Shane was grateful for the interruption.
But he understood that one question would follow him long after the workday ended, and the Carlson case moved forward, and the rain stopped, and the world kept turning as though nothing had changed.
Could he ever move past the fact that Kinsley had killed a man and then covered it up? Could he carry that knowledge indefinitely, living in the gray space between loyalty and duty, letting it eat at the lining of his stomach and the foundation of his principles until there was nothing left of either?
Or would there come a morning when the weight of it finally exceeded his capacity to bear it, and he would have no choice but to act?
21
Kinsley Aspen
July
Friday, 8:13 am
Toby had thought ahead and reserved the interview room for their video conference with Shannon Utgoff. Kinsley settled into the chair beside him just as the air conditioning unit kicked on with a rattling hum that competed with the sound of rain pelting against the window. Between the blowing air and the weather, they were going to have audio issues. Before she could reach for the laptop’s volume, Toby had already adjusted it.
“Thank you for agreeing to speak with us, Ms. Utgoff,” Kinsley began, shifting against the metal chair to find a position that didn’t aggravate the stiffness in her lower back. Beside her, Toby picked up his pen. “I appreciate you making the time on such short notice.”
Shannon appeared on the screen from what appeared to be the kitchen of her home in Arizona. Her shoulder-length brown hair framed a face that carried the weathered attractiveness ofa woman in her early sixties who had spent decades in a desert climate. There was a subtle tension in her posture, a stiffness in her shoulders that she tried to conceal beneath the casual setting. She sat at a granite counter on a barstool, a cup of tea in her hand. The little string from the tea bag dangled over the rim of the mug, swaying gently as she fidgeted with it.
“Well, when the police call about a murder investigation, even one from thirty years ago, you don’t exactly say no.”
“Still, you could have insisted on having an attorney present,” Kinsley pointed out. She caught Toby’s brief look of surprise at the remark, but it was deliberate. Since this interview was being recorded, she wanted it on the record that Shannon’s participation was voluntary and that she’d been made aware of her right to counsel before answering any questions. It was a small piece of procedural armor that could protect the entire interview from being challenged later. “We’ll do our best to keep this as brief as possible.”
“I wasn’t really privy to Iris Bell’s personal life.” Shannon lifted the tea bag by its string a few times, dipping it back into the mug before glancing at the screen. “I was Richard Bell’s administrative assistant.”
“Actually, Ms. Utgoff, we’re aware that your relationship with Mr. Bell went beyond administrative duties,” Kinsley said, lowering her voice slightly so that the words landed without sounding flippant or accusatory.
The effect was immediate.
Shannon’s gaze dropped to the counter, and her fingers tightened around the mug until the tendons in her hands became visible. She took a moment to compose herself, drawing a slow breath that was audible through the laptop’s speakers.
“As I said, it was a long time ago,” Shannon murmured, releasing the tea bag string and wrapping both hands around the white porcelain as though drawing warmth from it. “I wasRichard’s executive assistant for nearly four years before we became involved. And yes, I was well aware he was married. Just like everyone at the firm was aware that he had a reputation with his assistants.”
She paused, and a bitter half-smile crossed her face.
“I was young and foolish enough to think I’d be different from the others.”
Kinsley studied Shannon’s face on the screen, noting how her gaze grew distant, drifting to somewhere beyond the edge of her laptop as though she were looking back through three decades of accumulated regret.
“Different how?”
“I thought I could be the one to make him leave his wife.” Shannon shook her head at her younger self. “Eden knew about the affairs, of course. All of them. She tolerated them as long as Richard maintained appearances. She loved the lifestyle he provided, the charity boards, the house, the standing in the community, and she was willing to overlook his indiscretions as the price of keeping all of it.”
“Ms. Utgoff,” Kinsley said, deliberately steering the conversation, “we’re not here to judge your past relationship. We’re trying to gather information that might shed new light on Iris’s death. The investigation has uncovered evidence suggesting that Grant Tatlock might not have been the only person with motive.”
“Are you suggesting that Richard had something to do with?—”
“We’re not suggesting anything at the moment,” Kinsley corrected gently, pausing long enough to take a drink of her coffee. She’d run out of caramel creamer, so she’d been stuck with sugar and milk, and the improvised combination was barely tolerable. But the normal, unhurried gesture of drinking from her mug had the intended effect. Shannon did the same, liftingher tea and taking a sip, and the shared rhythm settled them back into a more conversational register. “We’ve discovered evidence that Iris was blackmailing several people in the community.”
“Ah, yes. Iris’s so-called investigative journalism.” Shannon set her mug down on the counter with a faint clink. “Richard mentioned finding a recorder in his home office. He was furious, of course.”
Shannon seemed to hear how her own words had landed, because she held up a hand before Kinsley could respond.
“I don’t mean it like that. All I meant was that he wasn’t happy to discover his daughter had been recording his private conversations. Business and personal.”
“Did Iris attempt to blackmail you, Ms. Utgoff?” Toby asked, pulling Shannon’s attention away from Kinsley and introducing a second presence in the conversation. The shift in focus was exactly what the moment needed.
