CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Riley had the nagging sense that something crucial hovered just beyond her grasp as she guided their rental car into the underground parking garage at the City View Hotel.
Her mind rebelled against the idea of sleep, but she knew it was necessary if she was going to get anywhere with this investigation.
“I can’t believe we’re still functioning,” Ann Marie said, stifling a yawn as they gathered their bags from the trunk. “What time is it anyway?”
Riley glanced at her watch. “Almost two-thirty.” Perhaps not a terrible hour for someone out partying, but exhausting for those who worked as intensely as investigations demanded, whose decisions could mean life or death.
“God,” Ann Marie muttered. “And we’ll be back at it in what, five hours?”
They moved through the parking garage toward the elevator, their footsteps echoing against concrete.
The steel doors slid open with a soft chime, welcoming them into the elevator.
Neither spoke during the ascent, both still processing the events of the night—Amanda Sterling posed in her wine cellar, the glimpse of Emil Doppler’s face on security footage.
In the lobby, the floors were polished to a mirror shine, and subdued lighting was designed to flatter travel-worn faces. The space was nearly deserted save for the night clerk who straightened at their approach, professional smile already in place.
“Good evening—or rather, good morning,” he greeted them. “Welcome to City View Hotel.”
Riley slid her credentials across the marble counter. “FBI. We should have reservations under Paige and Esmer.”
The clerk’s eyes widened slightly. “Of course, Agent Paige. We’ve been expecting you.” His fingers moved efficiently across the keyboard. “We have you both in rooms on the fifteenth floor. Would you prefer to be adjacent or separated?”
“Adjacent is fine,” Riley replied, too tired to care either way.
The clerk swiped two key cards through an electronic reader. “Rooms 1521 and 1523. The elevators to your left will take you directly to your floor. Is there anything else you require this evening? Perhaps room service?”
“Just sleep,” Ann Marie said as she accepted her key card.
They rode the second elevator in the same exhausted silence, parting ways in the corridor with mumbled goodnights.
Riley inserted her key card, pushed through the heavy door, and found herself in a room that could have been in any city in America—tasteful but forgettable décor, a king-sized bed with crisp white linens, and a standard desk arrangement near the window.
Home for the night, or what remained of it.
She dropped her bag on the luggage rack and crossed to the window, pulling back the heavy curtains.
Chicago spread before her, a constellation of lights stretching to the dark line of Lake Michigan, visible only as an absence of illumination on the eastern horizon.
Somewhere in that grid of light and shadow, Emil Doppler moved through the night, perhaps already planning his next attack.
Riley let the curtain fall back into place and sank onto the edge of the bed. She should shower, should review her notes one more time. She considered checking in with Meredith back at Quantico, but knew it was even later there.
For a few moments, she just sat motionless. Then her phone vibrated in her pocket, startling her from her reverie. Bill’s name appeared on the screen along with a text message:
Still awake? Me too.
As she pressed the call button, relief washed through her at the connection to home, to normalcy.
“Hey,” Bill’s voice, warm and familiar, filled her ear after the first ring. “I wasn’t sure if you’d still be up. Though I figured the odds were good, knowing you.”
“Just got to the hotel,” Riley replied, kicking off her shoes and leaning back against the headboard. “What’s your excuse for being awake at this hour?”
“Can’t sleep,” he admitted. “Kept checking the security system, peeking in on Jilly. She’s out cold, by the way. Teenagers—they can sleep through anything.”
Riley heard the underlying tension in his voice. “Leo Dillard’s still got you worried.”
“Yeah.” The single syllable carried the weight of days spent on high alert. “Part of me knows we’ve done everything we can. The security system’s top-notch, local PD is making regular patrols, Jilly’s being careful. But I can’t shake this feeling that he’s out there, watching, waiting.”
“I understand,” Riley said softly. “He’s the kind of threat that gets under your skin.”
“Enough about my insomnia,” Bill redirected. “How’s the case going? Last we talked, you had just arrested that sommelier—Dalton.”
Riley sighed. “That turned out to be a dead end. Marcus Dalton is definitely not our killer, despite the perfect motive and means.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because while he was sitting in police custody, our killer struck again,” Riley explained, the frustration evident in her voice.
“Amanda Sterling, another Chicago socialite, was poisoned with arsenic in wine, body was posed just like the others. Same signature, same MO, no indication of Dalton’s involvement, not even as an accessory.
And the killer’s getting more daring, Bill.
This time, he struck in the middle of a high-class charitable event. ”
“Damn,” Bill murmured. “So you’re back to square one?”
“Not completely. The only security cameras were outside the Sterling mansion, but we spotted the image of a man entering who had also turned up in the Grand Regency footage. He wore a disguise—mustache, glasses, possibly a hairpiece. We know he infiltrated Sterling’s charity gala under a false name—Emil Doppler.
No one had ever heard of him before, yet somehow he got on the guest list.”
“Any leads on who this Doppler might be?”
“Nothing solid. The name’s almost certainly an alias.
No Emil Doppler in any database matches our suspect’s description.
” Riley closed her eyes, pressing her fingers against her temples where a headache was beginning to form.
“What connects these victims besides their social circle and membership at the same country club? What’s driving him to kill these specific women?
I’m missing something, Bill. I know I am. ”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself,” he said gently. “You’ve been at this non-stop since you arrived in Chicago. Sometimes the connections don’t reveal themselves until you step back.”
“That’s easy to say when women aren’t being murdered every day.”
“I know,” Bill acknowledged. “But I also know you, Riley. Some of your best insights come after you’ve slept, when your subconscious has had time to process everything you’ve absorbed.”
The truth in his words made her smile despite her exhaustion. “Are you psychoanalyzing me, Agent Jeffreys?”
“Just speaking from experience, Agent Paige.” His tone lightened, matching hers. “Remember the Starkweather case? You woke me up at four in the morning because you’d dreamed about the missing piece.”
“Fair point,” Riley conceded. The tension in her shoulders began to ease. Bill’s voice was working its familiar magic, grounding her when the case threatened to pull her under. “You should try to get some sleep, too, Bill. Hovering over Jilly won’t make either of you safer.”
“I know. I’ll try. Call me tomorrow?”
“Of course. Give Jilly a hug from me in the morning.”
“Will do. Goodnight, Riley.” The affection in his voice warmed her.
“Goodnight, Bill.”
The call ended, and Riley sat for a moment, phone still in hand, feeling both closer to home and farther away.
With a sigh, she rose and moved to the bathroom, stripping off her clothes as she went.
The hot shower helped wash away some of the day’s tension, but her mind continued to circle around the puzzle pieces of the case, trying different configurations, seeking the pattern that would make sense of it all.
As she slipped between the cool sheets, Riley knew Bill was right.
She needed to sleep, to let her unconscious mind work on the problem while her conscious mind rested.
The killer had established a pattern—one woman each day for three days running.
Would tomorrow bring a fourth victim? The thought followed her into uneasy dreams, where faceless men in mustaches and glasses pursued socialites through endless wine cellars while she struggled to catch up, always one step behind.
***
Riley jolted awake in a sudden, electric snap.
Outside her hotel window, Chicago was barely stirring, the sky a pale gray between skyscrapers, neither night nor day but the liminal space between.
The digital clock on the nightstand glowed 6:27 in accusatory red numerals.
She had slept less than four hours, yet her mind was abruptly, completely alert—pulled from slumber by the insistent tug of a realization forming in her unconscious.
She lay still for a moment, allowing the fragments to surface, knowing from experience that chasing too eagerly after these half-formed insights could cause them to scatter like startled birds.
It had something to do with The Evening of Elegance, with Amanda Sterling’s guest list and the phantom who had infiltrated it.
Emil Doppler.
The name echoed in her mind, followed immediately by the question that had haunted her investigation: How had he gained access to such an exclusive event? How had his name appeared on a guest list personally curated by Amanda Sterling?
Riley sat up, pushing tangled hair from her face, her body catching up to her racing thoughts. The conversation with Sebastian Mains replayed in her memory with sudden clarity:
“Who had copies of that list?” she had asked.
“Everyone on the staff,” Mains had answered.
Of course, all those staff people had been interviewed and cleared. But there was someone else who might have been able to change that list of names, to add to it …
Suddenly, Riley knew where to look for the elusive Emil Doppler.