CHAPTER ELEVEN #2
Callahan approached the counter, badge already in hand. “Chicago PD, sir. I’m Detective Lieutenant Callahan. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
The man’s eyebrows rose in what appeared to be mild surprise. “Of course, Detective. How can I assist the police?”
“Are you Marcus Dalton?” Callahan asked directly.
A look of confusion crossed the man’s face. “Marcus Dalton? No, I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone else. My name is Chet Maxwell.”
Riley studied him carefully. His demeanor was perfectly calibrated—helpful, slightly bemused, but not overly concerned. It was the performance of an innocent man wrongly questioned.
The rear door of the shop opened, and an older man with silver hair and glasses emerged from what appeared to be an office. “Is everything alright out here, Chet?” he asked, his gaze moving between his employee and the four law enforcement officers.
“Just fine, Mr. Winslow,” the man calling himself Chet Maxwell replied smoothly.
“There seems to be a case of mistaken identity. The officers are looking for someone named Marcus Dalton. They’re just doing their job,” he added, his tone reassuring.
Then, turning back to Callahan, “Perhaps I can clear this up quickly? You’re welcome to see my identification. ”
He reached slowly into his back pocket and produced a wallet, from which he extracted a driver’s license. “Chet Maxwell, as you can see. I also have my social security card, if that would help.”
Callahan examined the license, his expression showing a hint of uncertainty. Riley stepped forward then. She had seen too many false identifications in her career to be fooled by even a high-quality one.
“Mr. Maxwell,” she said, emphasizing the name slightly, “I’m Special Agent Riley Paige with the FBI. This is my colleague, Special Agent Esmer.”
She watched his face closely, noting the almost imperceptible tightening around his eyes—then his expression reset to one of helpful cooperation.
“FBI?” he repeated. “This must be quite serious. I assure you, I’m happy to cooperate however I can.”
Riley maintained steady eye contact, unwavering. “We believe you that are Marcus Dalton, currently in violation of your parole. Your fingerprints will confirm your identity shortly.”
“There must be some misunderstanding,” he insisted, but with less conviction than before.
“Mr. Dalton,” Riley continued, unfazed by his denial, “you’re under arrest for violation of parole. There may be additional charges forthcoming.”
The shop owner, Mr. Winslow, had gone pale. “Chet? What is this about?”
“A mistake,” Dalton replied, his voice hardening slightly. “These officers are confused.”
“No confusion,” Callahan said firmly, producing handcuffs. “Please place your hands on the counter, sir.”
For a moment, Riley thought he might resist. His body tensed, his eyes darting toward the exit, measuring distances, calculating odds. She readied herself for the possibility of a physical confrontation. But then, like a switch being flipped, he relaxed.
“If you insist,” he said, placing his palms flat on the counter’s surface. “Though this is going to be rather embarrassing for your department when you realize your error.”
As Callahan secured the handcuffs, reading him his rights, Riley watched the man’s face.
There was no fear there, no panic. This was a man accustomed to setbacks, to adjusting plans on the fly.
A man who believed himself smarter than those around him, including the authorities who had just arrested him.
“Detective Callahan and Officer Garcia will transport you to police headquarters,” Riley informed him. “Agent Esmer and I will meet them there shortly.”
Dalton’s eyes met hers, and in that moment, the mask slipped completely. What Riley saw in those eyes was cold, measuring intelligence—and something close to amusement. As if this were merely an inconvenience, a minor deviation from a plan still very much in motion.
“I look forward to clearing up this unfortunate misunderstanding, Agent Paige,” he said.
As Callahan and Garcia led him out, the two remaining customers hastily paid for their selections and departed, leaving Riley and Ann Marie alone with the visibly shaken shop owner.
“I don’t understand,” Mr. Winslow said, collapsing onto a stool behind the counter. “Chet just started here recently, but he’s already been an exemplary employee. His knowledge of wine is exceptional. His references were impeccable.”
“I’m sure they appeared to be,” Riley replied sympathetically. “Mr. Dalton is very good at presenting himself as something he’s not.”
Outside, she watched as Callahan guided their suspect into the back of his vehicle. The man moved with the fluid grace of someone for whom physical control was second nature, his posture erect despite the handcuffs.
“You think we’ve got our killer?” Ann Marie asked quietly as they walked back to their own car.
Riley considered this, her instincts warring with her desire for a clean resolution. “I hope so,” she replied honestly. “The wine connection is compelling. His expertise, his motive for revenge against both victims, his careful effort to create a new identity—it all fits.”
But as they reached their vehicle, Riley couldn’t shake the nagging sense that something wasn’t quite right. The arrest had been too easy, Dalton’s demeanor too controlled. In her experience, killers this methodical, this patient, didn’t allow themselves to be caught without a contingency plan.
“But?” Ann Marie prompted.
Riley shook her head slightly, unlocking the car. “But I’ve learned not to get too confident at this stage of an investigation. Let’s see what happens when we get him into an interrogation room.”