CHAPTER EIGHT
Ann Marie viewed the Chicago skyline through the passenger window as Riley navigated the late afternoon traffic. She had witnessed something remarkable today, and she knew it. That moment in the wine cellar when Riley had suddenly announced, “A plastic bag," still resonated in her mind.
“You’re quiet,” Riley observed, her eyes never leaving the road as she maneuvered through an intersection.
Ann Marie shifted in her seat. “Just thinking about what happened in Victoria Ashworth’s wine cellar. The way you figured out how he subdued her.”
“It’s just a theory until the ME confirms it,” Riley said.
“But it makes perfect sense. The killer needed a way to force the victims to drink poisoned wine without leaving obvious signs of a physical struggle. Cutting off their oxygen would make them gasp for air when the bag was removed—”
“Creating the perfect opportunity to pour liquid down their throats,” Riley finished. “But we still need confirmation.”
Ann Marie studied her mentor’s profile, illuminated intermittently by passing streetlights.
This was what had drawn her to the BAU and to Riley Paige specifically—not just brilliant insights, but a balanced approach.
Riley could make intuitive leaps that seemed almost supernatural, yet she never lost sight of the methodical foundations of investigative work.
Evidence, confirmation, proof—these remained basic even as Riley moved beyond them to insights that few other agents could access.
“Callahan still isn’t convinced,” Ann Marie said after a moment.
“Callahan is a good detective. He’s seen enough to know that theories without evidence can lead investigators down rabbit holes.”
“But you’re right,” Ann Marie insisted. “I know you are.”
“We’ll see.” Riley navigated around a delivery truck double-parked on the narrow street. “Hopefully the ME will have preliminary findings soon.”
Ann Marie turned back to the window, watching the streets transition from the upscale commercial district to the more austere government sector.
Since joining the BAU, she had worked alongside several senior agents, but none had impacted her as profoundly as Riley Paige.
Others had tried to mold Ann Marie into versions of themselves, but Riley seemed to understand her unique strengths—her ability to connect with witnesses, her attention to emotional undercurrents, her background with the funeral home business that gave her a distinctive perspective on death.
She especially admired Riley’s ability to compartmentalize. Here she was, pursuing a serial killer in Chicago while her family faced a very personal threat back home. Ann Marie had read the file on Leo Dillard—his methodical destruction of his sister’s life, his obsession with Riley.
“Do you think Dalton is really our guy?” Ann Marie asked.
“The wine connection is compelling,” Riley acknowledged. “His expertise with wine, his threat against Margaret Thornfield, the timing of his release from prison—it all fits. Almost too neatly.”
“You think Thornfield could be setting him up?”
“I’m not ruling it out. Ex-husbands can harbor resentments that aren’t immediately obvious.
But he seems to have been in San Francisco at the time of the murders, so his involvement would have to have been indirect—perhaps murders for hire, which is a bit of a stretch.
Besides, we just got a text from Callahan, confirming that Thornfield really was on that flight from San Francisco this morning.
And his surprise about Victoria Ashworth’s murder seemed genuine. ”
“Unless he’s an exceptional actor,” Ann Marie pointed out.
“True.” Riley slowed as they approached the imposing structure of the Criminal Court Building, its utilitarian design a contrast to the architectural flourishes of downtown Chicago. “We’ll know more once we speak with Carter.”
Ann Marie unbuckled her seatbelt as Riley pulled into an available parking space, her mind cataloging the pieces of the puzzle they’d assembled so far.
Two socialites, both connected to the Fairfax Country Club.
Both poisoned with arsenic in wine. Both carefully posed after death.
And now they had a potential suspect with expertise in wine and a clear motive for revenge.
It should have felt like progress, yet Ann Marie couldn’t shake the sensation that they were only seeing the surface of something far more complicated. She wondered if Riley felt it too—that sense of a story not quite aligning with its most obvious interpretation.
Detective Callahan was waiting for them at the entrance. “Agents,” he greeted them. “Carter’s expecting us. His receptionist said he just returned from court.”
The three of them passed through security, their credentials granting them swift access.
The interior of the Criminal Court Building maintained the same utilitarian aesthetic as its exterior—functional furniture, neutral colors, harsh fluorescent lighting that cast everything in an unflattering glow.
The sounds of shuffling papers, ringing phones, and the steady hum of institutional air conditioning created a familiar government soundtrack.
Ann Marie noted how Riley’s posture shifted subtly as they entered the building—shoulders squared, chin lifted slightly, stride lengthening.
It was the physical manifestation of the professional armor Ann Marie had observed in all the best agents, the ability to project authority without aggression.
She straightened her own spine in unconscious mimicry.
They followed Callahan through a maze of corridors to a door marked “Cook County Division of Parole Services.” Inside, they found themselves in a waiting area where a receptionist looked up at their entrance, recognition flickering in her eyes as they landed on Callahan.
“Detective,” she acknowledged. “Mr. Carter is in his office. He said to send you straight back when you arrived.” She gestured toward a hallway behind her desk.
“Thank you,” Callahan replied, leading the way.
The parole division’s offices had the weary appearance of a department perpetually understaffed and overworked.
The carpet was worn in paths between desks, the paint showing scuff marks at shoulder height along the walls.
Files were stacked everywhere, physical manifestations of lives under supervision, of freedom granted conditionally.
They found Shelby Carter’s office at the end of the hallway, his name printed on a standard-issue door plaque. Callahan knocked, and a voice from within called, “Come in.”
Carter rose from behind his desk as they entered—a lean man in his late forties with prematurely silver hair and the perpetually tired eyes of someone who had seen too many second chances squandered.
He wore a rumpled button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle.
“Detective Callahan,” he said, extending his hand. “And these must be the FBI agents Susan mentioned.”
“Special Agents Riley Paige and Ann Marie Esmer,” Callahan confirmed as they shook hands.
Carter gestured to the chairs facing his desk. “Please, sit. Susan said you’re investigating the Thornfield and Ashworth murders?”
His office was small but meticulously organized, every file in its place despite the volume of paperwork. A collection of sobriety coins was displayed on a small shelf behind his desk—a reminder, Ann Marie suspected, that redemption was possible, even if rare.
“That’s right,” Callahan said as they settled into their seats. “We have reason to believe one of your parolees might be involved—Marcus Dalton.”
At the mention of Dalton’s name, Carter’s expression darkened visibly. He sank back into his chair, rubbing his temple. “I was afraid of this,” he said quietly.
Ann Marie leaned forward slightly. “You were afraid Dalton might hurt someone?”
Carter gaze shifted between the three of them.
“Not specifically these women, but yes. Dalton was... concerning. The kind of parolee who checks all the boxes for compliance but never truly engages with the rehabilitation process. He impressed the parole board with what seemed saintly behavior. He said all the right things in our sessions, but there was always something cold behind his eyes.” He paused. “Why do you suspect him?”
Callahan glanced at Riley, deferring to her. Ann Marie noticed this with interest—despite his initial skepticism about Riley’s methods, the detective seemed to recognize her authority in building the case.
“Margaret Thornfield was the key witness against Dalton when he was convicted of stealing wine from the Fairfax Country Club,” Riley explained. “According to her ex-husband, Dalton threatened her after sentencing, saying she’d never be safe once he was released.”
Carter’s frown deepened. “That wasn’t in his file. I would have requested a heightened supervision protocol if I’d known about a specific threat.”
“Apparently, she never reported it,” Ann Marie added. “And Victoria Ashworth was also connected to the Fairfax Country Club—she was on the board when Dalton was caught.”
“I didn’t know that,” Carter said, leaning back in his chair. “So you think these murders are revenge for his conviction?”
“The method suggests it. The specifics can’t leave this room, but both women were poisoned with arsenic in wine. Their bodies were positioned with wine glasses as if they’d been drinking voluntarily.”
Carter’s expression shifted from concern to grim certainty.
“That... fits. During our sessions, Dalton often spoke about wine. Not just as a professional interest, but as something that had been taken from him. He believed his conviction had ‘desecrated’ his relationship with wine. His word, not mine.”
Ann Marie exchanged a glance with Riley. The word choice was telling—desecration implied something sacred violated, suggesting a depth of attachment that transcended professional identity.
“When was your last contact with Dalton?” Callahan asked.
Carter’s jaw tightened. “That’s the problem. He missed his scheduled check-in three months ago, shortly after his release. And he hasn’t been seen since.”
Ann Marie felt a chill. “He’s been missing for three months?”
“Not technically missing,” Carter clarified. “He’s in violation of his parole. There’s a warrant out for his arrest, but so far, nothing. We’ve been looking for him, but with our caseloads...” He gestured helplessly at the stacks of files.
“What measures have been taken to locate him?” Riley asked.
“Standard protocol. His last known address has been checked multiple times. Alerts have been placed in the system. Officers have questioned his family members, former associates. We’ve monitored his bank accounts, credit cards—nothing.”
Ann Marie’s mind raced. A killer with a specific vendetta, the expertise to create untraceable poison, and the foresight to disappear before carrying out his revenge—it painted a picture of someone far more calculating than the average parolee with a grudge.
“We need to find him before he strikes again,” she said, voicing the urgency they all felt.
Carter spread his hands. “I wish I could tell you where to look. We’ve exhausted our usual resources.”
“Who would know him best?” Riley asked. “Who might have insight into where he’d go, what his patterns might be?”
Carter considered this for a moment. “Possibly his ex-wife, Rusty Cady—formerly Rusty Dalton. She divorced him while he was in prison, but they were married for eight years. She might know something, though I personally questioned her already.” He pulled a notepad toward him, scribbling an address.
“She manages a greeting card shop in Wicker Park.”
“Who else,” Callahan prompted.
“His brother, Larry Dalton,” Carter said, writing down another address. “Older brother lives on the South Side. Works as a mechanic. They had some contact while Marcus was in prison—letters, a few visits. If anyone knows where Marcus might be hiding, it would probably be Larry.”
Ann Marie studied Carter’s face as he provided these details, noting the subtle tells of a man who had seen this pattern before—the hopeful rehabilitation, the disappearance, the return to criminal behavior.
There was resignation there, but also the genuine concern of someone who hadn’t surrendered to cynicism despite years in a system where failure was the norm.
“Have either of them been helpful?” Riley asked. “The ex-wife or the brother?”
Carter shook his head. “Not particularly, but not through ill-will. Rusty has a new life now—remarried to a schoolteacher, seems determined to put Dalton behind her. Larry claimed he had no idea where Marcus might have gone, and I had no reason not to believe him.” He gave the paper with the addresses to Riley.
“But that was just me asking routine questions. FBI agents investigating homicide might get more answers.”
Riley accepted the paper, folding it and tucking it into her jacket pocket.
“Do you have a photo of Dalton?” Riley asked.
Carter turned to his computer. “Give me your phone numbers, and I’ll send them to you right now.”
Ann Marie’s cellphone buzzed, and so did Riley’s and Detective Callahan’s. Ann Marie looked at her screen and saw a mugshot of a man who seemed to seethe with unvoiced resentment.
“Thank you for your help, Mr. Carter,” Riley said. “We’ll be in touch if we learn anything about Dalton’s whereabouts.”
As they rose to leave, Carter remained seated, his expression troubled. “If Dalton really did this—if he killed these women—then I failed. Part of my job is to assess risk, to identify the parolees most likely to reoffend violently.”
“You can’t predict every outcome,” Ann Marie said, surprised by her own impulse to comfort him. “Especially if you weren’t informed of his explicit threat against Thornfield.”
“Still. Two women are dead. And if your theory is right, they may not be the last.”
After they left Carter’s office, the agents and the detective paused to confer in the hallway outside.
“We should split up,” Callahan suggested. “Cover more ground.”
Riley agreed. “You take the brother, Larry Dalton. Ann Marie and I will speak with the ex-wife.”
“Meet you back at your hotel afterward?” Callahan asked.
“Yes. We’ll compare notes there.”
As they stepped out of the Criminal Court Building, the late afternoon was slipping away.
Ann Marie was already anticipating their conversation with Rusty Cady.
What insight might a woman have about a man she had once loved, then left?
Would she reveal something about a mind capable of such methodical revenge?
She felt time pressing against them—a killer loose in the city, perhaps already selecting his next victim, preparing another bottle of poisoned wine.