Free Buried Secrets by Joseph Finder Page B

that you’d have to know her well to see it. “You’re right,” she said. “I’m sorry. I was playing devil’s advocate. Maybe trying to see it the way Snyder sees it. Given what the girl’s gone through—that attempted abduction a few years ago—she’s not likely to go home with a strange guy no matter how much she’s drunk.
    She’s always going to be nervous.”

    “It wasn’t an attempted abduction,” I said. “She was abducted. Then released.”

    “And they never found out who did it?”

    “Right.”

    “Strange, isn’t it?”

    “Very.”

    “No ransom demand.”

    “None.”

    “They just … grabbed her, drove her around for a few hours, and then released her? All that risk of exposure with no payoff?”

    “Apparently so.”

    “And you believe this?”

    “I have no reason not to. I’ve spent a lot of time talking with Alexa about it.” She leaned back in her chair, looked up at the ceiling. Her jawline was sharp, her neck swanlike. “If her father secretly paid a ransom and didn’t want to tell anyone, would she really know?”

    She was smart. I’d forgotten how smart. “If he had a reason to keep it secret, maybe not.
    But that was never the sense I got.”

    “Maybe he doesn’t tell you everything.”

    “Maybe there’s something you’re not telling.”

    She looked away. There was something. After a moment she said, “I have to tread really carefully here.”

    “I understand.” I took another sip and set the mug down on the coffee table, which was old and ornately carved from weathered teak.

    “I know I can trust your discretion.”

    “Always.”

    Her eyes seemed to be focused on some middle distance. They kept moving down and to the right, which meant that she was internally debating something. I waited. If I pushed too hard, she’d close right up.

    She turned to me. “You know I’d never divulge confidential details of an ongoing investigation, and I’m not going to start now. No leaks, no favors. I’ve never worked that way.”

    “I know.”

    “So the speculation seems to be that Marshall Marcus is laundering money for some very bad guys.”

    “Laundering money? That’s ridiculous. The guy’s a billionaire. He doesn’t need to launder money. Maybe he’s managing money for some questionable clients. But that’s not the same thing as laundering it.”

    She shrugged. “I’m just telling you what I hear. And I should also warn you: Gordon Snyder is not a guy you want for an enemy.”

    “Some people say that about me.”

    “That’s also true. But just … watch out for the guy. If he thinks you’re working against him, against his case, he’ll come gunning for you.”

    “Oh?”

    “He won’t break the law. But he’ll go right up to the edge. He’ll use every legal tool he has. Nothing gets in his way.”

    “Consider me warned.”

    “Okay. Now, do you have a picture of Alexa?”

    “Sure,” I said, reaching into my breast pocket for one of the photos Marcus had given me.
    “But why?”

    “I need to see her face.”

    She came over and sat next to me on the couch, and I felt my heart speed up a little and I could feel the heat from her body. Another song was playing now: Judy Collins’s haunting ballad
    “My Father.” I handed her a picture of Alexa in her field hockey uniform, her blond hair pulled back in a headband, cheeks rosy and healthy, blue eyes sparkling.

    “Pretty,” she said. “She looks like she’s got fight.”

    “She does. She’s had a rough patch, last few years.”

    “Not an easy age. I hated being seventeen.”

    Diana never talked much about growing up, besides the fact that she was raised in Scottsdale, Arizona, where her father was with the U.S. Marshals Service and was killed in the line of duty when she was a teenager. After that her mother moved them to Sedona and opened a New Age jewelry and crystal shop.

    I noticed her body shifting slightly toward me. “You know, I recognize that