Page 5 of Outside the Room
"I have what they wanted me to see." He shrugged. "Not the same as hearing it from your mouth.”
Isla met Sullivan’s steely eyes. She had a hard time believing he didn’t know.
“I misread a suspect,” Isla said, shame coursing through her, “and it led to the death of someone I could’ve saved. Does that tell you enough?”
Sullivan held her gaze for several uncomfortable seconds before nodding once. Something in his expression shifted—not quite softening but acknowledging.
"It tells me enough for now," he said. "Everyone's got something they're running from or toward." He reached for his door handle. "Just make sure whatever happened in Miami doesn't cloud your judgment here."
The blast of icy air when they stepped outside stole Isla's breath. The wind had picked up, driving snow horizontally across the parking lot. She hunched her shoulders, cursing her Miami blood as they trudged toward the Port Authority building. Even wrapped up in some of the new wintry clothes she’d purchased, she couldn’t adjust to this damn cold.
Sullivan moved with purpose through the snow, seemingly unbothered by the cold. They reached an area where several emergency vehicles were already gathered, their flashing lights creating eerie patterns in the swirling snow.
Local police had cordoned off a section containing a row of shipping containers. Officers moved about with purposeful efficiency despite the brutal cold, their hushed tones and grim expressions suggesting this was no routine death.
"This is a small community, Rivers. Everybody knows everybody. If this is someone local, it's personal for these officers."
It was the closest thing to advice he'd offered since they met, and Isla recognized it for the warning it was. Don't step on toes. Don't act like the big-city FBI agent swooping in.
"Understood," she said, meeting his gaze steadily.
The bitter wind stole Isla's breath as they approached the crime scene. Several officers nodded to Sullivan, their curious glances sliding to Isla before quickly looking away.
"James," one of the officers called, extending his hand. "Didn't expect to see the FBI so quickly."
"We were at the office when the call came in," Sullivan explained, shaking the man's hand. "This is my new partner, Agent Isla Rivers. Rivers, this is Detective Mike Sorenson, Duluth PD."
Sorenson nodded to her, his expression neutral but evaluating. "Welcome to Duluth. Hell of a first case."
"What do we know so far?" Isla asked, switching into investigator mode and pushing aside her personal discomfort.
"Victim's name is Marcus Whitman, thirty-four. Customs inspector," Sorenson replied. "Maintenance crew found him this morning when they were moving containers. He's been dead at least twelve hours by my estimate, but the ME will have to confirm. With these temperatures, time of death is tricky."
"Whitman," Sullivan repeated, his brow furrowing. "I know that name. Isn't he the one who tipped us on that agricultural smuggling ring last year?"
Sorenson nodded. "Yeah, that's him. Good guy. Tough but fair. By-the-book type."
Isla absorbed this information, noting that Sullivan had been right—this was personal for the local officers. They had known the victim and worked with him.
"Who found the body?" she asked.
"Dockworker named Pavel Kowalski," Sorenson answered. "He's over there, still pretty shaken up."
Isla followed his gesture to a man sitting in a patrol car, a blanket around his shoulders despite being inside the heated vehicle.
"We'll need to speak with him," she said. "And I'd like to see the crime scene."
Sorenson hesitated, exchanging a glance with Sullivan. "It's... not pretty in there. The cold did some things to the body."
"I've worked homicide in Miami," Isla replied, keeping her voice neutral. "I can handle it."
Sorenson gave Sullivan another look, which Isla pretended not to notice. She was used to being underestimated, to having her capabilities questioned. It came with being a woman in law enforcement, compounded now by being the outsider with a questionable reputation.
"This way," Sorenson finally said, leading them toward the container in question.
As they approached, Isla felt the familiar focus descending, the clarity that came with investigating a crime scene. Whatever had happened in Miami, whatever judgment Sullivan or these officers might hold about her, none of it mattered now. A man was dead, and finding his killer was the only priority.
Now, all she had to do was see the body.
