CHAPTER FIVE
Standing in the damp chill of the tunnel, Riley let the darkness speak to her.
This was where some evil had entered and left unseen.
There was a splintered door, a useless padlock, a carefully arranged table back in the wine cellar.
Riley waited for the scene to reconstruct itself in her mind.
She easily pictured a figure moving through the darkness of the tunnel, carrying the glass and the unlabeled bottle and …
What else?
Riley didn’t know. But as usual in such settings, her mind collected tiny details that others missed, bits of information she wasn’t even aware of.
She had an unusual sensitivity about that kind of thing.
The very air around her gave her a strong sense of the individual criminal who had been here.
She could feel an unusual patience waiting for Victoria Ashworth to descend the stairs alone.
She could feel a powerful determination, a sensuous pleasure in the strike.
Capturing such sensations was her particular talent, and it made her an exceptional profiler. No one at BAU except Bill and Ann Marie knew how she did it—she herself didn’t understand it fully. But she knew that her gift was why she kept getting pulled back into field work.
When Riley made her return through the tunnel to the wine cellar where Callahan and Ann Marie waited, her mind was already assembling the first outlines of a profile.
“This wasn’t random,” she told them quietly.
“This was personal. Intimate. Whoever did this didn’t just want Victoria Ashworth dead.
They wanted to desecrate something she held sacred. ”
Ann Marie added, “And they knew about the tunnel, knew about her ritual with her husband, knew exactly when she would be alone.”
“Who might have known about this entrance?” Riley asked Callahan. “Besides the family, I mean.”
The detective replied. “According to Lane, not many. A few close family friends, maybe. He said the tunnel was all but forgotten, even by Victoria and her husband.”
Riley’s mind was already exploring a different avenue. She touched the aged mortar between the stones, feeling the history embedded there.
“Or someone who’s well-versed in Chicago’s bootlegging history,” she said. “Someone who knew what to look for, who understood that houses like this often had escape routes during Prohibition.”
Ann Marie moved closer, her notebook open. “You think our unsub is a historian?”
“Not necessarily a professional one. But someone with enough knowledge to know where to look. And someone strong. The killer is almost certainly male, judging by the strength it would have taken to break through that outside door.”
“And then to completely overpower Victoria,” Ann Marie added.
Callahan made a small sound of agreement. “Like I said, the ME noted significant bruising on her arms and shoulders. She fought back.”
Riley stepped away from the tunnel entrance and moved toward the alcove where Victoria’s body had been found. The bottle and the glass had been taken away as evidence, but based on the crime scene photos, she could visualize them perfectly.
“When he came in through the tunnel,” Riley said, her voice taking on the measured cadence it often did when she was reconstructing a crime, “he knew she would be alone—knew about her ritual, her annual dinner with her dead husband.”
But where had he waited for her? Riley scanned the space, her eyes settling on a shadowed recess between two tall wine racks.
“There,” she said, pointing. “That’s where he would have hidden. Perfect sightline to the stairs, enough shadow to conceal himself, close enough to hear her coming.”
Riley walked to the spot. In the narrow space, she sensed how the killer would have pressed his body against the cool stone, breath held as Victoria’s footsteps approached.
But she had a growing sense that the killer did not arrive entirely unarmed, that he had a makeshift weapon of sorts.
She knew from training and experience that such killers seldom came to their crime scenes unprepared. He had something with him.
What was it?
When she got no answer to her question, Riley moved from the hiding place toward the table. “She came down for a special bottle. For her husband’s ninety-fifth birthday. But when she reached this alcove, she found something that shouldn’t have been there—this table already set with wine poured.”
She knitted her brow thoughtfully.
“She would have been confused, startled. Perhaps she called out, thinking someone from the staff had returned early. That moment of confusion was all he needed.”
Riley positioned herself where Victoria would have stood, her back to the hiding place she’d identified. “He came from behind her, quickly. Caught her off guard.”
But something wasn’t right. Riley frowned, trying to reconcile the evidence with the scenario forming in her mind.
“What’s bothering me is how he forced her to drink the wine,” she said. “Even if he forced it down her throat, it would have involved a significant struggle. It wouldn’t have been easy. He must have been prepared with some sort of …”
Her voice faded as the rest of her thoughts failed to materialize. She visualized the image she’d seen of the corpse—her lips, chin, and dress stained with wine.
Callahan crossed his arms. “We’ve been working under the assumption that he somehow coerced her. Maybe threatened her with a weapon. A knife or a gun, maybe?”
“I don’t think so.”
She simply couldn’t visualize the killer bringing those sorts of weapons along with a bottle of wine and a glass.
Riley closed her eyes again, letting the darkness of the cellar envelop her, letting her mind again slip into the shadows.
What would this killer have done? What had he held in his hand?
Something light.
Something simple.
Something he could have had in his pocket …
The answer came with sudden clarity, bursting into her consciousness with such force that she spoke it aloud without meaning to.
“A plastic bag,” she said, her eyes snapping open. “He pulled a plastic bag over her head.”
Callahan’s expression shifted from attentiveness to confusion. “A plastic bag?”
“Not to kill her,” Riley continued, the pieces falling into place. “To weaken her. He covered her head with plastic, cutting off her oxygen until she was disoriented, desperate. Then he removed it and pressed the wine to her lips, knowing she would gasp, gulp for air—”
“And swallow whatever was in the glass,” Ann Marie finished, her eyes widening with understanding.
Callahan looked skeptical. “That’s quite a leap, Agent Paige. There’s no evidence—”
“But there would be,” Riley interrupted. “If your medical examiner knows what to look for. Petechial hemorrhaging in the eyes, burst capillaries from the struggle to breathe. It would look different from the hemorrhaging caused by arsenic poisoning.”
“And if you’re right,” Ann Marie added, “the same method might have been used on Margaret Thornfield.”
Callahan still looked unconvinced, but Riley could see that he was considering it. “I’ll call the ME, have them check both victims.”
Riley was grateful for his willingness to pursue her theory, even if he doubted it. She turned back to the scene, trying to recapture the sense of the killer that had been so vivid moments before, but it was slipping away now.
“Do you have any other impressions?” Ann Marie asked, pen poised over her notebook. “About who the killer might be? Someone Victoria knew?”
Riley considered this, weighing the evidence against her instincts.
“I can’t say for certain whether there was a personal connection between Victoria and the killer.
But the murder itself—” She gestured to the carefully arranged scene.
“Like I said, this wasn’t random. The timing, the location, the method.
It stemmed from a deeply personal vendetta. ”
She turned to Callahan. “What about the wine in the bottle? Has it been analyzed?”
“We did one better,” Callahan said, leading them back toward the stairs.
“Hired a professional sommelier to taste it, since our lab would take weeks to break down the compounds. He was able to tell us that the bottle found in the cellar contained a high quality Cabernet. Around fifteen years old, he thought. The bottle from the Thornfield scene contained a Merlot, similar vintage, also high quality.”
“Different wines for different victims,” Riley mused as they climbed the stairs back to the kitchen. “That’s significant.”
“How so?” Callahan asked.
“It suggests the killer tailored each murder. These weren’t random bottles grabbed off a shelf. Their origin matters. Couldn’t your sommelier tell you anything more?”
“I’m afraid not.”
They emerged from the cellar into the kitchen’s bright light, which seemed harsh after the dim illumination below. Riley blinked, adjusting to the change while her mind continued to turn over the puzzle pieces.
“I’d like to speak with Lane once more before we leave,” she said.
They found the butler in the dining room, methodically removing the place settings from the table. His movements were careful, almost reverential, as he gathered the china and crystal that Victoria Ashworth had set out for her ghostly dinner companion.
He paused when they entered. “Agents. Detective. Have you... found what you were looking for?”
“We’re making progress, Mr. Lane,” Riley said gently. “I have a few more questions, if you don’t mind.”
Lane set down the spoon and straightened his already perfect posture. “Of course.”
“Did Victoria know Margaret Thornfield, the woman who was killed at the Grand Regency Hotel?”
“Yes, they were friends, though they had drifted somewhat in recent years. Mrs. Ashworth was deeply shocked when she heard of Mrs. Thornfield’s death. She planned to fly to San Francisco in a couple of days to attend her memorial service.”
Riley exchanged a glance with Ann Marie. “Did Victoria mention anything unusual about Margaret’s death? Any concerns or suspicions?”
Lane shook his head. “No, nothing specific. She was simply... distressed.”
“How many people knew about Victoria’s yearly dinners with her husband?” Riley asked. “The ritual with the wine, the private celebration?”
Lane considered this, his lined face thoughtful. “It wasn’t a secret, if that’s what you’re asking. Mrs. Ashworth spoke of it openly among her friends. It was important to her that Mr. Ashworth’s memory be honored, not hidden away like some shameful thing.”
“So it was common knowledge in her social circle?” Riley pressed.
“Yes, I would say so. Many of her acquaintances knew she observed his birthday this way.”
Riley absorbed this. “Thank you, Mr. Lane. You’ve been very helpful.”
As she and her two colleagues stepped outside, Riley paused at the top of the steps, looking back at the grand facade with its many windows, now dark and vacant.
“I need to see the Thornfield crime scene,” she said to Callahan. “The hotel room where she was found.”
“I can take you there now,” he offered. “It’s been preserved, same as this place.”
“Good. We’ll follow you.”
As Callahan headed toward his unmarked car, Riley and Ann Marie walked to their rental. The cooling air carried the scent of early autumn, a crispness that hinted at changes to come.
“Two wealthy Chicago socialites,” Ann Marie said quietly as they reached their car. “Both poisoned with arsenic in wine, both found posed at tables. The connection seems obvious, but what’s the motive?”
Riley paused with her hand on the door handle, her gaze distant. “That’s what we need to find out. But one thing I’m almost certain of—” She met Ann Marie’s eyes across the roof of the car. “The killer isn’t finished.”
Ann Marie’s expression grew solemn. “You think there will be more victims?”
“There’s a deliberateness to these murders that suggests a larger plan,” Riley said, sliding into the driver’s seat. “Two victims with similar profiles, killed in similar ways but with different wines, different staging. It feels like chapters in a story, not isolated incidents.”
As she started the engine, Riley felt a familiar tension settle between her shoulder blades—the weight of lives not yet lost but hanging in the balance. Somewhere in this city, someone was perhaps already selecting their next bottle of wine, preparing for another ritual of death.