Page 14 of Outside the Room (Isla Rivers #1)

Darkness had fallen completely by the time they finished their initial review of O'Connor's files.

Outside the windows of the port authority building, security lights illuminated the vast container yard, where armed officers now patrolled in pairs.

The temporary port lockdown Sullivan had ordered was in full effect—no vessels permitted to dock or depart, no containers allowed to be moved or transported.

Isla rolled her shoulders, trying to ease the tension that had settled there during hours of concentrated work.

She moved to the large wall map displaying the port's layout, studying the complex network of docks, storage areas, and transportation corridors that made Duluth's harbor one of the most significant shipping hubs on the Great Lakes.

"We need to implement stricter security protocols," she said as Sullivan joined her at the map. "More patrols, additional checkpoints, complete documentation for anyone entering or leaving the port area."

Sullivan nodded, the shadows under his eyes betraying his fatigue despite his focused demeanor. "Already in progress. O'Connor called in additional security personnel. The port is operating with minimal essential staff until further notice."

"What about the containers scheduled for transport?" Isla asked, gesturing to the loading area where dozens of containers awaited transfer to rail cars and trucks.

"On hold for now," Sullivan replied. "Which means we're on a clock. The economic pressure will mount quickly."

As if on cue, his phone rang. He checked the screen and grimaced. "Governor's office. Again."

It was the third such call in the past hour. Isla watched as Sullivan stepped away to answer, his responses professional but increasingly terse as he explained why the port couldn't immediately resume normal operations.

When he returned, his expression was grim. "The governor 'strongly encourages' us to resolve this situation as quickly as possible. Apparently, dozens of shipping companies have already lodged formal complaints about the delays."

"Did you explain that we have two murdered federal employees and an active threat to port security?" Isla asked, though she already knew the answer.

"I did. He expressed his condolences before reminding me that the port processes over thirty million dollars in goods daily, and each hour of shutdown creates rippling delays across the Great Lakes shipping network.

" Sullivan's tone made clear what he thought of prioritizing economics over safety.

"He specifically mentioned a shipment of medical supplies bound for Chicago hospitals that's been delayed twelve hours already.

Apparently, the head of the state medical association is 'personally concerned. '"

Isla felt the weight of that pressure—real people affected by their investigation, not just abstract economic figures. She turned back to the map, her mind working through possibilities. "We can't maintain a complete lockdown indefinitely, but we need enough time to secure potential evidence."

"And identify who had access to both Whitman and Pearce's offices," Sullivan added. "The killer knew their routines, their work patterns. That suggests someone familiar with port operations."

"Or someone they trusted enough to let their guard down," Isla suggested. "Both victims were found in similar containers, killed in similar ways. That's not coincidence—it's signature."

A faint sound from the hallway outside made them both pause—footsteps that stopped just outside the conference room door before continuing. Isla and Sullivan exchanged a glance. The building should have been nearly empty at this hour, with only essential security personnel remaining.

Sullivan moved to the conference table where they'd arranged the case files and manifests in careful chronological order. "What if it's not about specific contraband?" he mused, his voice slightly lower now. "What if Whitman and Pearce noticed a pattern or system being exploited?"

Isla joined him, her interest piqued, but also conscious of keeping their voices down. "A methodology rather than a particular shipment. That would explain why Bradley's smuggling operation seems connected but not directly responsible."

"Bradley was small-time," Sullivan agreed. "Using his fishing boat to move things across the border. But what if there's a larger operation using the shipping containers themselves as cover?"

"False manifests," Isla suggested, warming to the theory. "Mislabeled weights, contents, or destinations. In a port this size, with thousands of containers moving through weekly, who would notice minor discrepancies?"

"Whitman would," Sullivan said quietly. "And then Pearce, once she started looking."

They fell silent, both contemplating the implications. If true, they weren't dealing with isolated incidents but potentially years of systematic exploitation of the port's infrastructure—criminal activity that could involve multiple companies, officials, and perhaps even law enforcement.

Isla's phone chimed with an incoming message. She checked it, finding a text from Channing at the field office: Preliminary autopsy confirms Pearce killed same method as Whitman. Trace evidence being analyzed now. Keep me updated on the port security situation.

Isla relayed the information to Sullivan, though it merely confirmed what they'd already suspected. Two murders with identical signatures meant a single killer or killers working together—not random violence but calculated elimination of specific targets.

"We need to establish a timeline," she said decisively. "Everything Whitman did in the week before his death, everyone he spoke with, every manifest he reviewed."

Sullivan nodded. "And the same for Pearce. If we can identify what they were both investigating, we might find what got them killed."

The sound of the conference room door opening interrupted their planning. A young agent Isla didn't recognize entered, carrying a stack of printed emails.

"Agents Rivers and Sullivan? These just came in from the tech team. They managed to recover some of Pearce's recent emails from the server backup. Thought you'd want to see them right away."

Isla accepted the papers with a nod of thanks. As the agent left, she and Sullivan began reviewing the printouts, looking for anything that might connect to their investigation.

"Here," Sullivan said after several minutes, holding up a page. "Email from Pearce to Whitman, sent three days before his death. Subject line: 'Weight Discrepancies in Nash Global Shipments.'"

Isla felt a surge of adrenaline at the mention of the company and CEO she'd noticed in O'Connor's photograph. "What does it say?"

Sullivan read aloud: "'Marcus, noticed something odd in the NG manifests you flagged. Container weights consistently off by 50-75 pounds across multiple shipments. Too consistent to be measurement error. Can we discuss tomorrow? Diana.'"

"Nash Global again," Isla murmured. "The same company whose CEO was in that photo with O'Connor."

"Might be coincidence," Sullivan cautioned, though his tone suggested he didn't believe it.

"Two murder victims, both investigating the same company's shipping manifests?" Isla shook her head. "That's not coincidence. That's motive."

They continued through the emails, finding several more exchanges between Whitman and Pearce discussing weight discrepancies and manifest irregularities. Most mentioned Nash Global specifically, though a few referenced other shipping companies as well.

"They were building a case," Sullivan observed. "Methodically documenting patterns before taking their concerns up the chain."

"Which means they might have created backup documentation," Isla said, excitement building as the pieces began to align. "Copies stored somewhere besides their offices."

The intensity of their discovery seemed to energize them both, but Isla noticed Sullivan rubbing his temples—a gesture that reminded her of her own exhaustion.

The case was consuming, but they were both running on adrenaline and caffeine, a dangerous combination when dealing with calculated killers.

Sullivan was already dialing his phone. "I'll send a team to both their residences. If they kept backup files at home, we need to find them before the killer does."

As he coordinated the search teams, Isla returned to the map, her gaze fixed on the vast expanse of the container yard. Somewhere in that maze of metal boxes was the evidence they needed—the pattern Whitman and Pearce had discovered, the system they had begun to unravel.

The question was whether she and Sullivan could find it before the killer eliminated any remaining traces—and any other potential witnesses.

She studied the shipping routes marked on the map and the connections between Duluth and ports across the Great Lakes and beyond.

The sheer volume of cargo moving through this hub daily created perfect cover for illicit activities.

Minor discrepancies multiplied across thousands of containers could represent massive smuggling operations hidden in plain sight.

"We can't search every container," Sullivan said, rejoining her at the map. "Even with additional personnel, it would take weeks."

"We don't need to search every container," Isla replied, her mind racing ahead. "We need to track the pattern Whitman and Pearce were following. If we can identify which shipments they flagged as suspicious, we can narrow our focus."

Sullivan considered this. "The weight discrepancies they mentioned—fifty to seventy-five pounds consistently off. That's not enough for major drug shipments or weapons."

"Unless it's high-value, low-weight cargo," Isla suggested. "Pharmaceuticals, electronic components, precious metals."

"Or unless the discrepancies are just markers," Sullivan countered. "A way to identify which containers are carrying illicit cargo elsewhere in the shipment."

Isla nodded slowly, seeing the logic. "A coding system. The weight discrepancy itself isn't the contraband—it's the signal that identifies which containers are part of the operation."

They looked at each other, both recognizing they were onto something significant.

"Either way," Isla continued, "we're not finding concrete evidence tonight. But we can secure the port, protect potential witnesses, and start reconstructing Whitman and Pearce's investigation in the morning."

Sullivan checked his watch, frowning slightly.

"It's past nine. Emma's science project will have to wait.

" He pulled out his phone, and Isla caught the conflict in his expression—the pull between professional duty and parental responsibility that she knew all too well, though from a different perspective.

Watching him struggle with the decision brought unexpected memories of her own childhood—her father missing school plays because of Coast Guard emergencies, her mother's resigned acceptance of canceled family plans when duty called.

The pattern that had shaped her own understanding of service and sacrifice, and perhaps her own reluctance to pursue the kind of family connections that required such difficult choices.

Sullivan stepped away briefly to make what Isla assumed was a call to his daughter.

She could hear the apologetic tone in his voice, the gentle explanation of why her daddy wouldn't be home for bedtime tonight.

When he returned, his expression was resolute but tinged with the guilt she recognized in every law enforcement parent.

"I've arranged for my ex-wife to stay with Emma tonight. We need to keep working."

"Sullivan," Isla said carefully, "you should go home. At least for a few hours. Emma needs you, and we both need fresh perspective tomorrow."

He shook his head stubbornly. "Two people are dead. The killer could strike again if we miss something."

"And we'll be more likely to miss something if we're exhausted," Isla countered. "The port is locked down, security is in place, and we have teams working through the night. Four hours of sleep will make us more effective tomorrow."

Sullivan hesitated, clearly torn between his dedication to the case and the logic of her argument. Isla saw something shift in his expression—a recognition that she understood the competing demands he faced, that her advice came from genuine concern for both the investigation and his well-being.

"You're right," he said finally, and she could hear the trust developing in his voice. "I've been running on instinct and caffeine for too long. Four hours. Then we're back at it before dawn."

The acknowledgment felt significant—not just his agreement to rest, but his willingness to value her judgment even when it contradicted his first instinct. Partnership, she realized, was built on such moments of mutual respect.

As they prepared to leave the command center for their brief respite, Isla took one last look at the evidence boards they'd assembled—photos of Whitman and Pearce, shipping manifests, timeline markers, and in the center, the still-unknown connection that had cost two people their lives.

The pieces were there, waiting to be assembled into a coherent picture. Tomorrow, they would continue their search for the pattern, the system, the criminal enterprise operating beneath the surface of Duluth's massive port.

And somewhere in the frozen city, a killer waited, perhaps already selecting their next target—anyone who threatened to expose what Whitman and Pearce had begun to uncover. The clock wasn't just ticking on the port's economic shutdown; it was counting down to potentially more deaths.

Isla followed Sullivan out into the bitter night air, the cold shocking her system after hours in the heated building.

As their breath formed clouds in the frigid atmosphere, she looked across the harbor where massive ships sat motionless, their lights reflecting on the ice-covered water.

The vastness of Lake Superior stretched beyond, a dark presence holding secrets beneath its frozen surface.

Much like their case—the visible elements were just the beginning. The true depths remained to be discovered, and what lurked there could be far more dangerous than they yet realized.