Buried Secrets by Joseph Finder Page A

her head. “But she said her dad was acting weird.”

    “Weird how?”

    “Like maybe he was in trouble? I really don’t remember. I was moderately lit at that point.”

    “Where’d she go after Slammer?”

    “How should I know? I assume she went home.”

    “Did you two leave the bar together?”

    She hesitated. “Yeah.”

    She was so obviously lying that I hesitated to call her on it outright for fear of losing any chance of her cooperation.

    Suddenly she blurted out, “Did something happen to Lexie? Do you know something?
    Did she get hurt?”

    We’d stopped at the corner of Mount Vernon Street, waited for a couple to pass out of hearing range. “Maybe,” I said.

    “ Maybe? What’s that supposed to mean?”

    “It means I need you to tell me everything.”

    She threw down her cigarette on the buckled brick sidewalk, stubbed it out, pulled another from her handbag. “Look, she met a guy, okay?”

    “Do you remember his name?”

    She shook her head, lighted the cigarette, clearly avoiding my eyes. “Some Spanish guy, maybe. I don’t remember. Their names all sound the same to me. Marco. Alfredo. Something.”

    “Were you with her when she met this guy?”

    I could see her running through a series of mental calculations. If this, then that. If she said she wasn’t with Alexa, why not? Where was she? Two girls go to a bar, they almost always stay together. They don’t divide and conquer. They protect each other, signal to each other, vet prospects for each other. And compete for a guy sometimes, sure. But for the most part they work as a team.

    “Yeah,” she said. “But it was loud, and I didn’t really catch his name. And I was definitely sideways by then and I just wanted to go home.”

    “The guy didn’t try to hit on you?”

    Her eyes narrowed. Now it was a point of pride. “The guy was so lame,” she said. “I totally blew him off.”

    “Did they leave together?” I said.

    I waited so long I thought she might not have heard me. When I was about to repeat the question, she said, “I guess. I don’t really know.”

    “How could you not know?”

    “Because I left first.”

    I didn’t bother to point out the contradiction. “You went straight home?” She nodded.

    “You walked?” Louisburg Square was directly up the hill, a fairly short walk unless you were hammered and wearing stilettos.

    “Cab.”

    “Did you hear anything from Alexa later on that night?”

    “Why would I?”

    “Come on, Taylor. You girls document every minute of your lives with text messages or on Facebook or whatever. You post something when you brush your teeth. You mean to tell me she didn’t text you to say ‘OMG I’m at this guy’s apartment’ or whatever?” She looked contemptuous, did the eye-roll thing again.

    “You haven’t heard from her since you left Slammer last night?”

    “Right.”

    “Have you tried to call her?”

    She shook her head.

    “Text her?”

    She shook her head again.

    “You didn’t check in with her for an update on how the night went? I thought you guys are, like, BFFs.” Somehow I knew that was chat-speak for Best Friends Forever.

    She shrugged.

    “Do you understand that if you’re lying to me, if you’re covering something up, you might be endangering your best friend’s life?”

    She shook her head, started walking down the street, away from me. “I haven’t heard anything,” she said without turning back.

    My gut instinct told me she wasn’t lying about that. Obviously, though, she was lying about something. Her guilt flashed like a neon sign. Maybe she didn’t want to come off as a bad friend. Maybe she’d ditched Alexa for some hot guy herself.

    I called Dorothy and said, “Any progress in locating Alexa’s phone?”

    “No change. We’re going to need the assistance of someone in law enforcement, Nick.
    No way around it.”

    “I have an idea,” I said.

    14.

    When your job involves working with the