Page 13 of Outside the Room (Isla Rivers #1)

The port authority building hummed with activity despite the late hour. Additional FBI agents had arrived from the field office, transforming the normally quiet administrative space into a command center for what was now officially designated a multiple homicide investigation.

Isla stood at a conference room window, watching as security teams conducted patrols through the container yard, their flashlight beams cutting through the darkness like searchlights.

The initial shock of finding Pearce's body had given way to focused determination as she mentally organized their next steps.

"Rivers," Sullivan called from the doorway. "Raymond O'Connor just arrived. He wants to talk to us."

Isla turned, recalling the name from their earlier investigation. "Pearce and Whitman's supervisor? I thought he wasn't working yesterday."

"He wasn't. It was his day off." Sullivan lowered his voice as they walked down the hallway. "He's pretty shaken up. Just found out about Pearce when he came in for his shift."

They entered a smaller conference room where a man in his fifties sat slumped at the table.

Raymond O'Connor had the weathered appearance of someone who had spent years working outdoors before moving to an administrative role.

His face was drawn with shock and grief, hands wrapped around a coffee mug that appeared untouched.

"Mr. O'Connor," Isla began, taking a seat across from him. "I'm Agent Rivers. I believe you've already met Agent Sullivan."

O'Connor nodded, his gaze unfocused. "Two of my people," he said hoarsely. "Two of my people murdered in three days."

"We're very sorry for your loss," Isla said, genuine sympathy in her voice. "I understand you were close to both of them."

"Marcus had been with us fifteen years. Diana, almost ten." O'Connor drew a deep breath, visibly struggling to maintain composure. "Best people on my team. Thorough. Dedicated."

"That's why we need your help," Sullivan said, his tone gentler than Isla had heard him use with anyone besides his daughter. "Whatever Whitman and Pearce discovered, it got them killed. We need to understand what they were working on."

O'Connor straightened slightly, purpose replacing some of the shock in his expression. "I want to help. I'm not leaving until we find whoever did this."

"We appreciate that," Isla said. "Let's start with what you know about their recent work. Were they collaborating on anything specific?"

"Not officially," O'Connor replied. "But they often consulted each other on irregularities.

Both had an eye for patterns most people would miss.

" He ran a hand through his thinning hair.

"Marcus had flagged several shipping manifests for review over the past few weeks.

After his murder, I asked Diana to look into them, see if she could figure out what he'd noticed. "

"And now the manifests are missing," Sullivan observed. "Both the originals Whitman was reviewing and whatever copies Pearce was working with."

O'Connor nodded grimly. "Whatever irregularities they detected, those manifests are the key."

"Can we reconstruct them?" Isla asked. "Surely there are backup copies somewhere?"

A flicker of frustration crossed O'Connor's face.

"That's the problem. The port's record-keeping system is.

.. antiquated, to put it kindly. We're only just beginning to digitize everything.

Complete digital backups would require contacting shipping agents across multiple ports in the U.S.

, Canada, and overseas—a time-consuming process. "

"But possible?" Sullivan pressed.

"Possible, yes. But it could take days, maybe weeks, to get everything.

" O'Connor leaned forward. "Look, our standard procedure is to maintain physical copies for two years, then archive them.

The digital transition is still underway.

Most of what Whitman and Pearce were reviewing only existed as hard copies. "

Isla absorbed this, rethinking their approach. "What about the shipping companies themselves? Would they have records of what passed through Duluth?"

"They should," O'Connor confirmed. "But getting them to share proprietary information without specific cause might be challenging.

" He hesitated, then opened his briefcase, removing a thick folder.

"I brought everything I could find that might help—contact information for every shipping company using the port in the past six months, staff schedules showing who worked alongside Whitman and Pearce, security protocols for the container yard. "

Isla accepted the folder, impressed by his preparedness despite his obvious distress. "This is extremely helpful, Mr. O'Connor. Thank you."

"Raymond, please," he insisted. "And I want to be clear—whatever resources you need, whatever access, it's yours. I want whoever did this caught and prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law."

As they continued discussing potential avenues of investigation, Isla studied O'Connor more carefully.

His grief appeared genuine, as did his desire to assist them.

Yet something about his eagerness triggered her professional caution—a habit developed through years of investigating complex crimes where appearances often masked darker realities.

"Raymond," she said carefully, "can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm Whitman or Pearce? Any conflicts, personal or professional?"

O'Connor shook his head firmly. "They were respected professionals. Marcus could be a stickler for regulations, which occasionally created tension with shipping companies facing delays, but nothing beyond normal workplace friction."

"What about personal lives?" Sullivan asked.

"Marcus lived alone, devoted to his job and his model ships. Diana was divorced, no children. Lived with her sister in Lincoln Park." O'Connor frowned. "Neither had enemies that I knew of. This wasn't personal—it was about what they found."

"Which brings us back to those manifests," Isla concluded.

O'Connor nodded wearily. "I've authorized full access to all remaining port records. My office is preparing copies of everything we still have related to the shipping companies Whitman had flagged."

As they wrapped up the interview, O'Connor stood to leave but paused, remembering something.

"I almost forgot—I brought Marcus's personal calendar.

I found it in his locker. Might help establish his movements before he was killed.

" He retrieved a small leather-bound planner from his briefcase and handed it to Sullivan.

"Thank you," Sullivan said. "This could be very useful."

O'Connor gathered his things, his movements weighted with exhaustion. "I'll be in my office if you need anything else. I can't go home, not with..." He didn't finish the sentence, but the implication was clear—not with two of his employees murdered and the killer still at large.

As he reached the door, Isla noticed a photograph that had fallen from his briefcase—a glossy 8x10 that appeared to be from some sort of formal event. She picked it up, intending to return it to him.

"Your charity event?" she asked, noting the formal attire of the people in the image.

O'Connor glanced at the photo and nodded. "Annual fundraiser for the Great Lakes Preservation Foundation. Important networking opportunity for port administration."

Isla studied the image more closely, recognizing O'Connor standing alongside several men in expensive suits, all holding champagne glasses and smiling for the camera.

One of the men looked vaguely familiar—tall, distinguished, with silver hair and the confident bearing of someone accustomed to authority.

"Who's this?" she asked casually, pointing to the man.

"That's Gregory Nash, CEO of Nash Global Shipping." O'Connor's tone suggested the name should mean something to her. "One of our largest clients. His company moves about twenty percent of the container traffic through Duluth."

Isla committed the name and face to memory, recalling where she'd seen him before—a brochure about Nash Global expanding Great Lakes operations that she'd looked at while waiting for her first meeting with Channing.

"Quite influential in shipping circles, I imagine," she observed, returning the photograph.

"In shipping and beyond," O'Connor confirmed. "Nash sits on several regulatory boards and has connections in Washington. His company has been instrumental in modernizing shipping routes through the Great Lakes."

Isla made a mental note to look into Nash Global more thoroughly. If Whitman had been reviewing their manifests before his death, the company deserved closer scrutiny.

"Thank you again for your cooperation, Raymond," Sullivan said as he escorted O'Connor to the door. "We'll be in touch if we have more questions."

When O'Connor had left, Sullivan turned to Isla with a questioning look. "Something about Nash Global caught your interest?"

"Just a possibility," Isla replied, not wanting to overcommit to a theory with such limited evidence. "Whitman was reviewing manifests from multiple companies. Nash Global could be relevant, or it could be coincidence that their CEO was in that photo."

Sullivan seemed to accept this, though his expression suggested he'd picked up on her interest. "Let's go through O'Connor's files, see if we can establish any connections between the shipping companies Whitman was investigating."

They spent the next hour reviewing the documents O'Connor had provided, organizing them on a timeline that might help reconstruct Whitman's activities in the days before his murder.

Isla found herself impressed by the level of detail in the port's operations—each container meticulously tracked from arrival to departure, with multiple verification points throughout the process.

"The system is thorough," she observed, "which makes me wonder what Whitman noticed that others missed."

"People who work systems every day develop instincts," Sullivan replied, not looking up from the file he was reviewing. "They recognize anomalies that wouldn't register with someone just following procedures."

"Like how you develop a sense for when a suspect is lying," Isla agreed, "even when all the visible evidence supports their story."

Sullivan glanced up, a flicker of something like respect in his eyes. "Exactly. Whitman had been doing this job for fifteen years. If something felt wrong to him, it probably was—even if he couldn't immediately prove it."

As they continued working, Isla found herself increasingly certain that whatever Whitman and Pearce had discovered involved systematic exploitation of the port's procedures—not isolated incidents of smuggling like Bradley's operation, but something larger and more organized that used the legitimate shipping infrastructure as cover.

The question was: what were they hiding, and how far would they go to protect it?