Kinsley Aspen
July
Wednesday, 8:44 am
VK’s Auto Salvage resembled a metal graveyard.
The morning sun glinted off twisted chrome and shattered windshields scattered across the property in no discernible order. Toward the back, stacks of crushed cars formed jagged mountains against the overcast sky, their compressed frames layered like geological strata of Detroit’s worst decades. Haphazard piles of tires and engine parts created an indirect path through the gravel lot, and surrounding the entire area was a rusted chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. A faded sign hung from the entrance gate, its lettering bleached by years of sun and rain.
VK’s Auto Salvage—We Buy Junk, Sell Parts, No Questions Asked
Kinsley barely managed to sidestep a pothole in the gravel, the misstep causing her to bump into Toby as they came to a stop in front of the sign. She’d managed maybe three hours ofsleep, her mind refusing to quiet as she’d lain in bed running through every possible scenario for tracking down Gantz’s missing vehicle and body. Every thread she pulled led nowhere, every angle she considered doubled back on itself, and by four in the morning she’d given up on sleep entirely and gone to the kitchen to make coffee and stare at the notes she’d spread across the table. She stifled a yawn now and pointed toward a smaller sign directing visitors to the front office.
“According to Amelia Keery’s employment records, she handles the administrative paperwork for the yard. As Vaughn Keery’s daughter, she’s set to inherit the entire operation,” Toby reported as they entered the junkyard through the gate. Kinsley caught his sideways glance, which lingered on her face a beat longer than necessary. “I wouldn’t have minded stopping somewhere to grab some more coffee.”
He reached for the knot of his tie, and she doubted it was with the intention of straightening it. With the storms rolling in earlier than expected, the humidity had climbed several notches since yesterday, and the air was thick enough to wring out.
“That obvious?” Kinsley suppressed another yawn with the back of her hand and scolded herself internally for being so transparent. “I was binge-watching a show on Netflix. I have to do something outside of football season. What else did you find on Keery?”
“Never married, but she’s been engaged three times, according to social media. No criminal record beyond a speeding ticket in 2019.” Toby glanced her way again. “Did you get a chance to listen to more of the tapes?”
Kinsley could sense the urgency beneath the question. It was more a reflection of his need to prove himself on his first murder investigation than any genuine impatience, and she understood the drive all too well. It was easy to lose oneself in the work, to bury every thought and emotion beneath the weight of theinvestigation until the case became the only thing keeping you upright. She’d been doing exactly that for the past week, using the Bell investigation as a wall between herself and the gnawing anxiety of not knowing who had pulled Gantz’s car from the lake.
Sam had always emphasized the importance of taking personal time, reminding her that balance was the difference between a long career and a spectacular burnout. He certainly hadn’t anticipated her spiraling into an obsession with her own mistakes, each thought another chain link pulling her deeper into shadows that had nothing to do with Iris Bell.
“I did listen to another one, but it was mostly random conversations about the swim team, schedules, and the fact that the Kusmans didn’t have curtains on their bay window.”
That last detail had caught her attention when she’d heard it on the tape. The Kusmans’ turret offered a panoramic view of the street and a direct line of sight to the Bell mansion’s front door. Without curtains, that view worked both ways. Anyone looking up from the Bell property could see into the Kusmans’ turret, and anyone standing in the turret could see everything happening at the Bells’ front entrance.
She filed it away for later.
They had reached the small building that housed the front office. She expected Toby to reach for the door handle, but his hesitation brought her to a stop.
“Before we go in, I’ve been wondering about something,” Toby said, and something in his tone caused Kinsley’s shoulders to tense. “Why aren’t we prioritizing Shannon Utgoff? Todd Kusman placed her in the neighborhood the night Iris died, practically around the same time as the murder. And you said yourself that you believe Richard was having an affair with her. That seems like a solid lead.”
Kinsley nodded, appreciating both the question and the fact that he’d been thinking about it rather than simply waiting to be told what to do next.
“It is a solid lead, and we’ll get to her. But there’s strategy in the order we conduct these interviews.” Kinsley leaned her shoulder against the doorframe, thinking back to the taped conversation between Eden and Richard, Eden’s voice flat with something that went beyond suspicion. “The more information we have about the scope of Iris’s blackmail operation, the better armed we’ll be when we finally sit down with the people who had genuine motive to kill her. Rushing an investigation does no one any good, least of all the victim. Besides, I believe Eden was aware of the affair. There was something in her voice on one of the tapes, a resignation, like this wasn’t the first time her husband had strayed and she was just going through the motions of pretending she didn’t know.”
“Do you think Richard Bell could have killed his own daughter?”
“The murder wouldn’t have required much time. A bathroom excuse at the block party, a quick walk across the street, and five minutes inside the house. Maybe less. That’s all it would take to push someone down a flight of stairs.” Kinsley let the calculation hang in the air between them. “I’m not ruling out either parent yet. Or the brother, for that matter.”
A distant crash of metal against metal rang out from somewhere deep in the junkyard, followed by the mechanical growl of heavy equipment and the beeping of a vehicle in reverse. The air smelled of oil, rubber, and sun-warmed metal, a scent that was distinctly industrial but not entirely unpleasant.
“Right now, we interview the one person who might have knowledge of the full extent of Iris’s operation. Amelia was her best friend, the girl who stood by while Iris recorded privateconversations and extorted people. If anyone knows how deep this went, it’s her.”
“But why would she talk now if she didn’t thirty years ago?”
“Because thirty years ago, Amelia Keery was young and scared.” Kinsley reached for the door handle. “Now she’s middle-aged, more settled, and has less to lose by telling the truth than she does by continuing to hide it.”
Kinsley pulled the door open and was immediately surprised to find that the interior bore no resemblance to the chaotic metal wasteland outside. Polished laminate counters gleamed under recessed lighting, and meticulously organized filing cabinets lined the far wall in neat, labeled rows. The cool hum of an efficient air conditioning system pushed back against the July heat, creating an unexpected oasis of order in the middle of a junkyard. Kinsley stepped inside, her boots leaving faint dusty imprints on the spotless tile floor.
Potted plants occupied various counters and corners, their glossy leaves adding vibrant green touches to the otherwise neutral space. The overall effect was more upscale car dealership than salvage yard office, and someone had clearly invested considerable effort in making sure the administrative side of VK’s Auto Salvage projected an entirely different image than the rusted fence and crushed cars outside.
“Just set the invoice on the counter, Billy. I’ll get to it after lunch.”
Behind a sleek L-shaped desk sat a thin woman in her late forties, her attention fixed on a computer monitor. Her chestnut hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, and without glancing away from her screen, she continued scrolling through what appeared to be a social media feed, her expression slack with the particular boredom of someone counting the hours until closing time. When she was met with silence instead of the thud of an invoice hitting the counter, she finally glanced their way.
