CHAPTER FOURTEEN
In the Chicago Police Headquarters interrogation room, Riley settled into her chair across from Marcus Dalton.
The confident, almost amused demeanor Dalton had displayed during his arrest was gone, replaced by something Riley hadn’t expected to see—genuine fear.
His eyes darted between the three law enforcement officers as they arranged themselves across the table from him.
Maria Suarez, his public defender, sat beside him, her slim briefcase open on the table like a shield.
Her dark hair was pulled back in a severe bun, her expression neutral but vigilant.
Riley recognized the type—a defender who took the presumption of innocence as sacred rather than legal technicality.
“Mr. Dalton,” Callahan began, placing a thin folder on the table.
“My client’s name is Chet Maxwell,” Suarez interrupted smoothly. “And I’d like to state for the record that he maintains this is a case of mistaken identity.”
Callahan’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Fine. Mr. Maxwell, then. Let’s start with why you failed to report to your parole officer.”
Riley watched Dalton’s face, noting how his gaze dropped to the table, how his shoulders hunched forward slightly. This wasn’t the calculated stillness of a possible predator she’d witnessed at the wine shop. This was more like the nervous fidgeting of prey.
“As I’ve informed Detective Callahan,” Suarez interjected before Dalton could speak, “my client has no knowledge of any parole requirements because he is not Marcus Dalton. He has provided identification confirming his identity as Chet Maxwell.”
“Identification that we believe to be fraudulent,” Ann Marie noted.
“An allegation you’ve yet to prove,” Suarez countered.
Riley leaned forward slightly. “Mr. Maxwell, when did you begin working at Vine and Vintner?”
Suarez opened her mouth to interrupt again, but Dalton surprised them all by answering.
“Three months ago,” he said, his voice lacking the smooth confidence he’d displayed at the wine shop. “I have references. My employment history is documented.”
“Documented under the name Chet Maxwell,” Callahan clarified.
“Yes.” Dalton swallowed visibly. “That’s my name.”
“Mr. Maxwell,” she said, deliberately using his assumed name, “you seem distressed. More so than when we arrested you. Why is that?”
Suarez’s hand moved to her client’s arm. “Agent Paige, my client is understandably upset at being wrongfully detained and questioned without adequate evidence of any wrongdoing.”
That’s not it, Riley thought. The change was too dramatic, too specific. Something had happened between the arrest and now.
Callahan redirected. “Let’s talk about your employment history. Before Vine and Vintner, where did you work?”
“I was in...” Dalton paused, glancing at his attorney. “I was traveling. Consulting with various wine distributors on the West Coast.”
“Can you provide names of these distributors?” Ann Marie asked, pen poised over her notebook.
“My client will provide a full employment history when formal charges are filed,” Suarez stated firmly. “Right now, it appears you’re fishing for inconsistencies in a case built entirely on mistaken identity.”
“Mr. Maxwell,” Riley said quietly, “are you aware that you’re currently a suspect in two homicides?”
The question slipped past Suarez’s defenses before she could object, and Dalton’s reaction was immediate and visceral. His face paled beneath the harsh lights.
There it is, Riley realized. Since I last saw him, he’s been told that he’s suspected of two murders.
“Agent Paige,” Suarez snapped, “my client has not been charged with any homicide. This line of questioning is inappropriate and potentially prejudicial.”
But Riley had seen what she needed to see.
“Margaret Thornfield and Victoria Ashworth,” Riley continued, ignoring Suarez’s objection. “Both poisoned with arsenic in wine. Does that mean anything to you?”
“This interview is over,” Suarez declared, standing abruptly.
“My client has cooperated regarding questions about his identity and alleged parole violation. He will not be answering questions about murders he had nothing to do with. Detective Callahan, unless you’re formally charging my client with these murders, we’re done here. ”
Callahan exchanged a glance with Riley. “We’ll be in touch, Ms. Suarez. Your client isn’t going anywhere for now—the parole violation is enough to hold him.”
As they all rose from their chairs, Dalton suddenly leaned forward, his palms flat on the table. “I didn’t kill anyone,” he blurted out. “I violated parole, yes. I created a new identity. I am Marcus Dalton. But I didn’t kill those women…or anyone. I wouldn’t. I swear to God.”
Riley believed him. Despite all the circumstantial evidence, despite the perfect motive and means, despite everything that had led them to his door, she could see that Marcus Dalton was telling the truth.
Suarez stood open-mouthed, for once at a loss what to say. Then she gathered all her materials and stormed out the door.
Callahan’s expression was unreadable as he called an officer who was stationed in the hallway to take the prisoner back to his cell.
The officer led Dalton out of the room, his hands cuffed in front of him.
Dalton glanced back at them nervously as he left, questions in his eyes.
Did they believe him? Were they still going to charge him with murder?
“So how do we handle this, Agent Paige?” Callahan asked. “Do you really think he’s clean?”
“I think he’s terrified,” Riley replied. “That’s what changed his demeanor. And I don’t think he’s our killer.”
Ann Marie shook her head in disbelief. “We’ve been chasing this guy all over the place,” she said. “If he didn’t do it, who did?”
Callahan took a deep breath. “Let’s go to my office,” he said quietly. “We have a lot to discuss.”
As they filed out of the interrogation room, Riley’s mind was reassembling the puzzle pieces of their investigation. If Dalton wasn’t their killer, then who was? What had they missed?
They had barely reached the corridor when a uniformed officer approached Callahan, his expression grim.
“Detective,” he said, his voice urgent. “There’s been another homicide. Same MO as the Thornfield and Ashworth cases.”
“Where?” Callahan asked.
“Sterling mansion,” the officer replied. “Amanda Sterling. Found in her wine cellar less than an hour ago.”
Ann Marie’s eyes widened. “Sterling? As in the Sterling Foundation?”
“The same,” the officer confirmed. “She was hosting some big charity event when it happened. Place is a circus—over seventy guests, all potential witnesses. Captain wants you there now.”
Riley caught Callahan’s eye, both of them processing the implications. If Amanda Sterling had been killed while Marcus Dalton sat in custody, their case against him had just imploded.
*
The Sterling mansion looked like an illuminated fortress, its windows blazing against the night sky, police lights rotating in crimson and blue across its limestone facade.
As Riley stepped from their vehicle, the cool night air carried the sounds of murmured conversations, occasional sobs, the crackle of police radios.
She scanned the sprawling grounds now crawling with uniformed officers, crime scene technicians, and stunned guests in formal attire.
Callahan’s car pulled up beside theirs, and the detective got out.
“This is going to be a circus,” he muttered, watching the throng of guests being corralled on the mansion’s expansive lawn, their evening finery a stark contrast to the changed situation.
An older officer approached them, moving with the efficiency of someone accustomed to managing chaos. “Detective Callahan? Officer Dickinson, first responder and scene coordinator.”
He extended a hand, which Callahan shook briefly.
“What are we looking at?” Riley asked, introducing herself and Ann Marie.
“Amanda Sterling, age 46. She was found by her friend Phyllis Coburn approximately ninety minutes ago in the wine cellar,” Dickinson replied, gesturing for them to follow him toward the mansion’s imposing entrance.
“Ms. Sterling was hosting her annual charity event—The Evening of Elegance, they call it. Fundraiser for her arts foundation. Seventy-three guests, plus catering staff and musicians.”
Ann Marie’s eyes widened. “Seventy-three potential witnesses?”
“Or suspects,” Callahan added.
Dickinson added. “We’ve detained everyone who was present. Getting statements now, but it’s slow going. These aren’t your typical witnesses—we’ve got two state senators, a federal judge, half a hospital board...”
As they passed through the grand entryway, Riley saw that the mansion’s interior spoke of old money and meticulous taste—crystal chandeliers suspended from coffered ceilings, original artwork adorning walls, fresh flower arrangements positioned at precise intervals.
In what appeared to be a ballroom, police officers were conducting interviews with guests still dressed in their finery—women in evening gowns clutching designer purses, men in tuxedos with loosened bow ties.
Some sat shell-shocked, others gesticulated wildly as they gave their statements.
Most wore the dazed expressions of those for whom violence had been an abstract concept until tonight.
“Ms. Coburn discovered the body?” Riley asked as they moved through the space.
“Yes,” Dickinson confirmed. “According to her initial statement, she noticed Ms. Sterling had been absent from the ballroom for about twenty minutes. They were preparing for a musical performance, and Ms. Sterling was supposed to make an announcement after the first piece. Ms. Coburn went looking and found her in the wine cellar.”
“Amanda Sterling,” Ann Marie said quietly. “She’s the granddaughter of Bertram Sterling, right? Heiress to the Sterling fortune?”
“Socialite, philanthropist,” Dickinson replied. “Head of the Sterling Foundation for the Arts. This event was her baby—been running it for fifteen years. The Evening of Elegance, raising money for artists and musicians.”
“Was she connected to the Fairfax Country Club?” Riley asked, remembering the common thread between their previous victims.
“I believe so,” Dickinson replied. “Most of Chicago’s elite are. We’re pulling her background now.”
They approached a heavy oak door at the far end of a corridor where two officers stood guard. Dickinson led Riley, Ann Marie, and Callahan on through. The door opened to reveal a stone staircase descending into the cool darkness below.
“The wine cellar is down here,” Dickinson explained, flipping a switch that illuminated the stairway. “Temperature-controlled, state-of-the-art storage system. Ms. Sterling was something of a collector—over three thousand bottles, according to Ms. Coburn.”
The temperature dropped noticeably as they descended, the air growing cooler with each step. Riley felt a familiar tension settle between her shoulder blades—the weight of walking into a space where life had violently ended, where answers lay hidden in plain sight for those who knew how to look.
At the bottom of the stairs, the cellar opened before them—a vast, cathedral-like space with row upon row of bottles organized in custom racks.
Soft lighting illuminated each section, casting a gentle glow on labels worth more than most people’s monthly salaries.
The floor was Italian marble, polished to a high sheen. Overhead, the ceiling was arched.
Crime scene technicians moved methodically through the space, photographing, measuring, collecting evidence. Partially obscured by a rack of what Riley guessed were Burgundies, a small tasting table had been set up.
And there, positioned with the same deliberate care as Margaret Thornfield and Victoria Ashworth, sat Amanda Sterling.
Her body was arranged in a chair at the table, head tilted forward, one hand curled around an empty wine glass.
She wore a midnight-blue gown of silk, its elegance now marred by a dark stain down the front where wine had spilled.
Her blonde hair, which must have been perfectly styled for the evening’s event, now hung in disarray around her face, obscuring but not hiding the contorted expression of her final moments.
Beside the glass was an unlabeled bottle, uncorked, its contents partially emptied. The scene was a mirror image of the previous crime scenes—the careful staging, the wine as the murder weapon, the victim posed as if caught in the act of drinking.
“Preliminary assessment suggests the same cause of death,” Dickinson said quietly. “We’re waiting on the ME for confirmation, but the similarities are impossible to ignore.”
Riley approached the table, careful not to disturb the evidence markers placed around the scene. A broken bottle lay several feet away, its contents spread across the marble floor. Not the murder weapon—something else, something that had been dropped or thrown.
“She struggled,” Riley observed, noting the disarray of the immediate area. “More than the others, perhaps.”
“The ME estimates time of death between 9:15 and 9:45 PM,” Dickinson added. “Ms. Coburn found her shortly after 10:00.”
Ann Marie moved to Riley’s side, her voice low. “So while Marcus Dalton was being processed at the station...”
“Amanda Sterling was being murdered,” Riley finished.
Callahan’s frustration was evident. “We’re back to square one.”
Riley shook her head, her eyes never leaving the victim. “Not quite. The killer is growing bolder, taking more risks. Killing in a house full of people during a major event. That tells us something.”
“What?” Callahan asked.
“That this isn’t just about opportunity or convenience,” Riley replied. “This is about making a statement. Each murder is a performance, and the audience is getting larger.”
She circled the table slowly, absorbing every detail of the scene. The careful arrangement of the body, the unlabeled wine bottle, the signs of struggle—all pieces of a puzzle that had just become more complex.
Just one thing was certain: Marcus Dalton was not their killer. Riley actually didn’t believe that he was connected to this in any way.
“We need to start over,” she said finally, turning to face Callahan and Ann Marie. “All three victims, all their connections, every detail. Our killer is telling a story, and we need to understand it before they write the next chapter.”