This was about more than eliminating a single person; it was also about making a statement.
That duality pointed to something she’d seen before in the most dangerous type of killer—one who combined personal grievance with a terrible artistic ambition, a need for recognition.Such perpetrators rarely stopped at a single victim.They created series, progressively elaborate demonstrations of their vision.
So who might be the next target?Someone else connected to Roberta Rimes’ legacy?Another figure from classic Hollywood?Or perhaps someone connected to Magnolia Gateway Studios itself?
Without concrete evidence, the possibilities remained frustratingly vast.But Riley felt certain of one thing—this killer wasn’t finished.The murder of Veronica Slate wasn’t the finale; it was the opening act.
She opened her eyes, blinking against the amber lights of the set.Her colleagues stood watching her—Hayes with barely concealed skepticism, Ann Marie with open curiosity, Gillian with a mixture of hope and dread.
“Find anything in there?”Hayes asked, gesturing vaguely toward Riley’s head.
Riley ignored the subtle mockery in his tone.Local detectives often regarded the BAU’s psychological approach with suspicion, and even more so Riley’s intuitive methods.In fact, Riley had confided in few people about exactly how those methods worked.One of those people was Bill.The other was Ann Marie.
“Possibly,” she replied, stepping away from the table where Veronica had received her fatal drink.“Ms.Sinclair, based on the layout and lighting, it would have been relatively easy for someone to add something to her drink before it was delivered or even afterward, while she was performing.”
“I wasn’t watching the drinks or the servers at all,” Gillian replied.“I was watching Ronnie on stage.”
“That’s not your fault,” Ann Marie said gently.“The killer deliberately used the circumstances to their advantage.”
Riley moved closer to Gillian, who had sunk onto one of the period-appropriate chairs, her normally commanding presence diminished by grief and now guilt.
“Ms.Sinclair,” Riley said, her voice low and steady, “I need to ask you something important.In the days before her death, did Veronica mention any conflicts?Anyone she was having trouble with, or who might have had reason to wish her harm?”
Gillian stared at the floor, her brow furrowed in concentration.“Veronica had her share of professional rivalries over the years, but nothing recent or serious enough to...”She trailed off, then looked up suddenly.“Wait.There was something.Just before we entered the soundstage last night.”
Riley felt a familiar prickle of anticipation.“What happened?”
“We were walking through the studio gates with the group from the theater.Veronica suddenly tensed beside me.She’d spotted our head of security.”Gillian’s voice took on a new urgency.
“What was his name?”Riley asked.
“Malcolm Hartley.She recognized his face, although she didn’t tell me from where or when.She asked if that was really him, and when I confirmed it, she seemed...disturbed.Said she’d tell me about him later.”
“Did she elaborate at all?”Riley pressed.
Gillian shook her head, distress evident in her features.“We got caught up in the excitement of the surprise.I completely forgot about it until just now.”Her eyes widened with dawning horror.“And she never got the chance to tell me what it was about.”
Riley exchanged a glance with Hayes, whose posture had shifted from relaxed skepticism to alert interest.
“We need to speak with Malcolm Hartley immediately,” Riley said.
Hayes nodded.“Where would we find him at this hour, Ms.Sinclair?”
“His office is in the security building, near the main gate,” Gillian replied, rising from her chair with renewed purpose.“I’ll take you there.”
Gillian led them out of the soundstage into the harsh daylight of the Atlanta afternoon.The contrast between the atmospheric noir setting they’d just left and the mundane reality of a film studio—golf carts, clipboard-carrying assistants, the distant sound of construction—was jarring.Riley felt as if they’d stepped through a portal from one world to another, from fiction into fact.
As they walked, Hayes fell into step beside Riley.“You think this security guy could be involved?”he asked in a low voice.
“It’s a connection worth exploring,” Riley replied, careful not to overcommit.“Veronica’s reaction to seeing him suggests a possible history between them.At least, something troubled her enough to mention it even during what should have been an exciting moment.”
Ann Marie joined their quiet conversation.“If there was bad blood between them, Hartley would have had both motive and opportunity.And Veronica took notice of him just a few moments before she died.”
They crossed the studio lot, passing various buildings and outdoor sets.The security building was a modest structure near the main entrance—practical rather than impressive, with small windows and a utilitarian design that contrasted with the more aesthetically pleasing studio facilities.
Gillian pushed through the front door, nodding to a uniformed guard at the reception desk.“Is Malcolm in his office?”she asked, her tone carrying the easy authority of someone accustomed to command.
The guard straightened slightly.“No, ma’am.Mr.Hartley didn’t come in today.Don’t know where he is.He didn’t even call in sick.”
