Page 21 of Outside the Room (Isla Rivers #1)

The field office had emptied hours ago, leaving only Isla, Sullivan, and the gentle hum of the heating system fighting against the winter chill.

Outside the windows, darkness had fallen, the early sunset a constant reminder of how far north she'd been exiled.

The weak fluorescent lights cast Sullivan's features in harsh relief as he hunched over his computer, methodically piecing together Gregory Nash's movements over the past month.

"Got something," he said, breaking their focused silence. "Nash attended the Lake Superior Maritime Foundation gala on the night Whitman was killed. Started at seven p.m., ended after midnight."

"Alibi checks out," she said, the disappointment evident in her voice. "What about Pearce's murder?"

Sullivan flipped through several screens of data. "Chamber of Commerce leadership dinner. He gave the keynote address. Again, plenty of witnesses, security footage from the venue confirms his presence from six p.m. until after eleven."

Isla pushed away from the desk with a sigh of frustration. "Too neat. He's either not involved, or—"

"—or he hired someone to do the dirty work," Sullivan finished. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. "Which tracks with what we know about Nash. He insulates himself."

"What about his background?" Isla asked, returning to her own desk where she'd been compiling information on Nash Global's corporate activities.

Sullivan pulled up a file filled with corporate violations and fines.

"The company has accumulated numerous safety citations and environmental violations over the years.

Paid the fines, implemented corrective measures, and business as usual.

Nothing violent, nothing that suggests Nash himself is capable of murder. "

"People who order murders don't always have violent histories themselves," Isla pointed out. "They hire those skills when needed."

She swiveled her monitor toward Sullivan, displaying the list she'd been compiling. "These are all Nash's known associates who work at or near the port. People with access to shipping containers, manifest records, security protocols."

Sullivan scanned the list, his expression thoughtful. "That's more than two dozen names. We need to narrow it down."

Isla nodded. "I've been cross-referencing them with criminal backgrounds, unusual financial activity, or connections to previous smuggling operations.

" She highlighted several names. "These five stand out.

Particularly Michael Thorne—dock supervisor, twenty years at the port, financial troubles last year that mysteriously resolved despite no change in salary. "

"Could be our guy," Sullivan agreed, making notes. "Let's also look at port security personnel who might be on Nash's payroll. Anyone who could move around the container yard without raising suspicion."

"Nash is smart," Isla observed, studying a complex diagram of corporate entities she'd created. "He's built layers of protection around himself. Even if we're right about his involvement, proving it will be challenging."

"Everyone has a weak link," Sullivan replied. "We just need to find his."

Isla was about to respond when the radio on Sullivan's desk crackled to life with an urgent transmission.

"All units, all units. Officer down at the port, east dock area. Medical assistance requested. Repeat, officer down."

They were both on their feet instantly, grabbing coats and weapons with practiced efficiency.

"Port security officer?" Isla asked as they rushed toward the elevator.

Sullivan nodded grimly, his jaw tightening in a way she'd come to recognize. "Sounds like it. Could be related to our case."

***

The drive to the port took less than ten minutes, Sullivan navigating the icy streets with the calm precision of someone born to winter conditions. Isla stared out at the darkened city, mind racing through possibilities.

"If this is connected to our case, it represents a significant deviation from pattern," she said. "Both previous victims were found in locked containers, not out in the open."

"Killers evolve," Sullivan replied, hands steady on the wheel as he took a sharp turn. "Maybe they're escalating."

"Or it could be someone else entirely," Isla countered. "We need to keep an open mind until we see the scene."

As they approached the port entrance, the night was alive with flashing emergency lights.

Port security vehicles, police cruisers, and an ambulance created a chaotic tableau against the backdrop of massive shipping cranes silhouetted against the night sky.

The cacophony hit them as soon as Sullivan killed the engine—radio chatter crackling between vehicles, the low rumble of diesel generators powering flood lights, the metallic clang of equipment being moved into position.

Beneath it all, the constant lap of dark water against the pier pilings, a rhythm that seemed to mock the urgency unfolding above.

Sullivan parked near the security checkpoint, and they rushed toward the gathering of officers near the water's edge.

The bitter wind coming off Lake Superior cut through Isla's coat, carrying with it the acrid scent of diesel fuel, wet concrete, and something else—the metallic tang of blood that emergency responders knew all too well.

As they approached, a port security officer broke away from the group to meet them.

"Agents," he greeted them, his breath visible in the freezing air.

"We found Officer Sarah Sanchez floating near the pier.

Port security, she has been with us three years.

" His voice cracked slightly. "She called in to report suspicious movement in section W-17 about two hours ago.

When she missed her next check-in, we sent a patrol to look for her. "

Sullivan's expression hardened, the professional mask slipping slightly. Isla caught the flash of something deeper—not just professional concern, but the look of a man who'd grown up in this community, who knew that each victim wasn't just a case file but someone's neighbor, someone's friend.

"She's dead?" Sullivan asked though the grim expressions around them made the answer obvious.

The officer nodded. "Medical examiner's just arrived, but yeah, she's gone."

"Where's the body now?" Isla asked, already pulling on latex gloves from her pocket.

"They just pulled her from the water," the officer replied, gesturing toward a small crowd gathered at the edge of the dock. "Down there."

They made their way carefully down the slippery metal stairs to the lower dock level, where emergency personnel had created a perimeter around what was clearly a body covered with a thermal blanket.

The industrial sounds were muffled here—the thrum of machinery from the ships, the distant clang of metal on metal, the whisper of waves against concrete barriers.

Isla felt a familiar tightening in her chest—not fear, but the focused intensity that came with entering a fresh crime scene.

Every detail mattered now, every impression, every inconsistency.

The medical examiner knelt beside the body, his movements precise despite the bulky winter clothing he wore. He acknowledged their approach with a brief nod but continued his preliminary examination.

"FBI," Sullivan said to the nearest officer. "What can you tell us?"

"Harbor patrol spotted her floating about twenty feet from the pier," the officer replied. "Initial assessment suggests she didn't drown—looks like she was already dead when she went into the water."

Isla stepped closer, careful to avoid contaminating the scene. "May I?" she asked the medical examiner, who shifted slightly to allow her a better view.

The blanket was pulled back to reveal the victim—a woman in her thirties, dark hair now plastered to her pale face, her uniform soaked and beginning to freeze in the subzero temperatures.

Even in death, her athletic build was evident, suggesting someone who would have put up a significant fight against an attacker.

The sight hit Isla harder than she'd expected.

Sarah Sanchez looked young, vital despite death's pallor—someone who should have been going home to family, to life beyond the port's cold boundaries.

For a moment, Alicia Mendez's face superimposed itself over Sarah's, and Isla felt the familiar weight of responsibility settle on her shoulders.

Another woman dead, another life she'd failed to protect.

The rational part of her mind knew she couldn't have prevented this—they'd had no warning, no indication Sarah was in danger.

But guilt didn't follow rational patterns.

"Defensive wounds?" Isla asked, her voice steadier than she felt as she noted bruising on the victim's knuckles.

"Afraid she was ambushed," the examiner confirmed. "And preliminary cause of death appears to be blunt force trauma."

Isla's mind immediately cataloged this information against what they knew about the previous murders.

Whitman and Pearce had been killed with blunt force trauma to the head, their bodies locked in containers to conceal the crimes.

This victim had been killed the same way, but this time, her body was abandoned in the harbor—a completely different methodology.

"Time of death?" Sullivan asked, his voice rougher than usual. Isla noticed his hands clenched at his sides, the professional distance he maintained cracking slightly in the face of another local death.

"Given the water temperature and body condition, I'd estimate between one and two hours ago," the examiner replied. "I'll know more after the autopsy."

Sullivan turned to the port security officer who had first greeted them.

"We need to see the security footage from this area immediately.

And I want a list of everyone who was on-site during the estimated time of death.

" The words came out clipped, urgent—a man fighting to maintain control while his community bled.