Page 17 of Outside the Room (Isla Rivers #1)

Morning arrived with unexpected clarity, the previous day's snowfall giving way to brilliant sunshine that glinted blindingly off Lake Superior's frozen expanse.

The beauty of it was lost on Isla as she approached the port, immediately noticing increased activity that contradicted the lockdown orders they'd put in place the night before.

Trucks moved steadily through the gates, containers being loaded and unloaded from vessels that should have remained immobile during the investigation. Dock workers bustled about their business with the practiced efficiency of a normal workday.

Isla spotted Sullivan standing near the main security checkpoint, tension evident in his rigid posture as he spoke with a port authority official. She quickened her pace, pulling her coat tighter against the brutal cold that bit at any exposed skin despite the sunshine.

"What's happening?" she asked as she reached him. "I thought we had the port locked down."

Sullivan turned, his expression a careful mask that didn't quite hide his frustration. "Politics happened," he said grimly. "The governor personally intervened late last night."

"On what authority?" Isla demanded, watching as another truck passed through the checkpoint carrying a massive container.

"On the authority of being the governor," Sullivan replied with barely concealed bitterness. "The call came down to Channing around midnight. Economic pressure. Without concrete evidence linking the murders directly to active shipping operations, we couldn't justify maintaining the closure."

Isla felt a surge of anger. "Two federal employees are dead. Isn't that concrete enough?"

"Not when millions of dollars are at stake." Sullivan gestured toward the harbor, where a massive freighter was currently being loaded. "That vessel alone is carrying cargo worth over fifty million. Every hour it sits idle costs the shipping companies and their clients thousands."

"So, what are we supposed to do? Watch potential evidence literally sail away?" Isla couldn't keep the frustration from her voice. The case was challenging enough without political interference.

Sullivan shook his head. "We've implemented a compromise. Every container is being photographed and logged digitally before movement. Security has been doubled, with agents stationed at all exit points. We're doing what we can within the constraints we've been given."

Isla was about to respond when she spotted Channing's Bureau SUV pulling into the parking area. The Special Agent in Charge emerged looking as immaculate as ever, though the tightness around her eyes suggested she was no happier about the situation than they were.

"Rivers, Sullivan," she greeted them crisply as she approached. "I see you've noticed our change in operational parameters."

"With all due respect, ma'am," Isla began, "reopening the port undermines our investigation. We're trying to track irregular shipping patterns that might be connected to two murders."

"You think I don't know that, Agent Rivers?" Channing's tone was measured but carried an edge of steel. "I spent half the night on the phone with the governor, the director, and representatives from seven shipping companies. This compromise was the best I could negotiate under the circumstances."

Sullivan shifted slightly, positioning himself between the two women as if sensing Isla's rising frustration. "What's our timeline now?"

Channing's expression softened marginally.

"Forty-eight hours to show significant progress.

After that..." She hesitated, unusual for her typically direct communication style.

"After that, there's talk of bringing in a specialized team from the Great Lakes Regional Task Force.

They'd take point on the investigation."

"They'd try to take over from the FBI," Isla translated flatly.

"They'd provide additional resources and expertise," Channing corrected, though her tone lacked conviction.

"Look, I'm fighting to keep this investigation with you two.

I believe in your capabilities. But I need something concrete to justify that faith—something beyond theories about manifest discrepancies and possible smuggling connections. "

Isla felt the weight of the statement. Another failure, another reassignment looming if they couldn't deliver results quickly. The familiar pressure tightened in her chest.

"What resources do we have available right now?" Sullivan asked, practical as always.

"I've assigned two forensic accountants to assist with the manifest analysis," Channing replied. "And you've got priority access to the data analysts at the field office. Whatever you need, it's yours—just get me results I can take to the brass."

She glanced toward the entrance to the port, where several news vans had assembled. "And be prepared for media attention. The local outlets have already coined a name—they're calling this the 'Shipping Container Killer' case."

"Fantastic," Isla muttered. "Nothing like a catchy nickname to complicate things."

"Just focus on the investigation," Channing advised. "I'll run interference with the press as much as possible." She checked her watch. "I've got a briefing with the U.S. Attorney in twenty minutes. Keep me updated on any developments, no matter how small."

As Channing walked away, Isla turned back to the port, watching the steady flow of commerce that continued despite the shadow of murder hanging over it all.

She couldn't shake the feeling that the case was slipping away from them, evidence potentially disappearing with each container that left the yard.

"This feels wrong," she said quietly. "We're missing something important, and now we're racing against both a killer and a clock."

Sullivan nodded his gaze following the movement of workers across the vast yard. "We still have our best lead—figuring out what Whitman and Pearce found in those manifests. Everything else connects back to that."

"How do we want to divide this?" Isla asked, mentally organizing priorities. "We can't be everywhere at once, especially now that operations have resumed."

Sullivan considered for a moment. "I'll coordinate with Canadian authorities about Bradley's connections across the border.

His smuggling operation had to have distribution networks we haven't identified yet.

" He paused. "You're better with the data analysis.

Take the forensic accountants and review what partial records we do have.

Look for patterns, connections to Nash Global or other companies Whitman flagged. "

Isla nodded, appreciating the division of labor that played to their respective strengths. "I'll look for more weight discrepancies mentioned in Pearce's emails. If we can establish a pattern, maybe we can predict which containers might be part of whatever operation Whitman and Pearce uncovered."

"Good," Sullivan agreed. "We'll reconvene at noon to compare findings." He hesitated, then added, "We can do this, Rivers. Forty-eight hours is tight but not impossible."

The vote of confidence, however cautious, was unexpected coming from Sullivan. Isla offered a brief nod of acknowledgment, not trusting herself to respond without revealing how much the simple statement meant after months of doubt and recrimination.

As they parted ways, Isla headed toward the port authority building where the forensic accountants would be set up in a temporary workspace.

The brilliant winter sun cast her shadow long across the frozen ground, a solitary figure moving against the backdrop of massive ships and towering container stacks.

Somewhere in that industrial maze was the answer they sought—the connection between manifest discrepancies, smuggling, and two murders. Isla squared her shoulders against the biting cold, determination replacing the momentary doubt.

Forty-eight hours wasn't much time, but it would have to be enough. She didn't intend to fail again.