Page 35 of Outside the Room

At the doorway, Sarah paused. "Mr. O'Connor? We'll catch whoever did this. Between the FBI and our security team, there's nowhere in this port they can hide."

He nodded distractedly, already returning to his paperwork. "Be careful, Sanchez."

Sarah made her way back through the building, pulling on her gloves as she prepared to face the cold again. The warmth of the administration building had been a welcome respite, but now the reality of the bitter Minnesota night awaited her. She thought briefly of Miguel, probably playing video games in their shared apartment, blissfully unaware of the dangers lurking in the shadows of their city's industrial heart. After this case was resolved—after they caught the killer—maybe she'd finally have enough saved for that house. A place with better security than their current apartment, where she wouldn't worry about her family's safety.

Back outside, the cold hit Sarah like a physical blow after the warmth of the building. She pulled her scarf higher over her nose and continued her patrol, circling toward the western container yard where the bodies had been found.

The area remained cordoned off with police tape, though the containers themselves had been removed as evidence. Sarah paused at the perimeter, visualizing what must have happened. Both Whitman and Pearce had been found in containers with non-standard locks, killed in similar fashion. Both had been investigating shipping manifests from the same company.

It wasn't difficult to connect the dots. Someone had a lot to lose if that information came to light.

Sarah's radio crackled again. "Checkpoint three, all clear," she reported, continuing her patrol.

As she moved deeper into the rarely-used section of the yard where seasonal equipment was stored, something caught her attention—a flash of movement between container stacks to her right. Just a shadow, there and gone in an instant, but the movement was too deliberate, too vertical to be debris blown by the wind. Human height. Human gait. Her instincts, honed by years of reading opponents in the ring, told her someone was trying to stay hidden.

Sarah slowed her pace, hand moving to rest on her weapon. This area wasn't scheduled for patrols by any other officers tonight. Anyone here had no legitimate reason to be present.

"Central, this is Sanchez," she spoke quietly into her radio. "Possible movement detected in section W-17, near the seasonal storage. Going to investigate."

"Roger that, Sanchez. Backup available if needed."

"Stand by," she replied, not wanting to call for help prematurely. It could be nothing—animals sometimes found their way into the yard, or the wind might have shifted something loose.

She moved cautiously toward where she'd seen the movement, using the container stacks for cover. The narrow passage between the towering metal boxes was darker here, several security lights having burned out without replacement. Mental note to report that in the morning, she thought, drawing her flashlight but not activating it yet. Better to maintain her night vision.

The wind had died down, leaving an eerie stillness broken only by the distant sound of ice shifting on the lake. Sarah paused, listening intently. Was that a footstep crunching on snow, or just ice settling?

A sudden clang echoed from her left—metal striking metal. Sarah spun toward the sound, weapon half-drawn, her heart hammering. She waited, muscles coiled, ready to react. Seconds stretched into a full minute before she spotted the culprit: a loose tarp flapping against a container corner, caught by a sudden gust of wind. She exhaled slowly, forcing her shoulders to relax. False alarm.

But as she turned back toward her original destination, that nagging sense of being watched returned. Someone was definitely out here.

She drew her weapon completely now, holding it in a ready position as she'd been trained. "Port Security," she called out, her voice steady and authoritative. "Identify yourself immediately."

No response came. Sarah took a step forward, intending to sweep her flashlight across the area. The hair on the back of her neck stood up—boxer's instinct warning her of danger as clearly as if someone had shouted.

She started to turn, sensing rather than hearing movement behind her. Too late—something heavy struck the back of her head with crushing force. Pain exploded through her skull as her knees buckled.

Sarah tried to raise her weapon, boxer's reflexes fighting through the shock, but a second blow sent her sprawling face-first onto the frozen ground. Her flashlight and gun skittered away across the ice. The radio at her belt squawked with a voice asking for a status report, suddenly sounding very far away.

As consciousness began to fade, she caught a glimpse of boots approaching in her peripheral vision—expensive leather boots, the kind that weren't standard issue for port workers. Boots she'd seen polished and pristine in the administrative offices. Recognition dawned with horrifying clarity in her last moments of awareness.

Then darkness claimed her.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The field office had emptied hours ago, leaving only Isla, Sullivan, and the gentle hum of the heating system fighting against the winter chill. Outside the windows, darkness had fallen, the early sunset a constant reminder of how far north she'd been exiled. The weak fluorescent lights cast Sullivan's features in harsh relief as he hunched over his computer, methodically piecing together Gregory Nash's movements over the past month.

"Got something," he said, breaking their focused silence. "Nash attended the Lake Superior Maritime Foundation gala on the night Whitman was killed. Started at seven p.m., ended after midnight."

Isla moved to peer over his shoulder at the screen, where security footage showed Nash in a tuxedo, glass of champagne in hand, working a room of Duluth's elite. The timestamp read 9:17 p.m.—precisely when Whitman would have been meeting his killer at the port.

"Alibi checks out," she said, the disappointment evident in her voice. "What about Pearce's murder?"

Sullivan flipped through several screens of data. "Chamber of Commerce leadership dinner. He gave the keynote address. Again, plenty of witnesses, security footage from the venue confirms his presence from six p.m. until after eleven."

Isla pushed away from the desk with a sigh of frustration. "Too neat. He's either not involved, or—"

"—or he hired someone to do the dirty work," Sullivan finished. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. "Which tracks with what we know about Nash. He insulates himself."

---