CHAPTER FOUR
As Riley stood in the re-created nightclub with her eyes closed, she let her consciousness drift, seeking that elusive connection—the invisible thread that might link her to a killer’s thoughts.
It wasn’t a psychic ability, not exactly.
She viewed it as an intuitive process that had been honed over years of immersing herself in the darkest corners of human psychology.
But in truth, it was more than just an accumulation of information that any good agent might gather.
She had an exceptional talent for mentally slipping into shadows where monsters dwelled.
This physical setting was artificial, but evocative.
The theatrical haze that had filled the room tickled her nostrils, carrying with it the faint chemical scent that was nothing like real cigarette smoke, yet evocative enough to help transport her back in time.
There was also a hint of sandalwood in the air—perhaps to make the smoke less noxious.
The ambient sounds receded—Hayes’ steady breathing, Ann Marie’s quiet footsteps as she explored the perimeter of the set, Gillian’s occasional sniffles.
Riley focused instead on absorbing the scene, letting it imprint itself on her consciousness.
The table where Veronica had sat. The stage where she’d performed. The path between them.
In a few seconds, the Midnight Lounge and the sequence of events came to life in her mind.
Riley could see Veronica singing on stage, captivating her audience.
The waiter delivering fresh drinks to the table while all eyes were on the performer.
Gillian, seated with her back to the bar, her attention fixed on her friend’s performance.
Veronica returning to her seat, flushed with the success of her performance, lifting the Manhattan to her lips.
A particular realization crystallized. From Gillian’s position, she would have had limited peripheral vision of anyone approaching their table from behind.
The atmospheric lighting—purposefully dim to create the 1950s nightclub ambiance—would have further obscured any suspicious activity.
The theatrical haze that now drifted around Riley’s face would have provided additional cover, distorting depth perception.
The killer might have engineered the perfect opportunity. Or had they simply recognized and exploited it?
Riley allowed her thoughts to drift deeper, seeking the emotional signature of the crime. What kind of person would choose such a method? What were they trying to communicate?
A paradox emerged in her intuition. On one hand, the murder felt deeply personal—the choice of victim, the specific method mirroring a film scene, the symbolic destruction of Veronica through the same means that had made her mother famous.
This wasn’t random. Veronica Slate had been chosen specifically, her death choreographed with intimate knowledge of her life and legacy.
Yet at the same time, the theatrical nature of the crime suggested something broader, more performative. The killer had arranged an audience, ensured witnesses, crafted a moment that would be recorded, remembered, discussed. They wanted attention, recognition for their work.
This was about more than eliminating a single person; it was also about making a statement.
That duality pointed to something she’d seen before in the most dangerous type of killer—one who combined personal grievance with a terrible artistic ambition, a need for recognition.
Such perpetrators rarely stopped at a single victim.
They created series, progressively elaborate demonstrations of their vision.
So who might be the next target? Someone else connected to Roberta Rimes’ legacy? Another figure from classic Hollywood? Or perhaps someone connected to Magnolia Gateway Studios itself?
Without concrete evidence, the possibilities remained frustratingly vast. But Riley felt certain of one thing—this killer wasn’t finished. The murder of Veronica Slate wasn’t the finale; it was the opening act.
She opened her eyes, blinking against the amber lights of the set. Her colleagues stood watching her—Hayes with barely concealed skepticism, Ann Marie with open curiosity, Gillian with a mixture of hope and dread.
“Find anything in there?” Hayes asked, gesturing vaguely toward Riley’s head.
Riley ignored the subtle mockery in his tone.
Local detectives often regarded the BAU’s psychological approach with suspicion, and even more so Riley’s intuitive methods.
In fact, Riley had confided in few people about exactly how those methods worked.
One of those people was Bill. The other was Ann Marie.
“Possibly,” she replied, stepping away from the table where Veronica had received her fatal drink. “Ms. Sinclair, based on the layout and lighting, it would have been relatively easy for someone to add something to her drink before it was delivered or even afterward, while she was performing.”
“I wasn’t watching the drinks or the servers at all,” Gillian replied. “I was watching Ronnie on stage.”
“That’s not your fault,” Ann Marie said gently. “The killer deliberately used the circumstances to their advantage.”
Riley moved closer to Gillian, who had sunk onto one of the period-appropriate chairs, her normally commanding presence diminished by grief and now guilt.
“Ms. Sinclair,” Riley said, her voice low and steady, “I need to ask you something important. In the days before her death, did Veronica mention any conflicts? Anyone she was having trouble with, or who might have had reason to wish her harm?”
Gillian stared at the floor, her brow furrowed in concentration. “Veronica had her share of professional rivalries over the years, but nothing recent or serious enough to...” She trailed off, then looked up suddenly. “Wait. There was something. Just before we entered the soundstage last night.”
Riley felt a familiar prickle of anticipation. “What happened?”
“We were walking through the studio gates with the group from the theater. Veronica suddenly tensed beside me. She’d spotted our head of security.” Gillian’s voice took on a new urgency.
“What was his name?” Riley asked.
“Malcolm Hartley. She recognized his face, although she didn’t tell me from where or when. She asked if that was really him, and when I confirmed it, she seemed... disturbed. Said she’d tell me about him later.”
“Did she elaborate at all?” Riley pressed.
Gillian shook her head, distress evident in her features. “We got caught up in the excitement of the surprise. I completely forgot about it until just now.” Her eyes widened with dawning horror. “And she never got the chance to tell me what it was about.”
Riley exchanged a glance with Hayes, whose posture had shifted from relaxed skepticism to alert interest.
“We need to speak with Malcolm Hartley immediately,” Riley said.
Hayes nodded. “Where would we find him at this hour, Ms. Sinclair?”
“His office is in the security building, near the main gate,” Gillian replied, rising from her chair with renewed purpose. “I’ll take you there.”
Gillian led them out of the soundstage into the harsh daylight of the Atlanta afternoon.
The contrast between the atmospheric noir setting they’d just left and the mundane reality of a film studio—golf carts, clipboard-carrying assistants, the distant sound of construction—was jarring.
Riley felt as if they’d stepped through a portal from one world to another, from fiction into fact.
As they walked, Hayes fell into step beside Riley. “You think this security guy could be involved?” he asked in a low voice.
“It’s a connection worth exploring,” Riley replied, careful not to overcommit. “Veronica’s reaction to seeing him suggests a possible history between them. At least, something troubled her enough to mention it even during what should have been an exciting moment.”
Ann Marie joined their quiet conversation. “If there was bad blood between them, Hartley would have had both motive and opportunity. And Veronica took notice of him just a few moments before she died.”
They crossed the studio lot, passing various buildings and outdoor sets. The security building was a modest structure near the main entrance—practical rather than impressive, with small windows and a utilitarian design that contrasted with the more aesthetically pleasing studio facilities.
Gillian pushed through the front door, nodding to a uniformed guard at the reception desk. “Is Malcolm in his office?” she asked, her tone carrying the easy authority of someone accustomed to command.
The guard straightened slightly. “No, ma’am. Mr. Hartley didn’t come in today. Don’t know where he is. He didn’t even call in sick.”
Riley saw Hayes and Ann Marie exchange significant glances. A security chief absent the day after a high-profile murder on his watch was, at minimum, suspicious.
“The timing’s convenient,” Hayes muttered.
“I need to see his office,” Riley said to Gillian.
Gillian hesitated only briefly. “Normally I’d need to respect privacy protocols, but under the circumstances...” She turned to the guard. “We need access to Malcolm’s office. This is Detective Hayes from Atlanta PD, and these are FBI agents investigating Veronica’s death.”
The guard’s expression shifted from surprise to solemn understanding. “I don’t have a key to his private office, ma’am. It’s always locked when he’s not in.”
“I have master keys,” Gillian replied, already reaching into her pocket. “Please note in the log that we entered with proper authorization during an active investigation.”
The guard nodded, turning to his computer. “Yes, ma’am. His office is down the hall, last door on the right.”
Gillian led them through a narrow corridor lined with security monitors displaying various areas of the studio grounds. Malcolm Hartley’s office door was unmarked except for a small plaque reading “Head of Security.”
Gillian hesitated with the key in her hand. “I should mention that Malcolm has always been... particular about his privacy. In the three years he’s worked here, I’ve never actually been inside his office.”
Riley noted the subtle tension in Gillian’s voice. “Any reason for that level of privacy?”
“Not really. He’s efficient at his job, if somewhat standoffish. Keeps to himself, doesn’t socialize with the rest of the staff. But security has been excellent under his watch.” She inserted the key. “Until now, I suppose.”
The lock turned with a soft click. Gillian pushed the door open and flipped a light switch, revealing a space that initially appeared ordinary—a desk with a computer, filing cabinets along one wall, a small conference table with four chairs. Functional. Impersonal.
As they all stepped into the office, they were greeted by a large, free-standing bulletin board, its surface sparsely decorated with a handful of notices and photos.
The board’s wooden frame seemed sturdy yet portable, mounted securely on four small wheels that hinted at its mobility.
With a sense of curiosity, Riley extended her hand and gently spun the board completely around.
Her breath caught in her throat at the first glimpse of the back, and she heard gasps from her companions as they all saw what she saw.
The back was also a cork surface, this one covered with photographs of Veronica Slate—dozens of them, spanning decades of her career.
Magazine covers. Publicity stills. Candid paparazzi shots.
Screenshots from films. But each image had been defaced in some way—eyes scratched out, faces slashed with red marker, obscenities scrawled across her features.
Some photos had been burned around the edges, others stabbed repeatedly with what must have been a letter opener.
In the center of this disturbing collage was a publicity photo from The Night Walker—not of Roberta Rimes, but of Veronica at what appeared to be the film’s revival screening years ago.
Across her throat, someone had drawn a red line with meticulous precision.
Beneath it, in neat block letters: “LIKE MOTHER, LIKE DAUGHTER.”
The group stood frozen in the doorway, the silence broken only by Gillian’s sharp intake of breath. Riley felt Ann Marie stiffen beside her and noticed Hayes’s hand instinctively moved toward his holstered weapon.
The bulletin board transformed the mundane office into something profoundly sinister—a shrine to obsession and hate, carefully maintained and hidden behind a locked door.
The images stared back at them, Veronica’s mutilated face multiplied across the wall in a grotesque gallery that told the story of a fixation that had clearly festered for years.
Now it looked like an unpleasant obsession might have culminated in murder.
What was the man who had made this ugly display doing right now?