CHAPTER NINE
The late afternoon sun sliced through Chicago’s skyscrapers as Callahan navigated toward the South Side. Two days, two bodies, and a murderer who poisoned victims with wine laced with arsenic—the case had exploded from a single horrific murder into something far more complex.
And now there were the two FBI agents—Riley Paige and Ann Marie Esmer.
Paige’s plastic bag theory still nagged at him, not because he doubted its accuracy, but because he couldn’t fathom how she’d arrived at that conclusion from the evidence they had.
Twenty-three years on the force had taught him to trust solid detective work, methodical investigation—not intuitive leaps that seemed to materialize from thin air.
He’d been the first detective on the scene at the Grand Regency.
The hotel management had been beside themselves—a murdered socialite in their five-star establishment was the kind of publicity that could cripple bookings for months.
But what had struck Callahan most wasn’t the opulence of the suite or the panic of the hotel staff.
It was the deliberate posing of the body, the careful arrangement of the wine glass in her stiffening fingers, the look of agony frozen on her face.
Then, barely twenty-four hours later, Victoria Ashworth had been found in nearly identical circumstances. Callahan had known immediately they were dealing with something beyond the typical Chicago homicide. He’d placed the call to the FBI before his captain could even suggest it.
Traffic thinned as he left the downtown area, giving him space to think.
He hadn’t expected the Bureau to respond so quickly, or to send someone with Riley Paige’s reputation.
In law enforcement circles, especially among detectives who worked homicide, Paige was something of a legend.
The whispers said she could see things at crime scenes that others missed, could piece together profiles from the barest fragments of evidence.
Some even claimed she had some kind of sixth sense—though Callahan had always dismissed such talk as departmental mythology.
Until today. Until that moment in Victoria Ashworth’s wine cellar when she’d suddenly announced, “A plastic bag.”
The memory still sent a chill through him. She hadn’t been guessing. He’d watched her face in that moment—the absolute certainty in her eyes, the way she’d spoken as if reading directly from a witness statement rather than constructing a theory. It had felt almost uncanny.
Callahan believed in evidence, in the careful accumulation of facts that eventually revealed the truth.
He put no stock in the paranormal, but he’d seen enough in his career to know that some investigators possessed an instinct that transcended conventional detective work.
Was that all it was with Paige? Some elevated form of intuition?
He turned onto a stretch of industrial buildings and auto shops, the GPS indicating he was nearing his destination.
Whatever Paige’s methods, he was grateful to have her and Agent Esmer on the case.
The younger agent had impressed him as well—sharp, observant, with a knack for making connections.
The three of them stood a decent chance of catching whoever had killed Margaret Thornfield and Victoria Ashworth before anyone else ended up with arsenic in their system.
Windy City Auto Works appeared ahead, a sprawling garage with a freshly painted sign that looked out of place among the weathered buildings surrounding it.
Three service bays stood open, mechanics visible inside working on vehicles in various states of repair.
Unlike some of the more neglected businesses on the block, this place showed signs of care and investment.
Callahan pulled into the small customer parking area and cut the engine. He sat for a moment, gathering his thoughts. Larry Dalton had been interviewed already about his brother’s whereabouts, but that was before Marcus became a murder suspect. The stakes were different now.
He stepped out of his car, badge already in hand, and approached the nearest service bay. A mechanic in blue coveralls glanced up from the engine he was working on, wiping his hands on a rag.
“Help you?” the man asked, eyeing the badge with the wariness common to those who’d had their share of encounters with law enforcement.
“Detective Lieutenant Callahan, Chicago PD. I’m looking for Larry Dalton.”
The mechanic nodded toward the far end of the garage. “Boss is in bay three, working on the Cadillac.”
“Thanks.”
Callahan made his way across the concrete floor, sidestepping tools and parts.
The garage smelled of motor oil, metal, and the sharp tang of industrial cleaners.
In the third bay, a pair of legs protruded from beneath a black Cadillac sedan.
The radio on a nearby workbench played classic rock at a volume just loud enough to be heard over the mechanical sounds.
“Larry Dalton?” Callahan called.
The legs shifted, and a moment later, a man in his early forties slid out from under the car on a creeper. He squinted up at Callahan, then sat up with a sigh of recognition.
“Another one,” he said, reaching for a clean rag. “Let me guess—you’re looking for Marcus.”
Larry Dalton stood, revealing himself to be a solidly built man with dark hair beginning to gray at the temples and the weathered hands of someone who’d spent his life working with them.
His face bore traces of familial resemblance to the mug shot Callahan had seen of Marcus, but where the younger Dalton’s features had been sharp and cold, Larry’s were softer.
“Detective Lieutenant James Callahan, Chicago PD,” Callahan said, showing his badge. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about your brother, if you have a moment.”
Larry wiped his hands with careful attention, buying himself a few seconds.
“Been expecting someone to show up again. Marcus’s parole officer was here a while back, asking the same thing.
” He gestured to a small office area separated from the garage by a glass partition. “Let’s talk in there. Quieter.”
Callahan followed him into the cramped office. A desk covered with invoices and parts catalogs took up most of the space. Larry moved a stack of papers from a visitor chair and offered it to Callahan before settling behind the desk.
“I already told his PO—I don’t know where Marcus is,” Larry began, sounding like he’d rehearsed this statement. “Didn’t even know he’d been paroled until Mr. Carter showed up looking for him.”
Callahan studied the man’s face, looking for signs of deception. He saw only weariness and what appeared to be genuine concern.
“You haven’t had any contact with your brother since his release?”
“None,” Larry confirmed. “Last I heard from him was a letter about six months ago. Said he was up for parole, thought he might get it. I wrote back, told him he could stay with me until he got on his feet if he needed to.” He shook his head.
“Never heard back. Then his PO shows up saying he’s violated parole, disappeared. ”
“Mr. Dalton,” Callahan leaned forward slightly, “I’m not just investigating a parole violation. I’m investigating two murders.”
Larry’s expression shifted from resignation to surprise. “Murders? What’s that got to do with Marcus?”
“Margaret Thornfield was found dead in her hotel room the day before yesterday. Victoria Ashworth was found murdered in her home yesterday. Both were killed using the same method.”
Recognition flared in Larry’s eyes. “Thornfield. She’s the one who testified against Marcus. The one who caught him stealing wine from that country club.”
“Yes,” Callahan confirmed.
“I went to the trial,” Larry said, running a hand through his hair.
“Sat there every day watching my little brother throw his life away over some bottles of wine. Mrs. Thornfield’s testimony was what sealed it.
She was... very precise. Very detailed.” He paused, a new tension visible in his shoulders.
“You think Marcus killed her? And this other woman?”
“We’re pursuing multiple leads,” Callahan said, the standard response when he didn’t want to show all his cards. “But given your brother’s connection to Margaret Thornfield and his expertise with wine, we need to locate him. Do you think he’s capable of murder, Mr. Dalton?”
Larry’s gaze dropped to his hands, now still on the desk. The silence stretched long enough that Callahan thought he might not answer.
“I wish I could say no,” Larry finally replied, his voice lower. “But... I just don’t know.”
“Tell me about him,” Callahan prompted. “About growing up together.”
Larry’s eyes remained fixed on his hands.
“I’m three years older than Marcus. We grew up on the West Side—rough neighborhood, rougher home life.
Dad was gone more than he was around. Mom worked two jobs.
” He glanced up briefly. “I was the one who messed up first. Started stealing when I was thirteen, got caught shoplifting, and did some vandalism. Small stuff, but it put me on a path.”
“And Marcus followed you down that path?”
“I led him down it,” Larry corrected. “Thought I was being a good big brother, teaching him how to be tough, how to get what he wanted. By the time I realized what a mistake that was, the damage was done.”
“What changed for you?” Callahan asked.
“Got arrested at nineteen for boosting cars. Judge gave me a choice—jail time or the military. I chose the Army. Best decision I ever made. Gave me structure, purpose, skills. When I got out four years later, I was a different person.”
“But Marcus didn’t have that turning point?”
“He was supposed to,” Larry said, frustration in his voice.
“When I came home, I got this job—started as a mechanic, worked my way up to manager, eventually bought the place when the old owner retired. I tried to help Marcus, offered him work here. But he’d always been smarter than me, more ambitious.
Said working with his hands was beneath him. ”
Callahan nodded, encouraging him to continue.
“He went to community college, took some courses in hospitality management. Eventually landed that job at the country club as an assistant sommelier. Worked his way up.” Larry shook his head. “I was proud of him. Thought he’d finally found his way. Then the stealing started.”
“You think it was about the money?”
“No,” Larry said with certainty. “Marcus didn’t need the money. He was making good tips, had a nice apartment, drove a better car than I did. It was about... I don’t know... power, maybe? The thrill of getting away with it? He always did like to feel smarter than everyone else.”
Callahan made a note. The profile was building—not just a thief, but someone who took satisfaction in outsmarting others, in getting away with things. Someone who might harbor grudges, nurture resentments.
“What about his marriage?” Callahan asked. “We know he was married to Rusty Cady.”
Larry’s expression darkened. “That’s where I saw it clearly for the first time. What he’d become.”
“What do you mean?”
“Rusty was—is—a good person. Sweet, kind, supportive. Too supportive, maybe. She put up with Marcus’s moods and his controlling behavior.
Made excuses for the bruises.” Larry’s hands clenched into fists on the desk.
“I tried to intervene once. Told him if he ever laid hands on her again, brother or not, he’d answer to me.
Know what he did? Laughed. Said I didn’t understand their relationship. ”
“Did you maintain contact while he was in prison?”
“At first. I visited every few months. Wrote letters.” Larry rubbed his eyes.
“But every visit left me feeling... I don’t know, contaminated somehow.
There was no remorse, no reflection. Just anger that he’d been caught, that his life had been ‘ruined’ by rich people who’d never had to struggle for anything. ”
Callahan felt a familiar chill—the recognition of a particular type of offender, one who blamed others for the consequences of their own actions. One who might fixate, ruminate, plan.
“Mr. Dalton, if you had to guess, based on everything you know about your brother, where would he go? Where would he hide?”
Larry thought for a long moment. “Marcus always liked being close to wealth, to luxury—even if it was just as an observer. If he’s still in Chicago, maybe he’d be somewhere near the Gold Coast, River North, those areas.
Not living there—he couldn’t afford it—but close to the people he envies and resents. I can’t say for sure, though.”
“Any specific locations? Places he mentioned, friends he might stay with?”
“I wish I knew,” Larry said, and Callahan believed him. “Marcus kept that part of his life separate from me. Especially after I got married, had kids. It was like he saw my conventional life as some kind of rebuke.”
Callahan added one final note. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Dalton. If you think of anything, or if your brother contacts you, please call me immediately.” He handed over his card. “Day or night.”
Larry took the card, looking at it solemnly. “If Marcus really did this—killed these women—then I’m partly responsible. I set him on this path when we were kids.”
“You can’t blame yourself for the choices he’s made as an adult,” Callahan said, though he knew the words would provide little comfort.
“Maybe not,” Larry acknowledged, looking directly into Callahan’s eyes. “I hope you find him, Detective. Before there’s a third victim.”
The sincerity in Larry’s voice convinced the detective that, whatever the man’s past mistakes, he was being honest now. After thanking him again, Callahan headed back to his car. In the parking lot, he pulled out his phone and composed a quick text to Agent Paige:
“Just finished with Larry Dalton. Confirmed no contact with Marcus since before parole. Believes brother capable of violence. Suggests Marcus would hide near wealthy areas, obsessed with proximity to luxury. Will brief fully when we meet. Any luck with the ex-wife?”
He sent the message and slid behind the wheel of his car. Callahan hoped Paige and Esmer were having better luck with Rusty Cady than he’d had with Larry Dalton.
Time was running out. They needed a break, and they needed it soon. Somewhere in this city, Marcus Dalton might be planning his next move, selecting another victim connected to his downfall.