Page 23 of Outside the Room (Isla Rivers #1)

The harbor lights cast eerie shadows across the water as emergency personnel worked to process the scene.

Isla stood at the edge of the dock, watching the medical examiner's team carefully place Sarah Sanchez's body into a black bag.

Despite her years in the FBI, the sight of death never became easier—only more familiar, a professional hazard she'd learned to compartmentalize rather than overcome.

She moved to the exact spot where harbor patrol had first noticed Sanchez's body. Ice was already reforming in the water where they had broken through to retrieve her. The glossy black surface reflected fragmented emergency lights, making the water appear to flicker with internal fire.

A technician approached them, tablet in hand. "Agents, we've pulled what little security footage we could salvage. We’ve confirmed most of the cameras covering this section were disabled approximately fifteen minutes before the estimated time of death."

"Disabled how?" Isla asked.

"Power to the units was cut at the junction box," the technician replied, gesturing toward a utility panel near the warehouse. "Someone who knows the port's security infrastructure."

"Show us what you did manage to capture," Sullivan instructed.

The technician pulled up grainy footage from a distant camera that had maintained functionality.

The angle was poor, and the image quality was further compromised by light snow, but they could make out a figure moving quickly through the dock area approximately thirty minutes before Sanchez's estimated time of death.

"Can you enhance this?" Isla asked, squinting at the blurry image.

"Already tried," the technician said apologetically. "The resolution's too low, and the weather conditions are too poor. The best I can do is confirm it appears to be a male figure of average to large build, wearing dark clothing."

Isla sighed in frustration. The killer had been careful enough to disable most cameras but either hadn't known about this one or hadn't been able to reach it. Either way, the footage was too indistinct to provide a clear identification.

Isla checked her watch—just past midnight now. "The killer could still be in the vicinity," she realized. "Or at least hasn't had much time to flee the area."

Sullivan was already on his radio, coordinating with local police to establish checkpoints at all port exits and major roads leading from the harbor. Isla turned her attention back to the scene, trying to reconstruct what might have happened.

Sanchez had been on routine patrol. She'd radioed in to investigate something suspicious in section W-17, then missed her next scheduled check-in.

Someone had disabled most of the security cameras in advance, suggesting planning.

Yet the attack itself seemed rushed—a struggle on an open dock, a weapon left behind, the body disposed of in a manner likely to be discovered quickly.

"It doesn't add up," she muttered, more to herself than to Sullivan, who had rejoined her. “Whitman and Pearce were specifically investigating shipping manifest discrepancies. Was Sanchez?"

“Who knows? We need to find out who the last person Sanchez spoke to was.”

They moved toward a group of port security officers huddled near a patrol vehicle, seeking warmth in the cab with the heater running. One stepped out to meet them—the night shift supervisor, according to his identification.

"Agent Rivers, Agent Sullivan," he greeted them, his face haggard with shock and exhaustion. "Anything we can do to help, just ask. Sarah was one of our best."

"We're sorry for your loss," Isla said with genuine sympathy. "We need to understand what Officer Sanchez was doing before her death. Was she involved in any special projects or investigations?"

The supervisor shook his head. "Standard patrol duty. She'd been assigned to the eastern container yard, which is nowhere near where..." his voice trailed off as he gestured toward the water.

"Did she mention anything unusual in recent days?" Sullivan pressed. "Any concerns about port operations or specific individuals?"

"Nothing specific," the supervisor replied. "Though she did volunteer for extra patrols after the two murder victims were found. Sarah wasn't the type to scare easily. If anything, she seemed determined to catch whoever was responsible."

"Would she have had any reason to be in this area of the dock?" Isla asked. "It's well outside her assigned patrol route."

The supervisor's brow furrowed. "No, she shouldn't have been here at all. Her last radio check-in placed her near the administration building, which is on the opposite side of the port, but she could’ve spread out on her own accord."

This new information added another layer of complexity. Why had Sanchez deviated so dramatically from her assigned patrol route? What had drawn her to this isolated section of dock, far from where she should have been?

"We need to see the administration building," Isla decided. "That's where she was last confirmed alive."

As they walked toward their vehicle, Sullivan's phone rang. He answered, listening intently before ending the call with a terse acknowledgment.

"That was the officer checking port access records," he told Isla. "Raymond O'Connor was working late in his office tonight. Security logs show him entering the administration building at six p.m. No record of him leaving."

"So, he might have been the last person to see Sanchez alive," Isla noted.

"If she stopped by his office during her patrol," Sullivan agreed.

They drove in tense silence to the administration building, where a single light still burned on the second floor—O'Connor's office.

The port director had been working nearly around the clock since Pearce's murder, a dedication that had initially seemed admirable but now took on potentially sinister implications.

"We approach this carefully," Sullivan cautioned as they parked. "If O'Connor is involved, he's already killed three people. He did seem a little over-eager to help us before, didn't he?"

Isla nodded, checking her weapon before exiting the vehicle. The wind had intensified, driving ice crystals horizontally across the parking lot. The administration building loomed dark and imposing against the night sky, its single illuminated window like a watchful eye overlooking the port.

As they approached the entrance, Isla's mind raced through possibilities. Was O'Connor the killer they'd been seeking? The inconsistencies in Sanchez's murder still troubled her—something about this latest killing felt fundamentally different from the methodical efficiency of the container murders.

"Sanchez was trained security, armed, and had a background in boxing," she said as they reached the building's entrance. "Whoever killed her was taking a big risk. That’s why he caught her off guard. He knew she’d fight back.”

"O'Connor doesn't fit that profile," Sullivan acknowledged. "He's administrative, desk bound. No military or law enforcement background."

"Could have an accomplice," Isla suggested. "Someone who handles the physical aspects while O'Connor provides access and information."

They entered the building cautiously, the night-shift security guard recognizing them from earlier visits and waving them through without question. The hallways were eerily silent, their footsteps echoing on the polished floors as they made their way toward the elevator.

"One more inconsistency," Isla said quietly as they ascended to the second floor. "Whitman and Pearce were killed to silence them—they had discovered something in the shipping manifests that threatened someone. What did Sanchez know that made her a target?"

Sullivan had no answer as the elevator doors opened to a darkened hallway, illuminated only by emergency exit signs and the thin strip of light visible beneath O'Connor's office door at the far end.

They approached silently, years of training evident in their coordinated movements. When they reached the door, Sullivan positioned himself to one side while Isla knocked firmly.

"Mr. O'Connor? We need to speak with you again."

There was a moment of silence, then the sound of a chair scraping against the floor. Footsteps approached, and the door swung open to reveal Raymond O'Connor, his face ashen, tie loosened around his neck, eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion or emotion.

"Agents," he greeted them hoarsely. "I just heard about Sarah. Another one of my people..." His voice cracked with what appeared to be genuine grief. "When will this nightmare end?"

Isla studied him carefully, looking for any signs of deception or guilt. What she saw instead was a man overwhelmed by circumstance, shoulders slumped with the weight of multiple tragedies. It didn't match the profile of someone who had just committed a violent murder.

"May we come in?" she asked. "We have some questions about Officer Sanchez's activities tonight."

O'Connor stepped back, gesturing them inside. "Of course. Anything I can do to help catch whoever is doing this."

His office was in disarray, with papers scattered across the desk and multiple coffee cups suggesting hours of continuous work. A security monitor on the wall displayed various feeds from around the port, including the now-active crime scene where Sanchez's body had been discovered.

"When did you last see Officer Sanchez?" Sullivan asked, getting straight to the point.

O'Connor sank heavily into his chair. "Earlier this evening. Around eight, I think? She stopped by during her patrol, checking on me as she often did when working nights. Said she was concerned about me working alone with a killer targeting port employees."

"How long did she stay?" Isla pressed.

"Just a few minutes," O'Connor replied. "We talked about increasing security patrols and implementing buddy systems for night shifts." He rubbed his face with both hands. "I told her to be careful. That's the last thing I said to her—' be careful.' And now she's dead."