CHAPTER SEVEN
Riley studied the man standing in the doorway with a profiler’s eye, noting the controlled grief in his expression—if grief was what it truly was. Nathaniel Thornfield’s appearance at the crime scene was either remarkably convenient or deliberately calculated; Riley couldn’t yet determine which.
Thornfield’s voice carried the smooth assurance of boardrooms and private clubs. “Perhaps we could speak somewhere more appropriate?”
Ann Marie caught Riley’s eye, a silent question passing between them. Riley gave an almost imperceptible nod. They needed information, and Thornfield had just offered it freely.
“We’d be interested to hear what you know, Mr. Thornfield,” Riley said. “Perhaps we could find a more suitable place for a conversation in the hotel lobby.”
Thornfield inclined his head in agreement. “I’ll wait for you there.”
As his footsteps receded down the hallway, Callahan turned to Riley. “Convenient timing, wouldn’t you say? Shows up right as we’re processing the scene.”
“Very,” Riley agreed. “But we need to hear what he has to say. Ex-husbands often know things no one else does.”
The detective and the two FBI agents secured the crime scene and then made their way to the elevator.
The descent to the lobby was silent, each of them processing the unexpected development in their own way.
When the elevator doors opened onto the lobby’s polished opulence, Thornfield was waiting near a cluster of leather armchairs arranged around a low marble table.
He rose as they approached. Up close, Riley could see the exhaustion lurking beneath his composed exterior—the slight redness around his eyes, the tension at the corners of his mouth.
“Thank you for speaking with me,” he said, gesturing to the seating arrangement. “I apologize for intruding on your investigation, but when I heard about Margaret...”
They settled into the chairs, Thornfield across from the three of them. A discrete barrier of potted palms and architectural columns created an illusion of privacy separate from the rest of the busy lobby.
“Mr. Thornfield,” Callahan began, “perhaps you could explain why you’re in Chicago and how you came to be at the crime scene.”
“Of course.” Thornfield straightened his already perfect posture. “I flew in from San Francisco this morning. I learned about Margaret’s death from a mutual friend who called me yesterday. It was all over the Chicago news, apparently, though I hadn’t seen it in San Francisco.”
Riley noted the way his hands remained perfectly still on his knees—not fidgeting. Either he was extremely comfortable with law enforcement, or he had exceptional self-control.
“I came directly from O’Hare,” he continued.
“I thought... I don’t know what I thought, exactly that I might learn more about what happened, perhaps.
That I might be useful to the investigation.
” A flicker of something—anger, perhaps, or guilt—passed across his face.
“We may have been divorced, but we were married for fifteen years. I owed her that much.”
“You mentioned that you believe you know who killed her,” Ann Marie prompted.
Thornfield’s expression hardened. “Yes. A man named Marcus Dalton. Does that name mean anything to you?”
Riley exchanged a glance with Callahan, who shook his head slightly.
“Should it?” Riley asked.
“Three years ago, Dalton was a sommelier at the Fairfax Country Club here in Chicago,” Thornfield explained. “Prestigious position, excellent pay, generous tips from members. But apparently, it wasn’t enough for him.”
Riley leaned forward slightly, her interest piqued by the mention of a wine steward. “Go on.”
“Margaret caught him stealing rare wines from the club’s cellar.
Not just a bottle here and there—he was systematically looting their collection and selling the bottles on the secondary market.
We’re talking about bottles worth thousands of dollars each.
By the time she discovered what was happening, he’d stolen wine valued at approximately five thousand dollars. ”
“And Margaret was the one who caught him?” Ann Marie asked.
“Red-handed,” Thornfield replied. “She’d gone down to the cellar to select a bottle for dinner, and found him packaging a 1982 Chateau Lafite Rothschild for transport. She confronted him on the spot.” A hint of pride colored his voice. “Margaret was never one to look the other way.”
“What happened next?” Callahan asked.
“The club management called the police, of course. During the investigation, they discovered that Dalton had concealed a history of spousal abuse and three DUIs when he applied for the position. He’d been presenting himself as this refined, educated wine expert, but the man had a violent past he’d managed to keep hidden. ”
Riley’s mind was already connecting threads, the outline of a possible motive taking shape. “He was convicted?”
“Class 4 felony under Illinois law,” Thornfield confirmed.
“Margaret was the star witness for the prosecution. Her testimony was damning—precise, detailed, unwavering. The judge sentenced him to five years, fined him twenty-five thousand dollars, and ordered him to make full restitution to the country club.”
“And now he’s out,” Riley concluded.
“Paroled three months ago,” Thornfield said, his expression darkening. “For good behavior, apparently.”
“Did Margaret know he’d been released?” Ann Marie asked.
Thornfield shook his head. “I don’t believe so. She’d moved to Boston two years ago, leaving that chapter of her life behind. I only knew because I still have contacts at the club who mentioned it.”
Riley studied Thornfield’s face, searching for inconsistencies, for the telltale signs of deception. But his account appeared to be true, at least as he perceived it.
“Mr. Thornfield,” she said carefully, “you seem convinced that Dalton is responsible. Is there something specific that points to him, beyond his obvious motive for revenge?”
Thornfield’s composure slipped slightly, revealing a flash of raw emotion beneath.
“After the sentencing, before they led him away, he whispered something to Margaret. She didn’t tell me about it until months later, when she was considering the move to Boston.
” He paused, collecting himself. “He told her to enjoy her life while he was in prison, because she’d never be safe once he got out. ”
“Did anyone else hear this threat?” Callahan asked.
“No. It was just between them. She told me she didn’t report it because she thought it was just anger talking, the kind of thing people say in the heat of the moment.” Thornfield’s jaw tightened. “I told her she should report it anyway, but Margaret... she didn’t want to seem afraid.”
Riley absorbed this information, mentally adding it to the profile of their killer. A man with a history of violence, expertise with wine, and a direct connection to at least one of the victims.
“Mr. Thornfield,” she said, “when did Margaret arrive in Chicago?”
“Three days ago. She was here to visit old friends and attend a charity event. Even divorced, we remained in contact. She called me the night before she left Boston.”
Thornfield leaned forward, his composed facade beginning to crack around the edges. “Now I’ve answered your questions. What happened to her? The news only said she was murdered in her hotel room. How did he do it?”
Riley saw Ann Marie tense slightly beside her. Callahan cleared his throat.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Thornfield, but we can’t share those details at this stage of the investigation,” Riley said gently but firmly.
Thornfield’s expression hardened. “I flew across the country. She was my wife for fifteen years. I deserve to know.”
“I understand your frustration,” Riley continued, “but protecting the integrity of the investigation has to take precedence.”
Irritation flashed in Thornfield’s eyes—brief but unmistakable. It was the first genuine emotion he’d displayed beyond his carefully managed grief.
“Mr. Thornfield,” Riley said, changing tack, “did Margaret or you know Victoria Ashworth?”
The question caught him off guard. His eyebrows lifted slightly in surprise. “Victoria? Yes, of course. She and Margaret were close friends when Margaret still lived in Chicago. They served on several charity boards together.” His expression turned quizzical. “Why do you ask about Victoria?”
“Victoria Ashworth was murdered the night before last,” Callahan said, his voice level.
Thornfield’s shock appeared genuine. His carefully maintained composure cracked completely, color draining from his face. “Victoria? Murdered? That’s... that’s impossible. I just spoke with her last week. She called to ask about Margaret’s itinerary while she was in town.”
Riley watched him closely. Either he was an exceptional actor, or his surprise was real. “Were they still in regular contact?”
“Yes, they spoke often. Victoria was also a member of the Fairfax Country Club. In fact, she was on the board when the Dalton incident occurred.” Thornfield’s eyes narrowed suddenly. “Are you saying the cases are connected?”
“We’re exploring all possibilities,” Riley replied, offering nothing.
Thornfield’s gaze moved between the three of them, searching for information they weren’t providing. “How was she killed? Was it the same way as Margaret?”
“As I said, we can’t discuss those details,” Riley repeated. “How long do you plan to stay in Chicago, Mr. Thornfield?”
He accepted the deflection with obvious reluctance. “Two or three days, perhaps. I’ll be staying here at the Grand Regency. I’ve already checked in.”
“We may have more questions for you as the investigation progresses,” Callahan said, rising from his chair to signal the end of the conversation.
Thornfield stood as well, straightening his suit jacket. “Of course. I want to help in any way I can. If you need me, I’ll be in room 1542.” He hesitated, then added, “Please find him. Whatever happens to Dalton afterward is up to the courts, but Margaret deserves justice.”
They watched as he walked toward the elevators, his shoulders set with dignity despite the weight of the news they’d delivered.
Once he was out of earshot, Ann Marie turned to Riley. “What do you think?”
Riley kept her eyes on Thornfield until the elevator doors closed behind him. “I think we need to find Marcus Dalton.”
“I’m on it,” Callahan said, pulling out his phone and moving a few steps away for privacy. “I’ll also have someone at headquarters confirm whether he was on that flight from San Francisco this morning.”
Riley and Ann Marie drifted toward a quieter corner of the lobby.
“There’s something about Thornfield that doesn’t sit right with me,” Ann Marie murmured. “He seemed almost too composed, considering the circumstances.”
“People grieve differently,” Riley said, though she’d had the same impression. “And they’ve been divorced for some time. But I agree—there’s something rehearsed about him.”
“Could he be involved somehow? Despite being in San Francisco?”
Riley considered this. “If he was in San Francisco when Margaret was killed, that’s a pretty solid alibi. But we can’t discount the possibility of his involvement altogether.”
“And the connection to Victoria Ashworth. That can’t be coincidence.”
“No,” Riley agreed. “Both victims knew each other, both were members of the same country club, both connected to the Dalton case. The wine as the murder weapon makes sense if Dalton is our unsub. It would be symbolic revenge.”
Ann Marie asked thoughtfully. “But could he have known about Victoria’s ritual with her husband? That seems like especially personal information.”
Before Riley could respond, Callahan rejoined them, slipping his phone back into his pocket.
“I just spoke with a receptionist at the Cook County Division of Parole Services. Dalton’s parole officer is a man named Shelby Carter.
He’s at a court hearing right now but should be back at his office shortly. ”
“Let’s go meet him,” Riley said decisively. “If Dalton is our unsub, we need to move quickly before he chooses another victim.”
“You think there will be more?” Callahan asked as they moved toward the hotel exit.
Riley answered grimly. “If this is about revenge for the wine theft case, and if both Margaret and Victoria were involved, there could be others—anyone connected to his arrest, trial, and conviction.”
They stepped outside into the crisp Chicago afternoon, the wind whipping between the buildings with unexpected force.
“I’ll meet you at the Criminal Court Building,” Callahan said. “That’s where the parole offices are located.”
As he headed toward his unmarked car, Riley and Ann Marie walked to their rental. The city hummed around them, oblivious to the deadly pattern they were racing to interrupt.
“What’s bothering you?” Ann Marie asked, sensitive to Riley’s pensive expression.
Riley paused beside their vehicle. “Thornfield’s story fits too neatly. The wine connection, the revenge motive—it all makes sense. Almost too much sense. In my experience, when a solution presents itself this cleanly, there’s usually more to the story.”