CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Chicago Police Department’s homicide division hummed with activity as Riley and Ann Marie claimed two chairs in a corner of the waiting area.
“It might still be a while before Callahan gets the warrants for Veach and his home,” Riley said, checking her watch. “Let’s use this time to dig deeper into that mall development.”
Ann Marie was already pulling out her phone. “I’ll see what I can find about Grand Horizon Mall and the class action suit Thornfield mentioned.”
While Ann Marie brought up information on her screen, Riley watched the officers and detectives moving through the bullpen with the same rhythms she’d observed in police stations across the country.
A coffee pot gurgled in the corner, its rich aroma cutting through the antiseptic smell of the institutional space.
“Here we go,” Ann Marie said after several minutes of intense scrolling.
“Grand Horizon Mall, constructed between 2013 and 2015. Prior to construction, the site contained several small businesses and residential properties. The development faced significant local opposition. Property owners claimed they were pressured to sell and weren’t offered fair market value. ”
“Classic gentrification dispute,” Riley observed. “What happened with the lawsuit?”
Ann Marie tapped and scrolled again. “The class action suit represented twenty-seven property owners against Triad Ventures LLC. It alleged violations of property rights, inadequate compensation, and failure to follow proper environmental impact procedures.” She paused, looking up at Riley.
“The case was dismissed. Lack of evidence, according to the judge.”
“Who represented the plaintiffs?”
“The attorney of record was Darren Kuhl of Kuhl and Associates. There’s even a photo here from a press conference after the dismissal.”
She turned her phone so Riley could see the image—a man standing on courthouse steps, surrounded by a group of disgruntled-looking people. His expression was angry, his posture that of someone who refused to accept defeat.
The door to the bullpen swung open, and Callahan strode toward them, his pace brisk, a folder clutched in his hand.
“Got the warrants,” he announced. “One for Veach’s arrest, another for his residence. I’ve got a team assembling now.” He paused, noticing their expressions. “What? You found something?”
“We think we’ve identified another connection,” Riley told him. “An attorney named Darren Kuhl represented the plaintiffs in a lawsuit against Triad Ventures. They lost the case, but Kuhl might know something about Veach’s potential connection.”
Callahan’s eyebrows rose as he absorbed this new information. “Kuhl’s a respected attorney here in Chicago. Specializes in property rights cases and class actions. Has a reputation for taking on corporations and usually winning.”
“We need to talk to him, see if he remembers any connection to Veach, or can tell us more about plaintiffs who might have had a particularly strong grievance.”
Callahan considered this, then agreed. “Makes sense. We should follow both leads. I’ll take the team to Veach’s residence with the search warrant and see what we can find there. You see what Kuhl can tell you about the lawsuit and who might have had a vendetta against our victims.”
“Exactly what I was thinking,” Riley said, rising from her chair. “Where’s Kuhl’s office?”
“Downtown, Michigan Avenue. High-end building, very respectable.” Callahan pulled out his phone and forwarded the address to Riley’s email. “His firm’s grown in recent years. It’s Kuhl, Winters, and Delaney.”
“We’ll head there now,” Riley said, gathering her things. Ann Marie followed suit, tucking her phone away.
“I’ll call as soon as we find anything at Veach’s place,” Callahan promised.
***
Kuhl, Winters, and Delaney occupied the thirty-second floor of a gleaming Michigan Avenue tower, the kind of address that spoke of success measured in billable hours and high-profile victories.
As the elevator ascended, Riley watched the floor numbers tick upward, each illuminated digit bringing them closer to a man who might hold crucial pieces of their puzzle.
Beside her, Ann Marie reviewed her notes.
“You think Kuhl will remember details from a case he lost years ago?” Ann Marie asked as the elevator slowed.
“Attorneys don’t forget the ones that got away,” Riley replied. “Especially not cases that made headlines.”
The doors slid open to reveal a reception area designed to impress—walls of polished mahogany, abstract art in tasteful frames, and floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of Lake Michigan.
A woman with immaculate silver hair sat behind a curved desk, her crisp blazer and pearl necklace projecting an air of professional competence.
“Good morning,” she greeted them. “Welcome to Kuhl, Winters, and Delaney. How may I assist you today?”
Riley approached, credentials already in hand. “I’m Special Agent Riley Paige with the FBI. This is my colleague, Special Agent Ann Marie Esmer. We need to speak with Darren Kuhl regarding an urgent matter.”
The receptionist’s smile faltered slightly, but her composure remained intact. “I see. Mr. Kuhl is preparing for a deposition this afternoon. Do you have an appointment?”
“This concerns an active murder investigation,” Riley said firmly. “Three people are dead. We believe Mr. Kuhl may have information that could help prevent a fourth death.”
The receptionist’s eyes widened. She picked up her phone. After a brief, hushed conversation, she looked up at them. “Mr. Kuhl will see you. His assistant will be out momentarily to escort you to his office.”
They waited less than a minute before a young man in a perfectly tailored suit appeared, introducing himself as Kuhl’s assistant. He led them down a hallway lined with photographs of landmark Chicago buildings and knocked once on a heavy wooden door before opening it.
“Agents Paige and Esmer, sir,” he announced, then stepped aside to allow them entry.
Darren Kuhl stood behind a massive desk, its surface clear except for a laptop and a single legal pad. He was tall and lean, with gray hair and piercing blue eyes that assessed them with obvious intelligence. The photo Ann Marie had found online hadn’t captured his intensity.
“Agents,” he said, gesturing to two chairs positioned before his desk. “Please, sit. My assistant mentioned this is about a murder investigation?”
As they seated themselves, Riley noted the strategic placement of diplomas and awards on the wall behind him—Harvard Law, certificates of recognition from various legal associations, framed newspaper articles about significant victories.
A man who valued his achievements and wanted others to recognize them.
“Thank you for seeing us without an appointment, Mr. Kuhl,” Riley began. “We’re investigating the murders of Margaret Thornfield, Victoria Ashworth, and Amanda Sterling.”
Kuhl’s expression shifted subtly—recognition, followed by something harder to define. “Yes, I’ve seen the news reports. Tragic.” He settled into his chair. “But I’m not sure how I can help. Although I’d met all three of those women, I didn’t know any of them well.”
“You once represented twenty-seven plaintiffs in a class action lawsuit against Triad Ventures LLC,” Ann Marie said, her notebook open on her lap. “Triad Ventures was the business entity formed by Thornfield, Ashworth, and Sterling to develop the Grand Horizon Mall.”
Kuhl’s eyes narrowed slightly. He leaned back. “That case was dismissed more than a decade ago. Are you suggesting there’s a connection to these recent murders?”
“We believe there may be,” Riley confirmed. “Could you tell us about the real estate scheme and the damage it caused to your clients?”
For a moment, Kuhl was silent, his gaze distant as if reassembling memories of an old battle. Then he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk.
“It wasn’t technically a scheme in the legal sense—that’s why we lost,” he said, his voice taking on a clipped, precise quality.
“Triad Ventures worked within the law, but they exploited every loophole available. They targeted an area with small businesses, family homes, and properties that had been in the same hands for generations. They bought key parcels, then lobbied for zoning changes that devalued neighboring properties. When owners refused to sell, Triad worked with city officials to have the remaining properties declared ‘blighted,’ making them subject to eminent domain.”
“The power of the government to take private property and convert it into public use,” Ann Marie muttered.”
“With compensation,” Kuhl added. “But the compensation was far below what these properties were worth to the people who owned them.”
“And your lawsuit was dismissed?”
“The judge ruled that Triad had operated within the law, that the city’s use of eminent domain was legitimate for economic development purposes.
” Bitterness edged into his voice. “Twenty-seven families and small business owners lost everything they had built. Some were compensated at rates that wouldn’t even cover relocation costs. ”
Riley noted his genuine anger that still lingered after all these years. “Could you tell us about some of your clients? Particularly any who might have had deeper grievances than the others?”
Kuhl considered this, then he turned his attention to his computer and began searching through digital archives with the speed of someone accustomed to retrieving specific details from vast repositories of information.
“I haven’t looked at this file in years, but I keep the most significant cases.
He scanned the screen briefly, then said, “The Martinelli family lost a restaurant that had been operating since 1947. The Chens lost a pharmacy that served the neighborhood for three generations. The Garcias lost their home of thirty-five years.”
Then he paused on a particular page.
“The most devastating case, in my opinion, was Crimson Grove Winery. Founded in 1905 by Clark Garrett, it was one of the few urban wineries in the country. It even survived Prohibition, made non-alcoholic wine during those years. Then it survived the Great Depression and two world wars. At the time of the lawsuit, it was owned by Ila Garrett, Clark’s great-granddaughter. ”
Ann Marie’s pen moved swiftly across her notebook. “What happened to her?”
“She fought harder than anyone,” Kuhl said, his voice softening with respect.
“Refused to sell even when they offered three times what the other properties received. The winery wasn’t just her business—it was her heritage, her family’s legacy.
When they finally seized it through eminent domain, something in her broke.
” He closed the file. “She died five years after the mall opened. Official cause was liver failure, but everyone knew it was depression and alcoholism. The cruel irony wasn’t lost on anyone—a winemaker destroyed by the very substance she had crafted with such care. ”
Riley felt the familiar tingle that came when disparate pieces of a case began to align. “Did Ila Garrett have any heirs? Children, nieces, nephews?”
Kuhl shook his head. “No, she was the last of the Garrett wine family. No siblings, never married, no children. With her death, a century-old legacy simply vanished.”
Riley’s phone vibrated in her pocket. Seeing Callahan’s name on the screen, she excused herself. “I need to take this,” she said, standing up and stepping toward the door. “Ann Marie, continue with Mr. Kuhl.”
In the hallway, she answered immediately. “What did you find?”
“Veach wasn’t at his apartment,” Callahan replied, his voice tight with urgency. “But we found plenty of evidence confirming he’s our guy. There’s a workroom set up like a small lab—rubber gloves, funnels, liquid measuring tools. And arsenic, Agent Paige. A substantial amount.”
“Wine bottles?” she asked, keeping her voice low.
“Several. Unlabeled, but each had a small tag tied around the neck with different wine types written on them—Cabernet, Merlot, and Chardonnay. No vineyard or vintage indicated.” He paused.
“There’s more. We found a whiteboard with four names written on it.
Margaret, Victoria, and Amanda—all crossed out. ”
“And the fourth?”
“Evelyn. Not crossed out.”
Riley felt her pulse quicken. “He’s planning another murder.”
“Looks that way,” Callahan confirmed. “We’re dusting for prints, collecting samples, the works. But no sign of where Veach might be now.”
“We’ve learned something too,” Riley said. “One of the properties destroyed for the Grand Horizon Mall was the Crimson Grove Winery. Founded in 1905, owned by the Garrett family for generations. The last owner, Ila Garrett, died of depression and alcoholism five years after losing her property.”
“You think Veach is connected to the winery?”
“It would explain the wine connection, the targeting of the Triad Ventures women. Can you run a background check, see if there’s any link between Thomas Veach and Ila Garrett or Crimson Grove Winery?”
“On it,” Callahan promised. “What about this Evelyn? Any ideas?”
“Not yet, but I’m about to ask Kuhl if the name means anything to him.” She glanced back toward the office door. “I’ll call you right after.”
Ending the call, Riley returned to Kuhl’s office, where Ann Marie was still questioning him about other plaintiffs in the case. She slipped back into her chair.
“Mr. Kuhl,” she said, interrupting a detailed account of zoning violations, “does the name Evelyn mean anything to you in relation to the class action case? Any of the plaintiffs, witnesses, or family members of those affected?”
Kuhl frowned as he considered the question. “Evelyn? I don’t think so. It’s not a name I immediately associate with that case.” He flipped through the folder again, scanning the pages. “No, I don’t see any Evelyn listed here.”
Riley exchanged a glance with Ann Marie, disappointment evident in both their expressions. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Kuhl. You’ve been very helpful.”
The two agents rose from their chairs and had nearly reached the door when Kuhl’s voice halted them mid-step.
“Wait.” There was a new tension in his voice. “Evelyn. It wasn’t—” He closed his eyes briefly, as if searching internally. “Actually, I think I do remember that name.”