Buried Secrets by Joseph Finder Read Free Book Online Page A

me too much to give it back to my guest. “How about a Cobb salad?” he said blandly.

    “Yuck,” Gabe said. “I’ll just have a plate of fries and ketchup. And a Coke.” When Herb left, I said, “Looks like Jillian has a new recruit.”

    “Jillian says that eating red meat makes you aggressive,” Gabe said.

    “And that’s a bad thing?”

    He refused to take the bait. “Whatever. Hey, Uncle Nick, you know, that was a good idea you had about Alexa’s Facebook.”

    “What are you talking about?”

    “Alexa Marcus? Her dad is scared something might’ve happened to her?” I looked at him for a few seconds, then slowly smiled. “You son of a bitch. You were eavesdropping.”

    “No.”

    “Come on.”

    “Did you know Dorothy has an audio feed on her computer that lets her listen in to everything you say in your office?”

    “Yes, Gabe. That’s our arrangement. The real question is, does Dorothy know you were snooping around on her computer?”

    “Please don’t tell her. Please, Uncle Nick.”

    “So what were you thinking about her Facebook page?”

    “You’re not going to tell her, are you?”

    “Of course not.”

    “Okay. I’m pretty sure I know where Alexa went last night.”

    “How so?”

    “It was on her Facebook wall.”

    “How were you able to see that?”

    “We’re Facebook friends.”

    “Really?”

    “Well, I mean, like,” he stammered, his face flushing again, “she has like eleven hundred Facebook friends, but she let me friend her.”

    “Very cool,” I said, only because he sounded so proud.

    “She came over to Nana’s a couple of times since I’ve been there. I like her. She’s cool.
    And it’s not like she has to be nice to me, you know?”

    I nodded. Beautiful rich girls like Alexa Marcus usually weren’t nice to annoying, nerdy boys like Gabe Heller.

    “So where’d she go?”

    “She and her friend Taylor went to Slammer.”

    “Which is what?”

    “Some fancy bar in that hotel that used to be a jail? I think it’s called the Graybar?”

    “Taylor—is that a boy or a girl?”

    “A girl. Taylor Armstrong? She’s the daughter of Senator Richard Armstrong. Taylor and Alexa went to school together.”

    I glanced at my watch, put my hand on his shoulder. “How about we ask them to pack up our food to go?” I said.

    “You’re going to talk to Taylor?”

    I nodded.

    “She’s at home today,” Gabe said. “Probably sleeping it off. I bet you find Alexa there too. Uncle Nick?”

    “What?”

    “Don’t tell Alexa I told you. She’ll think I’m like a stalker or something.”

    12.

    I found the junior senator from Massachusetts picking up his dog’s poop.

    Senator Richard Armstrong’s large white standard poodle was trimmed in a full Continental clip: shaven body, white pom-poms on his feet and tail, and a big white Afro perched atop his head. The senator, in a crisp blue shirt and impeccably knotted tie, was groomed just as carefully. His silver hair was perfectly coiffed, with a sharp part on one side. He leaned over, his hand inside a plastic CVS bag, grabbed the dog’s excrement, and deftly turned the bag inside out. He stood upright, face red, and noticed me standing there.

    “Senator,” I said.

    “Yes?” A wary look. As a well-known, highly recognizable figure, he had to worry about lunatics. Even in this very posh neighborhood.

    We stood in a long oval park, enclosed by a wrought-iron picket fence, in the middle of Louisburg Square on Beacon Hill. Louisburg Square is a private enclave of long red-brick row houses built in the nineteenth century, considered one of the most elegant neighborhoods in Boston.

    “Nick Heller,” I said.

    “Ah, yes,” he said, and gave a big, relieved smile. “Sheesh, I thought you were with the association. Technically, you’re not supposed to walk your dog here, and some of my neighbors get quite upset.”

    “I won’t tell,” I said. “Anyway, I’ve always thought that