Page 21 of Outside the Room

Sullivan was already dialing another number. "Let me try her supervisor." He waited, his expression growing more tense with each passing ring. Finally, someone answered. "Raymond? It's Agent Sullivan. Have you seen Diana Pearce today?" A pause. "No, she didn't come in this morning? That's... concerning."

He ended the call, his face grim. "She never went home last night. Her supervisor thought she'd called in sick, but there's no record of that."

Isla's stomach dropped as the implications hit her. "Just like Whitman. He stayed late to investigate something, and then..." She didn't need to finish the thought.

Sullivan's jaw tightened as he started the engine. "I don't know yet. Let's head to the port authority building. Now."

CHAPTER TEN

Diana Pearce's office was unnervingly quiet when they arrived. The door stood slightly ajar, interior lights still on despite the late morning hour. Isla noticed Sullivan's hand move instinctively toward his weapon as they approached.

"Diana?" Sullivan called, pushing the door open further with his foot. "It's Agent Sullivan. You here?"

Silence greeted them. Sullivan exchanged a glance with Isla before they both drew their weapons and entered the office using standard clearing procedure.

The room told its own story. An overturned chair lay on its side near the desk. Papers were scattered across the floor, many bearing the distinctive format of shipping manifests. A coffee mug had been knocked over, its contents long since dried into a dark stain on several documents.

"Signs of a struggle," Isla observed, holstering her weapon after confirming the room was empty. She moved methodically around the space, her trained eye cataloging details. "Look at the desk. These drawers were searched."

Sullivan nodded grimly, his jaw tightening as he surveyed the chaos. He'd spoken with Diana just yesterday, had seen her determined to help solve Marcus's murder. Now she was missing, and the devastation in her office told a story he didn't want to believe. "Whatever she found in those manifests, someone wanted it badly enough to come after her."

Isla crouched to examine the scattered papers, careful not to disturb potential evidence. "Most of these are routine shipping documents, but there's a system to how they're arranged. She was organizing them by company, then by date."

"She was looking for patterns," Sullivan said. "Just like Whitman."

Isla stood, moving toward the doorway. She paused, noticing something on the hallway floor outside the office. "Sullivan, look at this."

He joined her, following her gaze to the industrial carpet. At first glance, nothing seemed amiss, but as Isla pointed, he saw what she had noticed—faint but distinct scuff marks leading away from the office.

"Someone being dragged," Sullivan said quietly. "Heels digging in."

A cold feeling settled in Isla's stomach. "We need to see the security footage."

***

The port authority's security system proved disappointingly limited. Cameras covered the main entrances and the parking areas, but many interior hallways—including the one outside Pearce's office—weren't monitored.

"Budget cuts," the security manager explained apologetically. "We prioritized external access points."

He pulled up the footage from the previous evening, and they watched as Pearce arrived for her shift, then stayed well past normal hours. The last image of her showed her returning from the break room with a fresh cup of coffee around eleven-thirty p.m. After that, nothing—just empty hallways and darkened offices.

"No sign of anyone unusual entering the building?" Isla asked.

The manager shook his head. "Just the night security guard making his rounds, and he didn't report anything strange."

"We need to talk to him," Sullivan said.

"He's off today. I can call him in if you want."

"Do it," Sullivan replied. "And we need a list of everyone who accessed the building last night, including cleaning staff, late workers, anyone."

As the manager hurried to coordinate these requests, Isla felt the familiar weight of a case spiraling beyond their control. The missing footage, the systematic elimination of evidence—it reminded her too much of Miami, of arriving at crime scenes where crucial pieces had already been swept away. She moved to the window overlooking the vast container yard, watching as dock workers continued their routine operations, oblivious to the drama unfolding in the administrative building above them.

Hundreds of shipping containers were stacked in neat rows, waiting to be loaded onto vessels or transported inland. A terrible suspicion formed in her mind as she stared at the massive steel boxes, each one large enough to hide terrible secrets.

"Sullivan," she said without turning around. "When was the last time anyone physically saw Diana Pearce?"

She heard him grow still behind her, the same realization clearly dawning. "Yesterday."

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