Buried Secrets by Joseph Finder

rich-girls’ reform school out west where Alexa had spent a year. She was wearing a brown suede tank top with a chunky turquoise necklace, skinny jeans, and short brown leather boots.

    I introduced myself and said, “I’d like to ask you a few questions about Alexa.” She examined the old Persian carpet and said nothing.

    “Alexa’s missing,” I said. “Her parents are extremely worried.” She looked up, petulant. For a moment it looked like she was about to say something, but then she apparently changed her mind.

    “Have you heard from her?” I said.

    She shook her head. “No.”

    “When did you last see her?”

    “Last night. We went out.”

    I was glad she didn’t try to lie about it. Or maybe her father had briefed her when he’d gone upstairs to fetch her.

    “How about we go for a walk?” I said.

    “A walk?” she said with distaste, as if I’d just asked her to eat a live bat, head first.

    “Sure. Get some fresh air.”

    She hesitated, and her father said, without even looking up from his papers, “You two can talk right here.”

    For a few seconds she looked trapped. Then, to my surprise, she said, “I wouldn’t mind getting out of the house.”

    FROM LOUISBURG Square we crossed Mount Vernon Street and made our way down the steep slope of Willow Street. “I figured you could use a cigarette.”

    “I don’t smoke.”

    But I could smell it on her when she first came downstairs. “Go ahead, I’m not going to report back to Daddy.”

    Her expression softened almost imperceptibly. She shrugged, took a pack of Marlboros and a gold S. T. Dupont cigarette lighter from her little black handbag.

    “I won’t even tell Daddy about the fake IDs,” I said.

    She gave me a quick sidelong glance as she opened the lighter, making that distinctive ping. She flicked it crisply, lighted a cigarette, and drew a lungful of smoke.

    “Drinking age is twenty-one,” I said. “How else are you going to get a drink around here?”

    She exhaled twin plumes from her nostrils like a movie star from the old days and said nothing.

    I went on, “I used to forge fake IDs for my friends and me when I was a kid. I used the darkroom at school. Some of my friends sent away for ‘international student IDs.’”

    “That’s fascinating.”

    “Gotta be easier today, with scanners and Photoshop and all that.”

    “I wouldn’t know. You just buy one from a friend.”

    We crossed over to West Cedar down a tiny alley called Acorn Street, paved in cobblestones dredged from the Charles River a long time ago. This was a real street, and it was charming, but I doubted the Defender could fit through it. Also, the cobblestones would have done a number on the suspension.

    “So why didn’t your dad want you to talk to me?”

    She shrugged.

    “No idea?”

    “Why do you think?” she said bitterly. “Because he’s the senator . It’s all about his career.”

    “Senators’ daughters aren’t allowed to have a good time?”

    A mirthless laugh. “From what I’ve heard, he did nothing but have a good time before he met my mom.” She paused for dramatic effect. “And plenty after too.” I ignored that. I’m sure the rumors were true. Richard Armstrong had a reputation, and not for his legislative work. “You two went to Slammer together,” I said. I waited a long time for her response—five, ten seconds.

    “We just had a couple of drinks,” she said finally.

    “Did she seem upset? Pissed off at her parents?”

    “No more than usual.”

    “Did she say anything about getting out of the house, just taking off somewhere?”

    “No.”

    “Does she have a boyfriend?”

    “No.” She sounded hostile, like it was none of my business.

    “Did she say she was scared of something? Or someone? She was once grabbed in a parking lot—”

    “I know,” she said scornfully. “I’m like her best friend.”

    “Well, was she afraid that something like that might happen again?” She shook