Sight Unseen Read Online Free PDF Page A

his hand. He looked all
     around in a wary manner. Lockwood froze. The screen door opened then, and Bingo pushed his way out. Pops moved off, but Bingo
     stopped and looked around, whining in a puzzled way.
    Pops seemed in a hurry and nagged Bingo to come along. Lockwood didn’t move, scarcely daring to breathe.
    The two disappeared down a path that cut through the scrub bushes. Lockwood gave them three minutes and then followed. After
     twenty minutes, by which time Lockwood’s black socks were covered with twigs and irritating little seeds with hooks, he came
     to a sudden halt, seeing Pops not fifty feet in front of him. Lockwood took off through the woods and circled around, coming
     up on the old man from the woods.
    When he peered through the scrub bush he had chosen for cover, Lockwood saw Pops lean way back with a fly rod and cast it
     into the Sound. He watched the old man for ten minutes, then realized that he could stay here another couple of hours and
     wasn’t going to see anything more than an old man fishing. A blind alley. He carefully made his way back through the brambles
     and shrubs to the path and picked his way back to Pops’ house.
    When he reached his car, he took a fresh pair of socks out of his attaché case and threw the burr-covered pair into the bushes.
     Thinking better of his carelessness, he retrieved the socks and put them in his glove compartment.
    Lockwood was irritated that he had found so little today. How long would Pops fish? Didn’t Lockwood have twenty to thirty
     minutes? Might as well make the time count.
    He walked briskly to the front door of Pops’ sagging house and knocked loudly on the screen door’s wood frame. After a couple
     of minutes, when no one answered, he slipped the hook out of the eye of the catch with his penknife and noisily entered the
     front hall.
    The hallway smelled of old carpet, stale cooked cabbage, stewed meat, and old man.
    Lockwood yelled, “Anyone home?”
    No answer.
    He checked his watch—he didn’t want to be here more than fifteen to twenty minutes in case the fish weren’t biting.
    He moved quickly through the old house, not sure what he was looking for. The living room, off to the right of the hall, looked
     to have been furnished from the town dump but was surprisingly orderly. The table’s drawers revealed half a dozen balls of
     string, dirty stubs of pencils, old bills, and three ashtrays overflowing with odd screws, nuts, and washers. He had no more
     luck in the bedroom, the kitchen, and the storeroom that led to the back stoop. To hell with it, Lockwood told himself, nothing
     here but old man, and he hurried back out to his car.
    Back at Northstar, Lockwood collected his gun and shells from Dzeloski’s office and looked up Myra Rodman, who worked in an
     office down the hall from Northstar’s president.
    “Where have you been?” the redhead asked.
    “Asking questions,” Lockwood replied. He could feel an electric current between them. How much more fun to investigate by
     asking her questions than dealing with Hamlisch or Pops. He eased into the chair across from her desk. “Anybody around here
     have any luck?”
    She laughed and leaned back, putting her hands behind her head and stretching like a compact jungle cat. For the second time
     today, Lockwood felt himself attracted to her.
    “They put two men in the shop and went over every inch with fingerprint powder. They traced all the circuits on the elevator.
     They’ve got four guys combing Long Island looking for the panel truck, and the police in three states are on the alert for
     it. They’ve asked a million questions, and I don’t think a one of us has gotten more than thirty minutes work done today.”
    “They’re pretty sure it’s still on the Island?”
    Myra cocked her head at him. “You want the truth? I don’t think they have any idea where it is. They’re just doing everything
     they can think of and trusting to luck. For my money, by now, the