Page 5 of Outside the Room (Isla Rivers #1)

The customs office occupied the second floor of a utilitarian building overlooking the main shipping terminal.

The office resembled a typical government workspace—fluorescent lighting, beige walls, outdated furniture—but the massive windows offered spectacular views of the harbor, now partially obscured by the continuing snowfall.

As Isla stepped inside, the familiar hum of institutional life struck her with unexpected recognition.

Despite the different climate and cargo, the rhythms were the same as Miami's port authority: the quiet dedication of civil servants and the weight of responsibility for protecting the nation's borders.

For the first time since arriving in Duluth, she felt a flicker of belonging rather than exile.

The customs director, a rail-thin man named Harrison, met them at the entrance; his reddened eyes and disheveled appearance suggested he'd been crying.

"Marcus was the best of us," he said without preamble. "Incorruptible. Meticulous. This makes no sense."

"We're very sorry for your loss," Isla said, meaning it. The grief here felt familiar, too—the tight-knit bond of people who worked dangerous, often thankless jobs together. "We'd like to speak with everyone who worked closely with Inspector Whitman."

Harrison nodded, leading them to a conference room where several employees had already gathered, their expressions ranging from shock to barely contained grief.

"This is Agent Sullivan, FBI, and his partner Agent Rivers," Harrison introduced them. "They're investigating Marcus's—" His voice caught. "Marcus's death."

Sullivan stepped forward, and Isla noticed his demeanor shift subtly—less of the professional distance he maintained with her, more of the warmth of someone addressing a community he knew.

"I worked with Marcus on the agricultural smuggling case last year," he said, his voice gentle but firm.

"He was instrumental in breaking that operation.

We're going to find who did this to him. "

The assembled customs workers—three men and two women—looked up with varying expressions of wariness and grief, but Sullivan's personal connection visibly eased some of their tension. A junior employee—Luis Morales, according to his ID badge—shifted nervously in his seat.

"Marcus wasn't just our colleague," one of the women spoke up, her silver-streaked hair pulled back in a severe bun. "He was family to most of us. Fifteen years working the same port, you become family."

Isla nodded sympathetically. "That's exactly why your insights are so valuable. You knew him best."

"He lived for this job," the woman continued, twisting a tissue in her hands. "Always the first in, last to leave. Knew the regulations better than the people who wrote them."

"Did he mention any concerns recently?" Sullivan asked. "Any particular shipments or companies that worried him? Marcus had good instincts—if something bothered him, it was usually worth investigating."

The question elicited exchanged glances among the staff before Morales cleared his throat hesitantly.

"He was asking questions about Thomas Bradley," Morales offered.

Sullivan's posture changed subtly. "The fisherman?"

Morales nodded. "Bradley has a prior conviction for smuggling, right? Whitman noticed his boat had been making more trips across the Canadian border than usual. He was concerned about the weight of Bradley's declared catches versus what his vessel should realistically hold."

"Did Whitman file any official reports?" Isla asked.

"Not that I saw," Morales replied. "He was still gathering information. Marcus was thorough that way—wouldn't make accusations without solid evidence."

Sullivan exchanged a look with Isla. "Did Inspector Whitman tell anyone else about his suspicions?"

The room fell silent, shoulders tensing across the table.

"He mentioned it to me," said the silver-haired woman, whose name tag read 'Eleanor Katz.' "Last Thursday. We were having coffee before shift. Said something about needing to check Bradley's logs against the harbormaster's records."

"Did he say why?" Isla asked, pulling out her notepad.

Eleanor shook her head. "Just that something didn't add up with the weight distributions. Marcus had this... instinct about these things. Fifteen years at this port, he could spot irregularities most people would miss."

Harrison, who had been standing by the door, stepped forward. "Bradley's boat—the Northern Star —docked yesterday morning. Left again this morning before dawn."

Another employee shifted in his seat, clearly wrestling with something. Sullivan caught the movement.

"You have something to add, Mr. Dawson?" Sullivan said, reading the young man's name tag.

"It's... Peter Dawson," he replied, swallowing hard. "I, uh... Marcus asked me to pull some satellite images of Bradley's usual routes. I thought it was standard procedure until he told me not to log the request in the system."

Sullivan leaned forward. "When was this?"

"Three days ago. He said—" Dawson lowered his voice "—that he didn't want to tip anyone off until he was certain."

Isla exchanged a look with Sullivan, remembering that Whitman had apparently tipped off the FBI on another case. That kind of thing was appreciated by the cops and feds—not so much the local gangsters.

Maybe this time, he was onto the wrong man.

Sullivan turned to Harrison. "We need to take a look at Whitman's workspace."

"We need to see his computer, too," Isla added.

Harrison nodded, leading them down a narrow hallway lined with outdated motivational posters. "Marcus kept things old school—paper files, handwritten notes. Said computers made people lazy investigators."

Whitman's office was spartan—a metal desk, filing cabinet, and a single personal photograph of an older couple Isla assumed were his parents. A computer sat untouched on the desk, a thin layer of dust on the keyboard suggesting minimal use.

"When was the last time anyone saw him alive?" Sullivan asked, pulling on a pair of latex gloves.

Harrison frowned. "Security logs show his badge was scanned leaving the building at 8:43 p.m. yesterday. That was after most of us had gone home."

Isla moved to the filing cabinet, finding it unlocked. "Did he typically work late?"

"Often enough that no one would question it," Harrison replied. "Especially if he was working on something that caught his interest."

Sullivan booted up the computer while Isla methodically worked through the files. Most contained standard customs documentation—shipping manifests, inspection reports, violation notices. Nothing immediately suspicious.

"Computer's password protected," Sullivan announced.

"IT can help with that," Harrison offered.

Isla paused at a folder labeled simply "B." Inside were photocopies of shipping manifests for the Northern Star , dating back six months. Several entries were highlighted in yellow, with question marks and calculations in the margins.

"Found something," she said, carefully examining the contents.

The handwritten notes about specific shipping manifests showed the same meticulous attention to detail she was beginning to recognize as Whitman's signature approach.

Several notations about Bradley's fishing operation were circled in red ink, with calculations done in the precise, methodical hand of someone who took no shortcuts.

"He was building a case," she murmured, showing Sullivan a page where Whitman had calculated the theoretical maximum weight of Bradley's boat versus his declared cargo. The same precision that had made him an exceptional customs inspector was evident in every notation.

"Bradley did three years for smuggling prescription drugs from Canada," Sullivan said, his local knowledge proving useful. "Got out about five years ago. Been running a legitimate fishing operation since—at least supposedly. Marcus helped us nail him the first time."

"These discrepancies Whitman noted are significant," Isla observed. "Either Bradley's lying about his catches—which doesn't make sense given how easily that could be verified—or he's carrying something else."

Sullivan nodded. "The question is, what was important enough that Whitman would go to the port alone at night instead of waiting to investigate officially?"

"Maybe he didn't trust someone on his team," Isla suggested. "Or maybe he wasn't sure enough yet to make it official."

They continued searching until they found a small notebook tucked beneath Whitman's desk blotter.

Inside were more detailed notes about Bradley's operations, including coordinates where his boat had been spotted outside normal fishing areas.

The same careful handwriting filled every page—meticulous observations that connected seamlessly to another framed photograph on Whitman's desk that Isla now noticed more clearly.

The photograph showed a younger Whitman standing proudly beside a display case of meticulously crafted model ships.

The attention to detail in the miniature vessels was extraordinary—every rigging line perfectly scaled, every deck plank individually placed.

The same hands that had documented shipping irregularities with such precision had created these tiny masterworks.

"He built these himself," Harrison said, noticing her interest. "It was his only hobby outside of work. Said it helped him think, working with his hands like that."

Isla studied the photograph, struck by how Whitman's methodical nature had shaped every aspect of his life—from his professional investigations to his personal pursuits. "Did he have a workshop at home?"

"A dedicated room," Harrison confirmed. "He invited the staff over once for a holiday party. Had these incredible detailed models everywhere. More of a museum than a home, really."

This detail added another dimension to their understanding of Whitman—a solitary man whose precision and attention to detail extended from his professional life into his personal pursuits. It also suggested another avenue of investigation.

"We need to talk to Bradley first," Isla said, photographing the notebook pages with her phone. "Then we'll check Whitman's residence for any additional notes or evidence he might have kept at home."

"Like I said," Harrison jumped in, "his vessel took off this morning. He's out on the lake."

They finished their examination of Whitman's workspace and prepared to leave.

As they returned to their vehicle, the snow had begun to taper off, but the temperature was dropping rapidly.

Isla checked her watch, surprised to find it was already late afternoon.

The short winter day was fading quickly.

"We should check Bradley's recent movements first," she suggested. "If he's involved, we need to know before he gets too far out on the lake."

Sullivan nodded, already on his phone. "I'll contact the Coast Guard and see if they can locate his vessel."

As he made the call, Isla reflected on their progress.

They'd established that Whitman had been investigating Bradley's fishing operation and suspected smuggling activities.

Whitman had gone to the port alone to gather evidence and had been murdered for his efforts.

Now Bradley was conveniently out on the lake, potentially fleeing or disposing of evidence.

It wasn't proof, but it was enough to justify pursuing Bradley for questioning. And if he was innocent, he had nothing to fear from their inquiries.

Sullivan ended his call with a grim expression that made Isla's stomach tighten. "Coast Guard has spotted Bradley's boat about three miles out. They've attempted to contact him through maritime channels, but he's not responding."

The implications hit Isla like a physical blow. A fleeing suspect, unresponsive to authorities, heading toward international waters in deteriorating weather conditions. "Equipment failure?" she suggested, though her tone made it clear she didn't believe it.

"Possible," Sullivan conceded. "But unlikely. The Coast Guard says weather conditions are deteriorating rapidly. Most fishing vessels have already returned to port due to the storm warning."

"So, either Bradley is foolish or desperate," Isla said, feeling the familiar pre-operation tension building in her chest.

"He's not foolish," Sullivan replied grimly.

"I've dealt with him before. He's calculating.

" He paused, his expression darkening. "And desperate smugglers cornered on the water have been known to do unpredictable things.

Last year, a guy running drugs across from Thunder Bay tried to ram a Coast Guard cutter rather than surrender. "

The warning sent a chill through Isla. A desperate man with a boat, possibly armed, definitely facing serious prison time if caught—the potential for violence was significant.

"Then we need to speak with him as soon as possible," Isla decided, checking her sidearm automatically. "Before whatever he's trying to hide disappears into Lake Superior."

Sullivan started the engine, a determined set to his jaw. "Coast Guard is dispatching a cutter. They've agreed to let us join them."

"We're going out on the lake?" Isla asked, unable to keep the surprise from her voice. "In this weather?"

"Welcome to Duluth," Sullivan said, with what might have been the ghost of a smile. "Where criminals don't wait for fair weather, and neither do we."