Page 19 of Outside the Room (Isla Rivers #1)

Nash Global's headquarters occupied the top three floors of a gleaming glass tower overlooking Lake Superior.

The building stood in stark contrast to the industrial functionality of the port area—all sleek modernism and corporate prosperity, with the company's stylized blue wave logo prominently displayed on the facade.

Isla and Sullivan were directed to a private elevator that whisked them silently to the executive floor.

The receptionist who greeted them was polished and professional, offering refreshments in a manner that suggested this was standard protocol for all visitors, regardless of whether they were FBI agents investigating potential connections to murder.

"Mr. Nash will see you shortly," she informed them with a practiced smile. "Please make yourselves comfortable."

The waiting area offered panoramic views of the frozen lake, the vastness of Superior stretching to the horizon. From this height, the massive freighters in the harbor looked like toys, the bustling port reduced to a miniature model of commerce and industry.

Isla used the waiting time to observe the corporate environment.

Everything about Nash Global's headquarters projected legitimate success and transparency—open floor plans visible through glass walls, professionally framed maritime maps and shipping artifacts decorating the spaces, employees moving with purposeful efficiency.

Nothing suggested connections to smuggling operations or murders.

But then, she reflected, that was precisely the point of an effective front.

After exactly five minutes—a delay calculated to establish subtle dominance without seeming deliberately discourteous—they were escorted to Gregory Nash's corner office.

The space was impressive without being ostentatious, featuring the same panoramic views as the waiting area but with the addition of a large desk crafted from what appeared to be reclaimed wood from an old vessel.

Nash himself rose to greet them as they entered.

In his early fifties, he projected the confident authority of someone accustomed to wielding significant power.

His silver hair was expertly cut, his navy suit impeccably tailored.

When he smiled, the expression reached his eyes with practiced precision.

"Agents Sullivan and Rivers," he said, extending his hand first to Sullivan, then to Isla. His handshake was firm but not aggressive. "It's a terrible situation at the port. Two murders in such a short time—unprecedented for Duluth."

"Thank you for seeing us on such short notice, Mr. Nash," Sullivan replied, his tone professionally neutral.

"Gregory, please," Nash insisted, gesturing toward a seating area near the windows rather than conducting the conversation across his desk—a deliberate choice that suggested openness while actually controlling the dynamics of the interaction.

"I want to help however I can. The port is the lifeblood of this region's economy. "

As they settled into the arranged seating, Isla noted the subtle positioning. Nash had selected a chair that placed the bright window light behind him, slightly obscuring his facial expressions while fully illuminating theirs. A small but telling detail.

"We appreciate your cooperation," Isla said, matching his conversational tone while studying his body language. "As you can imagine, we're exploring all aspects of port operations to understand what might be connected to these murders."

Nash nodded solemnly. "Of course. Absolutely tragic what happened to those two customs officers. I didn't know them personally, of course, but our company works closely with customs officials across the Great Lakes."

Sullivan opened his portfolio, extracting several documents with deliberate casualness. "We're particularly interested in understanding how shipping manifests are processed and verified. It seems both victims were reviewing certain manifests shortly before their deaths."

A flicker of something—perhaps heightened attention—crossed Nash's face before his expression returned to neutral concern. "Manifests are the backbone of the shipping industry. Everything is documented, tracked, verified at multiple points. What specifically were they reviewing?"

"Weight discrepancies," Isla replied, watching him carefully. "Particularly in containers moving between international ports and Duluth."

Nash's response was immediate, and he appeared appropriately puzzled. "Weight discrepancies? That's fairly common in international shipping. Different equipment calibrations, environmental factors affecting measurements. Usually just clerical matters."

"These were consistent discrepancies," Sullivan clarified. "Always in the same direction, always within a specific range."

"How interesting," Nash remarked, his posture unchanged but his right hand now resting on the arm of his chair, index finger tapping twice before stilling—a potential stress tell. "Which shipping line was involved?"

Sullivan and Isla exchanged a brief glance, a silent communication about how direct to be. Sullivan opted for directness.

"Several of the flagged manifests were for Nash Global containers," he said, sliding a document across the table—a copy of one of the manifests they'd recovered showing the discrepancy highlighted.

Nash examined the document, his expression thoughtful.

"This is one of ours, yes. Rotterdam to Duluth, electronic components for a manufacturing client.

" He looked up, appearing unconcerned. "A thirty-five-kilogram variance is well within normal tolerances for international shipping.

I'm surprised it would warrant special attention. "

"It might not have, as an isolated incident," Isla observed. "But when the pattern appears across dozens of containers from the same company, it becomes more noteworthy."

"Dozens?" Nash repeated, his surprise appearing genuine, though Isla caught the slight dilation of his pupils—a physiological response he couldn't control. "I wasn't aware of any systematic issue. Our compliance team regularly reviews all documentation. I'll certainly have them look into this."

Sullivan shifted tactics. "We're also investigating connections between legitimate shipping operations and smuggling activities recently discovered in the Duluth area."

"Smuggling?" Nash's eyebrows raised. "I heard something on the news about a fishing boat operator arrested for contraband. Terrible business. Damages the reputation of all maritime operations in the region."

"The operator's name is Thomas Bradley," Isla said, introducing the name deliberately to gauge Nash's reaction. "His smuggling operation appears to have connections to larger networks operating through the port."

Nash maintained his composed expression, but Isla noted a subtle tightening around his mouth—a micro expression of tension quickly suppressed. "I'm not familiar with Mr. Bradley personally. Commercial fishing operations and international shipping rarely intersect directly."

A careful non-answer that maintained plausible deniability while avoiding an outright lie. Isla found herself reluctantly impressed by Nash's composure.

"What about Diana Pearce?" she asked, introducing the victim's name without preamble. "Were you acquainted with her work at the port authority?"

The question caught Nash slightly off guard—exactly as Isla had intended. His composure slipped momentarily, revealing a flash of what might have been concern before he regained control.

"Ms. Pearce... I believe we met once or twice during port authority meetings," he said, his tone measured but his left hand now slightly tensed against his thigh. "Her death was shocking. A terrible loss for the port community."

"She was reviewing the same manifest discrepancies that Marcus Whitman had flagged before his murder," Sullivan stated flatly, watching Nash's reaction.

Nash spread his hands in a gesture of helpless confusion. "I can't imagine why anyone would commit murder over standard shipping variances. There must be something else involved—perhaps they discovered smuggling operations unrelated to legitimate shipping companies."

The practiced response came a little too quickly, suggesting prepared talking points. Isla pressed further. "Mr. Nash, we've found connections between shell companies linked to Bradley's smuggling operation and corporate entities with ties to Nash Global."

This elicited a more visible reaction—a slight narrowing of the eyes, a momentary stillness before Nash leaned forward.

"That's a serious implication, Agent Rivers.

My company operates with complete transparency and compliance with all international shipping regulations.

If there are connections, they would be through third parties operating without our knowledge or consent. "

"We're not making accusations," Sullivan said smoothly. "We're following evidence. Part of that process involves understanding the corporate structures that might be exploited by criminal elements."

Nash seemed to relax marginally, though his right hand had stopped its earlier tapping and now remained completely still—another potential stress indicator.

"Of course. And I want to assure you that Nash Global will cooperate fully with your investigation.

Our records are open to proper legal review. We have nothing to hide."

He stood, signaling an end to the meeting with practiced authority. "I'll have our compliance team compile all manifest data for the past year and make it available to your office. If there are systematic discrepancies, we want to identify and correct them immediately."

As they rose to leave, Nash added with careful emphasis, "I hope you find whoever is responsible for these tragic deaths. The port is vital to Duluth's economy and identity. We all want it to operate safely and legally."

The walk back to the elevator was conducted with the same corporate courtesy that had greeted their arrival. Nash accompanied them personally—a gesture that could be interpreted as either respectful attention or a desire to ensure their prompt departure from his territory.

"Please don't hesitate to contact me directly if there's anything else Nash Global can provide to assist your investigation," he said as the elevator doors opened. His smile remained perfect, his handshake firm and confident.

It was only as the doors closed and they began their descent that Isla allowed her analytical observations to coalesce into assessment.

"He's involved," she said quietly, certain they were alone but mindful of the possibility of monitoring.

Sullivan nodded slightly. "Definitely knows more than he's saying. That reaction when you mentioned Pearce—he flinched."

"It was subtle, but unmistakable," Isla agreed. "He knew exactly who she was and why she mattered to our investigation."

They exited the building and walked to their Bureau vehicle, neither speaking further until they were inside with the engine running and heat beginning to circulate through the frigid interior.

"Nash is too careful to get his hands dirty directly," Isla continued once they had privacy. "He's built layers of protection—corporate structures, political connections, plausible deniability. But he knows exactly what happened to Whitman and Pearce, even if he didn't order it personally."

Sullivan nodded, his expression grim as he pulled away from the Nash Global building. "So, we need to identify his enforcer—whoever actually carried out the murders."

"Someone with access to the port, knowledge of shipping operations, and the physical capability to overpower both victims," Isla elaborated, her mind already cataloging potential suspects. "Probably someone Nash keeps at arm's length publicly but relies on for handling problems."

"We should look at Nash's executive team and security personnel," Sullivan suggested. "Anyone with a background that might include violence or enforcement capabilities."

Isla agreed, already planning their next steps. "And we need to dig deeper into Nash's corporate structure. If he's using his shipping network for smuggling, there will be weak points—employees who know too much, documentation that doesn't align perfectly."

As Sullivan navigated through downtown Duluth's snow-covered streets, Isla stared out at the frozen landscape, her mind cataloging and connecting the pieces of information they'd gathered.

The interview with Nash had been revealing, not for what he'd said but for the subtle tells that betrayed his carefully constructed facade.

"He's worried," she said after several minutes of silence. "Behind all that corporate polish and political connection, he's concerned about what we might find."

"Good," Sullivan replied. "Worried people make mistakes."

"But they also accelerate timelines," Isla countered. "If Nash believes we're getting close to whatever operation he's running, he might move to clean house—eliminate evidence, silence witnesses, create distance between himself and any criminal activity."

Sullivan's expression darkened. "Like he did with Whitman and Pearce."

"Exactly." Isla pulled out her phone, scrolling through the notes she'd taken during their meeting. "We should put surveillance on Nash immediately."

Sullivan nodded in agreement, taking a turn that would lead them back toward the field office rather than the port.