“Mr. Fisher will see you now,” the receptionist announced with a practiced smile. “Please, follow me.”
Kinsley nodded, grateful for the distraction of work to pull her from the guilt that had been tightening around her chest since Olivia’s first question. She followed the woman down a corridor lined with framed photographs of completed projects, each one accompanied by a small brass plaque identifying the building and the year of completion. The firm’s portfolio was impressive, spanning decades and encompassing everything from residential renovations to public infrastructure. Bell and Fisher had built half of Fallbrook, and the evidence was mounted on the walls in chronological order.
The receptionist stopped before an oak door with a small brass nameplate. She knocked once, then opened the door without waiting for a response, ushering Kinsley inside before quietly retreating and pulling the door closed behind her.
Paul Fisher’s office reflected his senior status in the firm. Warm wood paneling covered the walls, lending the space a richness that was designed to impress without being ostentatious. One wall featured floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with leather-bound architectural journals and reference texts, their spines cracked with use rather than pristine for show. Another wall held a series of glass shelves displaying intricate scale models of buildings. Kinsley recognized the downtown library, the courthouse annex, and several other prominent Fallbrook structures, each one rendered in miniature with the same obsessive attention to detail she’d observed in the stadium sketch in the lobby.
Paul sat behind a broad mahogany desk with leather inlays, his suit jacket draped over a hook on a coat stand in the corner. His sleeves were rolled to the forearms, revealing tanned skinthat suggested a man who didn’t confine himself solely to office work. Gray had overtaken most of the dark in his hair, but the lighter color only added to a distinguished appearance that he’d clearly learned to use to his advantage. He had the appearance of a man who had aged into authority rather than away from it.
“Detective Aspen,” Paul said as he stood, extending his hand across the desk. His grip was firm but not challenging, the handshake of someone who had nothing to prove. “Richard mentioned you might be stopping by.”
“Mr. Fisher.” Kinsley accepted the handshake before settling into the guest chair he gestured toward. The leather was worn to a comfortable softness. “Thank you for making time in your schedule.”
“Well, one tends to clear the calendar when law enforcement comes calling.” Paul resumed his seat, folding his hands on the desk’s surface. “I am curious, though, as to what could possibly justify reopening a case that’s been closed for over thirty years.”
Kinsley studied him in return, noting the controlled interest in his expression. Where Richard managed confrontation with composure and social polish, Paul Fisher radiated something sharper. There was a directness to him that bordered on combative, the bearing of a man who preferred to address problems head-on and who didn’t waste energy on pleasantries when substance was available.
She decided to meet that energy with her own.
“Why did you cover for Richard Bell during his affair with Shannon Utgoff, and what was Iris attempting to blackmail you for?”
The two questions landed with a visible impact.
Paul’s eyebrows rose, and his jawline tightened, the muscles along the hinge of his jaw flexing once before settling. His surprise was genuine but brief, giving way within seconds towhat Kinsley read as a grudging respect for the tactical choice of skipping the warm-up entirely.
“I can appreciate dispensing with the pleasantries,” Paul replied as he leaned back in his chair. He reached for a ceramic coffee mug emblazoned with the firm’s logo. “To address your first question, I didn’t actively provide Richard with an alibi. I simply didn’t contradict his story about business dinners.”
“Which amounts to the same thing,” Kinsley pointed out, settling deeper into her chair. “Lying by omission is still lying, Mr. Fisher.”
She should know. The thought surfaced unbidden, sharp and unwelcome, and she pushed it to the side while Paul took a slow, deliberate sip from his mug.
“Richard’s private life was his business. We were partners professionally, but I wasn’t his keeper.” Paul set the mug down and met her gaze with a steadiness that suggested he’d anticipated this conversation and had already decided where his boundaries would be. “And don’t let Eden fool you. She knew about Richard’s affair with Shannon, and she chose to look the other way. Eden Bell is a lot of things, Detective, but oblivious is not one of them.”
Kinsley considered following up on the claim, pressing for specifics about how Eden had demonstrated her knowledge and what, if anything, she’d done with it. But Kinsley could sense that Paul’s patience for this meeting had a defined shelf life, and she didn’t want to spend it on questions she could answer through other channels.
She moved to her second inquiry.
“And your dealings with Iris?”
“I had no dealings with Iris,” Paul responded dryly. “She was a teenager, and I wasn’t going to waste my time indulging her immature antics.”
“So, you deny giving Iris Bell ten thousand dollars in cash?”
“Emphatically,” Paul replied without missing a beat. He tilted his head slightly as he studied her. “I’m curious, Detective. Do any of these recovered tapes actually feature me?”
Kinsley offered a slow, calculated smile. The question told her more than any answer could have. If Paul Fisher were genuinely unconcerned about the tapes, he wouldn’t need to ask whether he appeared on them. The fact that he did suggested he wasn’t certain of the answer, which meant one of two things. Either Iris had recorded him, and he didn’t know whether that recording had survived, or he’d taken steps to ensure it hadn’t and wasn’t confident those steps had been sufficient.
Based on his confident nature and Amelia’s account of him calling Iris’s bluff, Kinsley suspected he’d somehow gotten Iris to surrender the tape. Perhaps not through payment, given his emphatic denial about the cash, but through the kind of influence that a man in his position could apply to a teenager who was ultimately still a child operating in an adult’s world.
Had the tape featured a conversation between Paul and Richard?
Something that would have damaged the firm, not just Fisher personally?
“I’m not at liberty to say, Mr. Fisher.”
Her non-answer provoked exactly the reaction she’d hoped for. Paul’s posture shifted subtly, his shoulders squaring by a fraction and his fingers lacing together on the desk that betrayed the effort of maintaining his composure.
“Hypothetically,” Paul began, “if a seventeen-year-old with a tape recorder thought she had leverage, any recorded conversation she might have had access to would have been damaging to the business, not just to me personally. And had such alleged details come to light, the fallout would have dragged everyone with it. Richard, myself, our clients, the firm’s reputation. Everything.”
