the lawn toward the porch. Her older sister rushed to her side with Jesse following her like a shadow.

  Harry lagged behind, unsure of whether he wanted to leave his house unattended with his front door unlocked. He glanced back at his porch, and then down the sidewalk at the children gathered like a company of curious little monkeys. Unlike so many neighbors these days, he decided to give Julie’s property priority over his own.

  To his surprise, upon reaching the gathering at Julie’s house, he did see a box resting on the front doormat. His eyes were having a little trouble focusing without the aid of his eyeglasses that he had left on the tray, but it was obvious that it was some sort of carton. It wasn’t square, but rectangular in shape, looking more like it was made of hard plastic rather than the ordinary corrugated variety.

  “It’s one of those things you carry animals in,” the youngest of the two sisters noticed.

  “And there’s something inside!” Adrian added excitedly.

  “Would it be okay if we took a peek?” Sara pleaded. Harry squinted to read his wristwatch. It was almost six o’clock and Julie’s car still wasn’t in the driveway. If she was working her usual shift, it meant that she wouldn’t be home for another four hours, and he couldn’t very well leave whatever was in the box without food until she got home.

  Harry didn’t like what he was thinking. Why would that guy from the county kennel just drop off an animal instead of waiting until someone was home to accept it? Harry repri­manded himself for being so suspicious. His weatherman’s skeptical nature was running amok again. The more he thought about it, the more likely it was that Lance Cutter probably had the animal delivered to Julie as a surprise or something. “Okay, we can take a look,” Harry gave in to the kids, “but don’t go running across Miss Chapman’s lawn. Walk up the driveway to the front porch and then wait for me.

  “I’ll bet it’s a puppy!” Sara cried out, halfway up the driveway.

  A low baying came from inside the tan carrier. “That doesn’t sound like any puppy I’ve ever heard before,” the Parker boy acknowledged as something inside warned him not to be in such a hurry.

  A cloud floated overhead, blocking the sun just long enough to send an ungodly chill down Harry’ s back. The once cheery looking house suddenly swallowed whole by the overcast sky, took on a dismal, forbidding facade. Harry waved his arms as he staggered up the inclined driveway. “Hold on there, kids. Don’t go near whatever it is until I get there!”

  By the time Harry stumbled up the steps to the front porch, the children were swarming over the plastic container like bees tending to their queen.

  “I’m looking at it, and I still don’t know what it is,” Sara said with bewilderment.

  Jesse stopped chewing long enough to press his face up to one of the tiny openings in the side of the box. “Looks gross.”

  Adrian studied the animal, now cowering in the back of the container. “I think it’s some kind of weasel, and it’s got its own blanket.”

  Harry knelt down and tried tactfully to move the children out of his way. Squinting through one of the air holes, he immediately identified the animal by its long body, sharp claws, and its pointed, rodent-like snout. “It’s a ferret!”

  “A ferret?” Sara asked.

  “What
the heck is a ferret?” Jesse wanted to know.

  Harry spread his arms in a parting motion. “Move back, kids. You don’t want to obstruct his air.”

  The children obliged, taking their places cross-legged on the wooden porch floor.

  Harry scrutinized the furry animal as its tiny black nose sniffed at him through one of the perforations that encircled the container. “Adrian was on the mark when she called it a weasel. I think it comes from the same family tree.”

  “What do you do with it?” Jesse asked before inflating another pink bubble.

  Harry scratched at the light stubble on his chin. “I’m pretty sure that, originally, they were trained to hunt rats and rabbits.”

  Adrian leaned forward and peeked through one of the holes. “Do you think that this house has rats?”

  Harry shook his head. “Of course not. Nowadays, ferrets supposedly make good pets. Kind of like a cat or a dog.”

  Jesse cringed. “I wouldn’t want one.”

  With innocent curiosity, Sara poked one of her petite fingers in through the cage door and then, with all the candor that youth entitled her, she asked the illfated question: “Can we take it out, so I can hold it?”

  SEVENTEEN

  6:00 p.m.

  With the receiver wedged between his shoulder and his ear, Lance ran his finger down the green and white computer printout, trying to memorize as much information on Eddie Dolan as he could. “Come on … come on … ” he mumbled under his breath, “pick up already!”

  A monotone switchboard operator came back on the line. “Sergeant Lincoln will be right with you, sir.”

  Lance thanked her and flipped to the next page of the readout. In less than a minute, the raspy-voiced, ex-line­backer-turned homicide detective was on the line. “What the hell is this, Cutter? I don’t hear from you in over a year, and now I’m talking to you twice in a month? What gives?”

  Lance could visualize Lincoln, all two hundred and sixty pounds of him, leaning back in his chair, nurturing an unlit cigarette between his lips, and stressing the seat’s springs to their breaking point. “I’m fine, Abe,” Lance said sarcasti­cally. “Thanks for asking.”

  It was Lincoln who first investigated the Kirby incident for the Broward Sheriff’s Office, and after spending fifteen minutes staring at the charred remains, he was more than happy to turn the case over to Lance and the arson squad.

  Now that it was an official homicide investigation again, it was up to Lance to return the favor, and notify the BSO’s investigating officer.

  “Hey, wiseass,” Lincoln growled, “you want to talk health? Fine. Let’s chat for an hour or so about my piles.”

  Abraham Lincoln, Lance mused to himself. What kind of parents, in their right minds, would set up a black child for that kind of ridicule? The question turned out to be a rhetori­cal one when he considered how well respected the police officer had grown to become. “Okay, enough of the crap,” Lance snapped back, using one of Lincoln’s favorite expres­sions. “Let’s get down to rolling the bones.”

  “But my piles are important to me,” Lincoln whined.

  Lance pulled in an exasperated breath. “Hey, Abe, are you going to tap dance all evening, or can we finally get down to kicking some bad guy’s butt?”

  Lincoln reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a red deck of Bicycle playing cards. Cutting the deck with one massive hand, while holding the phone with the other, every shuffle revealed the ace of spades as the top card. It was a trick he had learned while cutting his teeth in the Bunco division. “Another hot lead, Inspector?”

  Lance moaned. “You’ve lowered yourself to puns now, Abe?”

  “Hey, it’s late, I’m tired, and I want to get home. I was on my way out of the squad room when you buzzed.”

  Lance tapped his finger on the printout. “I hope you weren’t planning a fancy supper. I think we’re in for some overtime.”

  Visions of his favorite dinner, marinated tenderloin with boiled new potatoes, overcooking and turning into a hockey puck and mush, were quickly becoming a reality. “Aw, not tonight, Cutter!”

  “Sorry, Abe.”

  “But Althea will kill me.”

  Lance had only met Abe’s wife once, but there was no doubt from her enormous measurements that she could in­deed inflict some serious injury. “I think I’m really close this time, Abe.”

  “Close … close?” the big man cried. “Do you want me to explain to you what the word ‘close’ means to Althea?”

  “I feel terrible about this, Abe.”

  “They don’t make wife proof vests big enough for me, pal. I’m a dead man!”

  “I’ll make it up to you.”

  Lincoln was still not appeased. “Once I call her, you had better pray to God that we find whoever you’re looking for, or else I’m bringing you home with me!”

  The invitation was not very tempting and Lance gulped out loud. “I think I’ve found a prime suspect in the Kirby and Barnes cases.”

  Lincoln paid no attention to the creaking springs as he swiveled around in his chair. “So now you’ve come around to my way of thinking, eh? I could have told you that they didn’t just burst into flames on their own.”

  “It was just a theory,” Lance said defensively.

  Lincoln shook his head and dealt another ace, face up. “It was bullshit!”

  “Okay,” Lance conceded, “it was bullshit.”

  “So what have you got now?”

  Lance quickly went over the details as Lincoln listened intently. “His name is Eddie Dolan and he works part-time at Animal Control…”

  Lincoln stopped toying with the deck of cards and began to jot the information down on a piece of scratch paper. “And the photo lab is where he gets hold of these chemicals?” he asked further into the conversation.

  “I’m pretty sure,” Lance said, “Toby Bilston from the forensics lab in Miami believes that Dolan would have easy access to the chemicals there.”

  “I know Toby,” Lincoln noted. “If he says it’s so, it probably is.”

  When Lance had almost finished his summation on Dolan’s background, the Detective interrupted him. “Did you run a check through the DMV to see if he owns any vehicles?”

  “I’m already ahead of you,” Lance admitted. “He drives a 1988 Yamaha motorcycle, and a ‘78 Econovan.”

  “You’ve got the plate numbers?”

  Lance read them off.

  “I’ll have an APB put out on both right away.” The All Points Bulletin was one of the primary reasons why Lance needed to involve Abe Lincoln. While Lance’s job descrip­tion gave him the full authority to make an arrest in this case, he didn’t have all of the investigative and pursuit resources that Lincoln had at his beck and call.

  “That’s what I was hoping for, thanks.”

  “So, where do we start looking for this guy?” Lincoln asked.

  Lance flipped back to the first page of the printout. “I called Animal Control a little while ago and spoke to the supervisor, Esther Paulsen, as she was closing up for the night. She said that Dolan left early today. He claimed he wasn’t feeling well. That was sometime around ten a.m.”

  “Did you trying reaching him at the photo lab?”

  “I just hung up with them before you called.”

  “And?”

  “And … Dolan never showed up for work.”

  “How unexpected!” Lincoln snickered.

  “His boss said that he did call in, though.”

  Lincoln rolled his bloodshot eyes. “Well, he wouldn’t want to lose his job now, would he?”

  Lance couldn’t hide the apprehension in his voice. “Do you think he’s gonna make a run for it?”

  Lincoln pulled the receiver away from his face and stared at it like it was the first time he had seen such a device. “Are you kidding me, Cutter?” he asked with total incredulity. “You show up at the guy’s workplace and start questioning him point-blank about what he’s been up to, and you don’t think
he’s going to lace up his running shoes? We’ve got to have a serious powwow about the way you interrogate a suspect, pal! This schmuck probably blew out of town so fast, we’ll be lucky if we’re able to feel his breeze!”

  Lance rolled his finger nervously in the coiled telephone cord. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling knowing that his own recklessness might have caused Eddie Dolan to rabbit. “We’ve got to try!”

  “Give me the address.”

  Lance picked up the printout and read the information. “1201 North Ocean Drive Slip 13-C.”

  “Excuse me?” Lincoln asked, despondently.

  Lance repeated the last part. “Slip 13-C.”

  “A marina?”

  “It sure sounds like it.”

  “You’re telling me this guy lives on a boat?”

  Lance studied the computer-generated address. “I guess he must.”

  The detective slapped his forehead. “Jesus, Cutter…why don’t we just issue him a passport and wish him a bon voyage”? If this nut took the day off, then he’s probably sailed halfway to Aruba by now!”

  Lance leaned forward and began rubbing his temples. The long forgotten sensation that warned him of impending danger was once again ringing inside of his head like a carillon in a church steeple. “Do you think that we should notify the Coast Guard?” he asked in an optimistic voice that thinly disguised his trepidation.

  Lincoln closed his eyes and let his fingertips wander over the wrinkles on his forehead while he quickly evaluated all of the options. “Wait a minute … let me think…”

  “What? Did you come up with something?”

  It had been a very long day and Lincoln was having a hard time organizing his thoughts. “Didn’t you say that Dolan called in sick at the photo lab?”

  “At about four o’clock.”

  “Then there’s still an outside chance that he hasn’t flown the coop yet. It’s only a little after six now.” he said as he held up his wrist to read the time. “Unless he was calling on a cellular phone, he might still be around. What do you think?”