Page 23 of Outside the Room

The weight of the investigation settled more heavily on Isla's shoulders. Two murders, a smuggling operation, missing evidence, and now economic pressure that would only increase as their investigation continued.

As they walked back toward the command center, Isla spotted a port worker she recognized from earlier interviews—an older man who had worked alongside Whitman for years. He was staring at the container where Pearce's body had been found, his expression a mix of horror and grief.

"They were friends," the man said when he noticed Isla watching him. "Diana and Marcus. Always looking out for each other." He shook his head slowly. "Whatever they found, I hope it was worth dying for."

Isla wished she could offer comfort, but platitudes felt hollow in the face of such deliberate violence. Instead, she simply nodded, acknowledging his grief while silently renewing her determination to find whoever was responsible.

As full darkness settled over the port, additional lights were brought in to illuminate the ongoing evidence collection. The harsh white beams transformed the container yard into a surreal landscape where massive ships became looming shadows against the star-filled sky, and the endless rows of containers stretched like a metallic city under siege. The temperature was dropping rapidly, turning their breath into visible clouds that caught and scattered the emergency lighting.

Isla stood at the perimeter, watching the methodical work of the technicians against this distinctive backdrop of industrial winter. Somewhere in this frozen port was a killer who had now struck twice. Someone with access, knowledge, and the cold calculation to eliminate anyone who threatened their operation. The missing manifests held the key—documentation that connected Whitman and Pearce to whatever illicit activity they had uncovered.

Without those manifests, Isla and Sullivan would need to reconstruct the victims' investigations from scratch, identifying what they had found that was worth killing for. And they would need to do it quickly before the killer struck again.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The port authority building hummed with activity despite the late hour. Additional FBI agents had arrived from the field office, transforming the normally quiet administrative space into a command center for what was now officially designated a multiple homicide investigation.

Isla stood at a conference room window, watching as security teams conducted patrols through the container yard, their flashlight beams cutting through the darkness like searchlights. The initial shock of finding Pearce's body had given way to focused determination as she mentally organized their next steps.

"Rivers," Sullivan called from the doorway. "Raymond O'Connor just arrived. He wants to talk to us."

Isla turned, recalling the name from their earlier investigation. "Pearce and Whitman's supervisor? I thought he wasn't working yesterday."

"He wasn't. It was his day off." Sullivan lowered his voice as they walked down the hallway. "He's pretty shaken up. Just found out about Pearce when he came in for his shift."

They entered a smaller conference room where a man in his fifties sat slumped at the table. Raymond O'Connor had the weathered appearance of someone who had spent years working outdoors before moving to an administrative role. His face was drawn with shock and grief, hands wrapped around a coffee mug that appeared untouched.

"Mr. O'Connor," Isla began, taking a seat across from him. "I'm Agent Rivers. I believe you've already met Agent Sullivan."

O'Connor nodded, his gaze unfocused. "Two of my people," he said hoarsely. "Two of my people murdered in three days."

"We're very sorry for your loss," Isla said, genuine sympathy in her voice. "I understand you were close to both of them."

"Marcus had been with us fifteen years. Diana, almost ten." O'Connor drew a deep breath, visibly struggling to maintain composure. "Best people on my team. Thorough. Dedicated."

"That's why we need your help," Sullivan said, his tone gentler than Isla had heard him use with anyone besides his daughter. "Whatever Whitman and Pearce discovered, it got them killed. We need to understand what they were working on."

O'Connor straightened slightly, purpose replacing some of the shock in his expression. "I want to help. I'm not leaving until we find whoever did this."

"We appreciate that," Isla said. "Let's start with what you know about their recent work. Were they collaborating on anything specific?"

"Not officially," O'Connor replied. "But they often consulted each other on irregularities. Both had an eye for patterns most people would miss." He ran a hand through his thinning hair. "Marcus had flagged several shipping manifests for review over the past few weeks. After his murder, I asked Diana to look into them, see if she could figure out what he'd noticed."

"And now the manifests are missing," Sullivan observed. "Both the originals Whitman was reviewing and whatever copies Pearce was working with."

O'Connor nodded grimly. "Whatever irregularities they detected, those manifests are the key."

"Can we reconstruct them?" Isla asked. "Surely there are backup copies somewhere?"

A flicker of frustration crossed O'Connor's face. "That's the problem. The port's record-keeping system is... antiquated, to put it kindly. We're only just beginning to digitize everything. Complete digital backups would require contacting shipping agents across multiple ports in the U.S., Canada, and overseas—a time-consuming process."

"But possible?" Sullivan pressed.

"Possible, yes. But it could take days, maybe weeks, to get everything." O'Connor leaned forward. "Look, our standard procedure is to maintain physical copies for two years, then archive them. The digital transition is still underway. Most of what Whitman and Pearce were reviewing only existed as hard copies."

Isla absorbed this, rethinking their approach. "What about the shipping companies themselves? Would they have records of what passed through Duluth?"

"They should," O'Connor confirmed. "But getting them to share proprietary information without specific cause might be challenging." He hesitated, then opened his briefcase, removing a thick folder. "I brought everything I could find that might help—contact information for every shipping company using the port in the past six months, staff schedules showing who worked alongside Whitman and Pearce, security protocols for the container yard."

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