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“If they do, they’re not telling me. According to my source, they have no more information about the mysterious Mr. Garvey than I do.”
“What about relatives? Friends?”
“Garvey seems to have been short of both. Apparently, he had no next of kin. Strange since he was pretty young.”
“I don’t have any next of kin,” I said.
“No parents? No siblings?”
“My parents died when I was a kid. An only child.”
“Who raised you?”
“A cousin. Couldn’t tell you where she lives now.” I knew Addie was out West somewhere, but her exact address seemed to change with the phases of the moon.
He shot a curious glance my way. “Huh. Well, I need to start digging into Garvey’s past a bit. I’m a little curious about the Mob connection in this case, too, though I haven’t given it much attention. Doesn’t seem to pertain to the identity thefts.”
“What do you know about it?”
“All I know is that FBI agent is bound and determined to find some guy named Gregory Knudsen.” Duvall snorted. “He seems to think Knudsen has the answers to all his questions, whatever they are.”
“When I was at Melanie’s the first time, I found a key for a P.O. Box in my name,” I said. “And inside that box, there was a letter addressed to Gregory Knudsen. Could he have something to do with the identity thefts?”
He shrugged. “For all we know, he could have killed Garvey.”
“Garvey had some connection with Knudsen. I think Jergins said they were friends or something. I don’t suppose Jergins has dropped any subtle clues your way about what Knudsen might have to do with all this.”
Duvall hooted with laughter. “Agent Jergins is about as subtle as a rhino in heat. And he doesn’t exactly share his innermost thoughts with me. He’s driving the detective nuts.”
I smiled, feeling sorry for Derry who was the type to hold his frustrations inside. If he had a pet, I hoped he wasn’t kicking it every time he came home from work.
“Last I heard, Jergins was trying to follow up on a lead in Baltimore,” Duvall continued. “Some guy named Ryan Bledsoe who went to school with Knudsen. I heard he didn’t get anywhere with him. All Jergins had to say was FBI, and Bledsoe told him to take a hike.”
“That’s interesting,” I said. “I wonder if he does know something.”
“You could always ask him,” Duvall said. “He lives in Rosedale, I think.”
Duvall spelled out Bledsoe’s name, as I wrote it in my notebook. We both turned, reluctantly, back to the remaining boxes.
“Let’s finish it,” I said.
Chapter TWENTY
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By about four thirty, we were done. Outside, the air felt warm and liquid, the heat of the previous day lingering. For exercise, we bypassed the shortcut and walked the dirt shoulder of Route 1 to the lot next door.
The only sound in the predawn stillness was a robin, sending out its two-note singsong from a stand of trees in the cemetery across the street. Under a streetlight, an opossum, about the size of my cat, nibbled on the grass. As we drew closer, the possum froze on its back legs, in alert mode, then scampered off into some brush. Apparently, possums don’t always play possum.
When we reached the cars, we paused before getting in. “Well,” Duvall said. “It’s been real.”
“Yeah, sure has.”
He peered at me. “You OK? You look beat.”
“I’m fine.” I gave him my plucky can-do smile, but I was a little punchy from looking through all those boxes. My stomach gurgled.
“OK.” Duvall hesitated. “Well, I’ll see you around.”
