He’d put that note on the windshield Monday morning, and when he drove past it today, it was still there, untouched. He stopped his cruiser next to the truck, got out, walked around it, checked to see whether the vehicle was still locked, which it was. Harry decided it was time to get inside, see whether there might be anything that would offer a clue as to where Gavin might be. This wasn’t an emergency, like a kid trapped in a car on a hot day, so he didn’t want to break the window. On the Lucknow Police Rolodex was a locksmith by the name of Gertie they got in touch with whenever they needed her services, usually for nothing more serious than someone accidentally locking their keys inside their vehicle.

Gavin radioed into the station and asked them to get Gertie out to his location, and within twenty minutes she was there.

“This is Gavin Denham’s truck, isn’t it?” she asked.

Harry said it was.

“That sad bastard,” she said. “Came to me one day, looking for work, and I didn’t have anything for him. Truck been sitting here a few days, you say?”

Harry said yes.

“So what’s happening with that guy Hillman? You found him yet? We got another guy disappeared into thin air?”

“Could you open the truck, Gertie?” Harry asked. Gertie could be chatty.

She had the door open in under a minute. Harry thanked her and told her to bill the department. He waited until she was gone before hauling himself up behind the wheel to begin his search.

Some of what was in here Harry had been able to see through the window. A couple of blankets, a pillow. Behind the seats, a plastic grocery bag with a wadded-up tube of toothpaste and toothbrush, a comb, half a bottle of Jameson, and some Preparation H, which was about when Harry wished he’d slipped on a pair of rubber gloves. There were two worn and yellowed paperback novels that looked to date back to the seventies. A Donald Hamilton novel about his Matt Helm character called The Ambushers. Harry could remember reading some of those when he was in his teens. The other book was an 87th Precinct novel by Ed McBain called Fuzz.

Under the seat were some empty paper coffee cups, a Big Mac container with a few traces of lettuce and special sauce, a Subway bag. Harry leaned over and popped open the glove compartment. He found the vehicle registration and a long-since-expired insurance slip. No big surprise there. Some road maps for Vermont, New York, Massachusetts, and Connecticut, all of which Gavin had failed to fold back up correctly, making them twice as thick as they should have been. A flashlight and some loose batteries, a package of tissues.

Nothing that one might call a clue jumped out at Harry.