CHAPTER ELEVEN
Riley watched Rusty Cady’s reaction to Ann Marie’s assertion.
Her years as a profiler had taught her to read minute changes in another person like words on a page, and what she now saw in Rusty was unmistakable.
Fear. The widened eyes, the clutching of the fabric of her jeans, this was not the generalized anxiety of discussing a violent ex-husband, but something immediate, something fresh.
She also knew that this fear had been just beneath the surface all along.
And it had taken Ann Marie to pick up on it.
After a long moment of silence, Rusty answered Ann Marie’s claim that she had withheld something. “I don’t know what you mean. I’ve told you everything I know about Marcus.”
Ann Marie leaned forward, her eyes never leaving Rusty’s face. “I believe that you told the parole officer everything you knew then,” she said softly. “But something’s changed recently, hasn’t it?”
Rusty’s gaze darted toward the doorway where her husband had disappeared, then back to Ann Marie.
“Mrs. Cady—Rusty,” Ann Marie continued, her voice dropping to just above a whisper. “Two people are dead. If Marcus is responsible, others might be in danger. Whatever you’re holding back, whatever you’re afraid to say—we can help.”
Riley remained silent, allowing Ann Marie to work the delicate art of drawing out a reluctant witness. She’d seen Ann Marie’s gift in action before, but it never ceased to impress her—that intuitive understanding of precisely how much pressure to apply, how much space to give.
“I don’t...” Rusty began, then stopped, swallowing hard. “I can’t—”
A floorboard creaked, and Riley glanced up to see Rodney standing in the doorway of his home office, papers forgotten in his hand. How long had he been there? His expression was unreadable, his eyes fixed on his wife.
“Rusty?” he said.
Rusty’s composure fractured, her words rushing out now. “I didn’t know anything when the parole officer came. I swear I didn’t, Rod. But yesterday—” She stopped, closing her eyes briefly. “Yesterday I saw him.”
Rodney crossed the room in three quick strides. “You saw Marcus? Where? Why didn’t you tell me?” The papers slid from his grasp onto the coffee table as he sat beside his wife.
“It was on Division Street,” Rusty continued. “I was picking up lunch at that sandwich place near the shop—I own a greeting card store. On my way back, I passed this wine store—Vine and Vintner. I wasn’t even really looking in the windows, but something caught my eye.”
She paused, her hand finding Rodney’s.
“He was working behind the counter. Different, but unmistakable. He’s shaved his head—or most of it.
Made himself look bald on top. But I knew it was him.
And he saw me. Our eyes met through the glass, and he—” She broke off, shuddering.
“The look he gave me. Like he was he was already planning... something.”
“My God,” Rodney breathed, his arm moving around his wife’s shoulders. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I was terrified, Rod. So terrified, I didn’t want to admit it even to myself. I thought if I pretended it hadn’t happened, maybe it wouldn’t be real. And then when these agents showed up asking about him—” Her voice cracked. “I couldn’t. I just couldn’t face it.”
“Did he try to speak to you?” Riley asked. “Did he approach you or follow you?”
Rusty shook her head. “No. I didn’t give him the chance. I just... ran. Back to my store. Locked myself in the office until I could breathe again.”
“And this was yesterday?” Ann Marie confirmed gently.
“Yes. Around one in the afternoon.”
Rodney’s face had gone pale, his arm tightening around his wife. “My God, Rusty. He knows where you work. He could have followed you home. He could—” He looked up at Riley and Ann Marie, desperation in his eyes. “She’s just put her life in danger by telling you this, hasn’t she?”
Riley replied calmly. “Mr. Cady, I understand your concern. But your wife did exactly the right thing by telling us. Now we can act.”
“What does that mean, exactly?” Rodney pressed. “What happens now?”
“First, we’ll arrange for police protection for your wife—for both of you—at least until Marcus Dalton is apprehended,” Riley assured him. “Second, we’ll investigate this wine shop immediately. If Dalton is working there, we’ll take him into custody tonight.”
“Do you really think it will be that simple?” Rusty asked, wiping tears from her cheeks. “Marcus is... he’s smart. If he’s been planning this—these murders—he must have contingencies.”
“You’re right to be cautious,” Riley acknowledged. “But the element of surprise is on our side. He has no reason to expect us tonight.”
Ann Marie briefly squeezed Rusty’s hand. “Thank you for your courage, Rusty. You may have just saved lives.”
Riley stood. “We need to move quickly.”
Ann Marie rose as well. “We’ll call as soon as we have him in custody,” she promised. “In the meantime, please stay inside with your doors locked. An officer will be here shortly.”
Rodney walked them to the door. At the threshold, he lowered his voice. “If you don’t get him tonight—if he somehow slips away—”
“We’ll cross that bridge if we come to it,” Riley interrupted gently. “But you should know that your wife’s safety is a priority for us.”
He expression was still troubled. “Thank you.”
As soon as they were out of earshot of the house, Riley pulled out her phone.
“I’m calling Callahan,” she said, punching in the number.
The detective answered on the second ring. “Callahan.”
“It’s Riley Paige. We’ve got a lead on Dalton. A solid one.”
She heard him inhale sharply. “Where?”
“A wine shop called Vine and Vintner. According to Rusty Cady, he’s working there, probably under an alias. He’s altered his appearance—shaved the top of his head. But she’s positive it’s him. They made eye contact yesterday afternoon.”
“I know the place,” Callahan replied, his voice taut with anticipation. “On Division Street, near Wicker Park. Upscale boutique operation.”
“Meet us there,” Riley said. “And Callahan—we need a patrol car at the Cady residence ASAP. Rusty’s potentially at risk.”
“Already on it. I’ll be at the wine shop in fifteen minutes.”
“Understood. See you there.”
Riley ended the call and slid into the driver’s seat, Ann Marie joining her on the passenger side. As she started the engine, Riley glanced at her younger colleague.
“That was impressive work back there,” she said, pulling away from the curb. “You knew she was holding something.”
“I recognized the signs. The way she kept glancing at the window, as if checking for something—or someone. The subtle tremor in her hands that she tried to hide by keeping them clasped. The rehearsed quality of her answers.”
“How did you know when to push?” Riley asked.
“My father used to say that grief makes people into pressure cookers—eventually, something has to give. Fear works the same way. I learned to recognize when someone is holding something in, struggling with whether to open up. “
“Why do you think she didn’t tell her husband?”
“Did you catch what Rodney said earlier? About how they should have moved, changed their names?”
“Yes.”
“I think that’s your answer,” Ann Marie said. “As frightened as Rusty was about seeing Marcus, she didn’t want to uproot their life. And she knew that telling Rodney would send him into exactly the panic we just witnessed.”
“So she kept it to herself, hoping it would just... go away.”
“People convince themselves of all kinds of improbable things when they’re afraid. It’s a survival mechanism.”
“You have a gift, Ann Marie,” Riley said, turning onto Division Street. “That ability to understand what drives people’s choices—it’s rare, even among experienced profilers.”
Ann Marie ducked her head slightly, a gesture of modesty that reminded Riley how young she still was. “I just pay attention.”
They spotted Callahan’s unmarked car already parked across the street from Vine and Vintner.
The detective stood beside it, speaking quietly to a uniformed officer.
As Riley parked nearby, she took in the wine shop’s elegant facade—large windows displaying artfully arranged bottles.
The kind of place where wealthy patrons would feel at home discussing vintages.
Through the glass, she could see a man working behind the counter, arranging bottles on a display.
Even from this distance, the resemblance to Marcus Dalton’s mugshot was unmistakable, despite the altered hairline.
He moved with precise, economical gestures, his attention seemingly absorbed in his task.
“That’s him,” Ann Marie murmured as they approached Callahan.
“Just arrived,” the detective told them. “Place closes in twenty minutes, according to the hours posted. Not many customers left inside.”
“Good,” Riley said, her eyes still on the man behind the counter.
“Let’s do this cleanly. Detective, you and Officer—” she glanced at the uniformed policeman’s nameplate, “Garcia take the lead. Ann Marie and I will hang back initially, observe. We want to see his reaction to local law enforcement before he realizes the FBI is involved.”
“Ready when you are,” Callahan said.
The four of them crossed the street together, their reflections rippling across the shop’s windows as they approached.
Inside, the man glanced up, his hands stilling momentarily before resuming their work.
Riley caught the flicker of recognition in his eyes—not of them specifically, but of their purpose. Somehow, he knew.
A bell chimed softly as Callahan pushed open the door. The interior was hushed, with classical music playing at low volume and the rich scent of oak and cork in the air. Two customers browsing near the back glanced up at their entrance, quickly returned to their examination of bottles.
The man behind the counter straightened, his face composing itself into a polite, inquiring expression. “Good evening,” he said, his voice smooth and cultured. “Can I help you find something special this evening?”