CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHTDuvall had been seated and was already starting in on the breadsticks when I got to the Olive Garden. He handed me a file of papers on Markle and his businesses. I flipped through them—copies of background checks, corporate filings.
“Thanks again.” I stuffed the file into my briefcase.
“Hope it helps.”
“Me, too, because I’m running out of sources.” I told him about Simons.
“Man. What is it with you and dead bodies?”
“I’m starting to feel like Typhoid Mary. Gunshot Sam? Somehow doesn’t have the same ring.” I scanned the menu. “Frankly, I was starting to think the guy was a raving paranoiac, but then a funny thing happened.” I told him about the Valiant and how it had come by my place a couple of times. I decided not to mention the attack last night. All it would do
