CHAPTER FIFTEEN #2
“I don’t know,” Mains admitted, his professional composure slipping for the first time. “The invitations were handled personally by Ms. Sterling. She must have added him to the list.”
“Who had copies of that list?” Riley asked.
“Everybody on the staff.”
Riley stared at the frozen image of their suspect.
“Who is Emil Doppler?” she murmured. “And how did he earn an invitation to Amanda Sterling’s most exclusive event?”
*
The ornate grandfather clock in Amanda Sterling’s study chimed once, marking half past one in the morning.
Riley rubbed her eyes. Three hours had passed since they’d discovered Emil Doppler on the security footage, three hours of relentless questioning, evidence gathering, and theory-building that had yielded frustratingly little progress.
The medical examiner had confirmed what they already suspected—Amanda Sterling had died from arsenic poisoning, administered through the wine.
Just like Victoria Ashworth. Just like Margaret Thornfield.
Three women with social connections, all members of the Fairfax Country Club, all killed with the same distinctive method within days of each other.
“Not a single person at this event knew Emil Doppler or had ever heard the name before tonight,” Ann Marie said, dropping into a leather chair across from Riley. “And we can’t find records of anyone named Emil Doppler in the Chicago area.”
Callahan stood by the window, coffee cup in hand, staring out at the flashing lights of police vehicles still dotting the expansive grounds. “Seventy-three guests, twenty-two staff members, and a man walks in, murders the hostess, and walks out.”
Riley spread the photographs they’d printed from the security footage across the antique desk. Emil Doppler’s face—or what was visible of it beneath the disguise—stared back at her from multiple angles. None clear enough for facial recognition software.
“I spoke with Phyllis Coburn again,” Riley said. “She’s absolutely certain Amanda never mentioned anyone named Emil Doppler to her. Not as a new acquaintance, not as a foundation donor, not as a business contact.”
“So how did he get on the guest list?” Ann Marie asked.
“Hacked the system, forged an invitation?” Callahan suggested.
Riley shook her head. “Sebastian Mains was clear—Amanda Sterling handled the invitations personally. Old-school. There was no electronic system to hack.”
“We’ve gone over every inch of this place,” Ann Marie said. “The crime scene unit found partial prints on the tasting table in the wine cellar, but nothing definitive. No fingerprints on the wine bottle or glass except for Amanda’s. Our killer was careful.”
“What about the broken bottle?” Riley asked. “The one on the floor near Amanda’s body?”
“Chateau Margaux, 1994,” Callahan replied.
“Worth about three thousand dollars, according to Mains. Apparently, Amanda had selected it as this year’s door prize—some tradition involving a golden ticket in one of the sealed in envelopes that were passed out at the front entrance.
She went down to the cellar to retrieve it shortly before she was killed. ”
“So the killer was already waiting for her. He knew she would come down to the cellar alone at some point during the evening.”
“Just like he knew Victoria Ashworth would be alone in her wine cellar,” Ann Marie observed. “And Margaret Thornfield would return alone to her hotel room.”
Riley recognized the type. Whoever Emil Doppler was, he was methodical, patient, and intimately familiar with his victims’ lives. The kind of killer who planned meticulously, who left little to chance. The kind of killer who wouldn’t stop until he felt that his work was complete.
“Agent Paige,” Callahan’s voice broke through her thoughts. “You and Agent Esmer should get some rest.”
She glanced up, ready to protest, but the detective raised a hand to forestall her objection.
“I know, I know. But we’ve hit diminishing returns here. Everyone’s been questioned, the evidence has been collected, and the ME’s preliminary report is complete. Let’s regroup later, fresh eyes, fresh approach.”
She knew he was right. The bone-deep fatigue she felt would only hinder her ability to process information, to see subtle connections. And yet, the thought of leaving, of putting even temporary distance between herself and the investigation, felt like a concession to the killer.
Ann Marie read her hesitation. “He’s right, Riley. A few hours of sleep will help us think more clearly.”
“What about you?” Riley asked Callahan.
“I’ll stay a bit longer, coordinate with the officers processing the scene. But I’ll catch some sleep before morning.”
Riley noted, “First thing tomorrow, the Fairfax Country Club. All three victims were members. Maybe someone besides Marcus Dalton had a grudge against the club or its board.”
“I’ll make those calls as soon as business hours start,” Callahan agreed. “And I’ll have my team run background checks on all the guests from tonight.”
Riley and Ann Marie gathered their notes and materials, then moved through the mansion’s now-quiet corridors. Outside, the night air was crisp. Their rental car sat where they’d left it hours earlier, looking strangely ordinary against the backdrop of police vehicles and crime scene vans.
Ann Marie yawned as she slid into the passenger seat. “City View Hotel, right? That’s where Meredith said we’re staying?”
“Yes,” Riley confirmed, starting the engine. “It’s downtown, about twenty minutes from here.”
As they pulled away from the Sterling mansion, Riley considered the man who had disappeared into the night, leaving only a false name and a blurred image.
Emil Doppler. A phantom with intimate knowledge of three wealthy women’s lives and deaths. A killer who was still out there, perhaps already selecting his next victim.