CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The revelation about the print shop had energized Riley despite her lack of rest. If their theory was correct, they were actually closing in on the person responsible for three brutal murders.
As she guided their car through Chicago’s morning traffic, the city already hummed with activity despite the early hour.
The sleek glass facades of downtown buildings caught the morning light, transforming them into towers of gold and amber, but her mind remained fixed on the connection they’d uncovered—silver and gold on printed materials that might lead them to their killer.
As they approached the intersection of Wells and Hubbard, she spotted Callahan’s unmarked police car already parked in front of a storefront with elegant lettering across its windows: Ink and Impressions.
The detective stood on the sidewalk waiting for them, hands tucked into the pockets of his overcoat, his breath visible in the crisp morning air.
Riley shut off the engine, and she and her partner stepped out into the brisk Chicago morning, feeling the familiar bite that gave the city its “Windy City” nickname. Riley pulled her jacket tighter as they approached Callahan, who straightened at their arrival.
“Morning,” he greeted them, his eyes sharp despite the shadows beneath them that spoke of a night as restless as Riley’s. “Got here about fifteen minutes ago. Place just opened.”
“Any activity?” Riley asked, glancing toward the shop’s front window where soft light illuminated a dignified display of elegant stationery and custom printed materials.
“One guy arrived to open up,” Callahan replied. “Middle-aged man, moves like he owns the place. No one else has gone in yet.” He paused, running a hand over the stubble on his jaw. “By the way, I spoke with the ME before coming over. You were right about the plastic bags, Agent Paige.”
Riley felt a grim satisfaction at the confirmation. “All three victims?”
“Preliminary findings indicate all three women were partially suffocated first—probably to subdue them without leaving obvious marks—before being poisoned. The ME found microscopic particles of plastic embedded in their nasal passages and around their mouths. Consistent with the thin, clear bags you might get at a store or a dry cleaner.”
“Perfect for a killer who doesn’t want to leave bruises or other signs of struggle,” Ann Marie noted, her voice low to prevent it carrying to passersby. “Subdues the victim quickly, leaves minimal evidence.”
“And fits with the staging we’ve seen at each scene,” Riley added. “The victims posed as if they’d been drinking voluntarily when in reality they were incapacitated first.”
“Something else came up,” Riley told Callahan. “We got a call from Nathaniel Thornfield.”
Callahan’s eyes narrowed with interest.
“He told us that Amanda Sterling, Victoria Ashworth, and Margaret Thornfield formed a business entity in 2013 called Triad Ventures LLC,” Riley continued. “They developed the Grand Horizon Mall.”
“A class action suit was filed,” Ann Marie added, “on behalf of the property owners whose land was taken.”
Callahan let out a low whistle. “The connection between the victims? Sounds significant.”
Riley’s expression was taut. “We think so too.”
She turned toward the print shop. “Shall we?”
The three of them crossed the sidewalk to Ink and Impressions.
A small bell chimed softly as Callahan pushed open the door, announcing their arrival.
Samples of wedding invitations, business cards, and event programs were displayed in glass cases along one wall, while the opposite side featured framed examples of what appeared to be award-winning designs.
Behind a long counter, a man looked up from a computer screen. He had thinning hair, gold-rimmed glasses, and appeared to be in his mid-fifties. His well-trimmed hair and button-down shirt and tie suggested professionalism, while the rolled-up sleeves indicated he was no stranger to hands-on work.
Riley assessed him immediately—too old and slight to match the build of the figure they’d seen on the security footage, too settled in his demeanor to suggest the kind of rage that had driven their killer.
“Good morning,” he greeted them with a polite smile that faltered slightly as he registered their serious expressions. “How can I help you today?”
Callahan stepped forward, badge already in hand. “Chicago PD. I’m Detective Lieutenant Callahan. These are Special Agents Paige and Esmer from the FBI.”
The man’s eyebrows rose, his hand freezing over the keyboard. “FBI? Is there some problem?”
“Are you the owner?” Riley asked.
“Yes, Vincent Shaw,” he replied, straightening slightly. “I’ve owned Ink and Impressions for almost fourteen years now.”
Riley reached into her bag and withdrew the folder Sebastian Mains had given her. She opened it on the counter, displaying the invitation to The Evening of Elegance, along with the other materials. “Mr. Shaw, were these items created here at your shop?”
Shaw leaned forward, adjusting his glasses as he examined the materials.
He traced the gold and silver filigree that bordered the invitation.
“Yes, absolutely. This is our work. We designed and printed these for Amanda Sterling’s annual charity event.
It’s one of our more prestigious jobs. The design is quite distinctive—we use a special technique for the metallic elements that very few print shops can replicate. ”
“Were you personally involved in creating these materials?” Ann Marie asked, notebook already open.
Shaw shook his head. “Not directly, no. I oversee all our projects, of course, but this particular job was handled by one of my employees.” He glanced between their faces, clearly trying to gauge the reason for their interest. “May I ask what this is about?”
Riley studied his expression carefully before responding. “Mr. Shaw, Amanda Sterling was murdered last night, during her Evening of Elegance event.”
The color drained from Shaw’s face, his mouth opening slightly in shock. “Murdered? My God—I hadn’t heard.” Genuine distress was evident on his features. “That’s terrible. Absolutely terrible.”
“We’re investigating Ms. Sterling’s murder,” Callahan said, “as well as the murders of Margaret Thornfield and Victoria Ashworth. All three women were killed in the same manner over the past three days.”
Recognition flickered in Shaw’s eyes. “I read about those other murders in the Tribune. But I had no idea Ms. Sterling...” He trailed off, shaking his head.
“I didn’t know any of those women personally, if that’s what you’re wondering.
Ms. Sterling has been a client for years, but I’ve never actually met her face-to-face.
She always sends someone from her staff whenever she needs something printed. ”
Riley noted his use of present tense when referring to Sterling—the unconscious language of someone who hadn’t yet processed a death. Another small indicator that his shock was genuine.
“Mr. Shaw,” she said, “we need to know everything about how these materials were produced. Who designed them, who printed them, who had access to them before they were finalized.”
Shaw was eager to cooperate. “Of course, of course. Let me pull up the job file.” He turned to his computer and pulled up a file. “The entire project—design, printing, and finishing—was handled by Tom Veach. He’s one of our best designers. Been with us for about a year now.”
“Your work included a very short run, the guest list was only handed out to the staff at the mansion.”
Looking puzzled, Shaw said, “I don’t see a guest list as part of the job. Just the invitations and cards for the drawing.” He turned back to the open folder.
“Ah, yes,” Shaw said, his expression clearing. “All of this is certainly our work, and the design is a match. Tom must have included that piece as a special favor. We sometimes do that with our best clients.”
Riley realized that if she hadn’t acquired this folder from Sebastian Mains, they might never have known that Veach had access to that guest list. A crucial lead, she realized, one that they could have easily missed.
“When was the job completed?” Ann Marie asked.
“Five days ago,” Shaw replied, eyes on the screen.
“Tom finished everything, and we delivered the materials to Ms. Sterling’s estate the following morning.
” He frowned slightly. “Actually, it’s odd you should ask about Tom.
He hasn’t been in for a few days. Called in sick the day after he completed this job, then just..
. stopped responding to messages. I’ve tried calling, emailing, and even sent a text yesterday asking if he was planning to return, but nothing. ”
Riley and Ann Marie exchanged a glance. Five days ago would have been just before the first murder.
“We’d like to see Thomas Veach’s employment information,” Riley said, keeping her tone neutral. This was it—the connection they’d been searching for.
Shaw hesitated only briefly. “I suppose that’s alright, given the circumstances.” He tapped at his keyboard again, then turned the monitor slightly so they could see. “Here’s his file.”
Riley leaned in, Ann Marie and Callahan flanking her on either side.
Thomas Veach, age 41. The address listed was in an area of Chicago that Riley recognized as solidly middle-class—not wealthy, but comfortable.
His emergency contact was listed simply as “None.” The social security number, phone number, and other personal details all appeared in order.
But of course, they would have those checked out.
“Can you scroll down to his employment history?” Riley requested.