Page 32 of Outside the Room

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Nash Global's headquarters occupied the top three floors of a gleaming glass tower overlooking Lake Superior. The building stood in stark contrast to the industrial functionality of the port area—all sleek modernism and corporate prosperity, with the company's stylized blue wave logo prominently displayed on the façade.

Isla and Sullivan were directed to a private elevator that whisked them silently to the executive floor. The receptionist who greeted them was polished and professional, offering refreshments in a manner that suggested this was standard protocol for all visitors, regardless of whether they were FBI agents investigating potential connections to murder.

"Mr. Nash will see you shortly," she informed them with a practiced smile. "Please make yourselves comfortable."

The waiting area offered panoramic views of the frozen lake, the vastness of Superior stretching to the horizon. From this height, the massive freighters in the harbor looked like toys, the bustling port reduced to a miniature model of commerce and industry.

Isla used the waiting time to observe the corporate environment. Everything about Nash Global's headquarters projected legitimate success and transparency—open floor plans visible through glass walls, professionally framed maritime maps and shipping artifacts decorating the spaces, employees moving with purposeful efficiency. Nothing suggested connections to smuggling operations or murders. But then, she reflected, that was precisely the point of an effective front.

After exactly five minutes—a delay calculated to establish subtle dominance without seeming deliberately discourteous—they were escorted to Gregory Nash's corner office. The space was impressive without being ostentatious, featuring the same panoramic views as the waiting area but with the addition of a large desk crafted from what appeared to be reclaimed wood from an old vessel.

Nash himself rose to greet them as they entered. In his early fifties, he projected the confident authority of someone accustomed to wielding significant power. His silver hair was expertly cut, his navy suit impeccably tailored. When he smiled, the expression reached his eyes with practiced precision.

"Agents Sullivan and Rivers," he said, extending his hand first to Sullivan, then to Isla. His handshake was firm but not aggressive. "It's a terrible situation at the port. Two murders in such a short time—unprecedented for Duluth."

"Thank you for seeing us on such short notice, Mr. Nash," Sullivan replied, his tone professionally neutral.

"Gregory, please," Nash insisted, gesturing toward a seating area near the windows rather than conducting the conversation across his desk—a deliberate choice that suggested openness while actually controlling the dynamics of the interaction. "I want to help however I can. The port is the lifeblood of this region's economy."

As they settled into the arranged seating, Isla noted the subtle positioning. Nash had selected a chair that placed the bright window light behind him, slightly obscuring his facial expressions while fully illuminating theirs. A small but telling detail.

"We appreciate your cooperation," Isla said, matching his conversational tone while studying his body language. "As you can imagine, we're exploring all aspects of port operations to understand what might be connected to these murders."

Nash nodded solemnly. "Of course. Absolutely tragic what happened to those two customs officers. I didn't know them personally, of course, but our company works closely with customs officials across the Great Lakes."

Sullivan opened his portfolio, extracting several documents with deliberate casualness. "We're particularly interested in understanding how shipping manifests are processed and verified. It seems both victims were reviewing certain manifests shortly before their deaths."

A flicker of something—perhaps heightened attention—crossed Nash's face before his expression returned to neutral concern. "Manifests are the backbone of the shipping industry. Everything is documented, tracked, verified at multiple points. What specifically were they reviewing?"

"Weight discrepancies," Isla replied, watching him carefully. "Particularly in containers moving between international ports and Duluth."

Nash's response was immediate, and he appeared appropriately puzzled. "Weight discrepancies? That's fairly common in international shipping. Different equipment calibrations, environmental factors affecting measurements. Usually just clerical matters."

"These were consistent discrepancies," Sullivan clarified. "Always in the same direction, always within a specific range."

"How interesting," Nash remarked, his posture unchanged but his right hand now resting on the arm of his chair, index finger tapping twice before stilling—a potential stress tell. "Which shipping line was involved?"

Sullivan and Isla exchanged a brief glance, a silent communication about how direct to be. Sullivan opted for directness.

"Several of the flagged manifests were for Nash Global containers," he said, sliding a document across the table—a copy of one of the manifests they'd recovered showing the discrepancy highlighted.

Nash examined the document, his expression thoughtful. "This is one of ours, yes. Rotterdam to Duluth, electronic components for a manufacturing client." He looked up, appearing unconcerned. "A thirty-five-kilogram variance is well within normal tolerances for international shipping. I'm surprised it would warrant special attention."

"It might not have, as an isolated incident," Isla observed. "But when the pattern appears across dozens of containers from the same company, it becomes more noteworthy."

"Dozens?" Nash repeated, his surprise appearing genuine, though Isla caught the slight dilation of his pupils—a physiological response he couldn't control. "I wasn't aware of any systematic issue. Our compliance team regularly reviews all documentation. I'll certainly have them look into this."

Sullivan shifted tactics. "We're also investigating connections between legitimate shipping operations and smuggling activities recently discovered in the Duluth area."

"Smuggling?" Nash's eyebrows raised. "I heard something on the news about a fishing boat operator arrested for contraband. Terrible business. Damages the reputation of all maritime operations in the region."

"The operator's name is Thomas Bradley," Isla said, introducing the name deliberately to gauge Nash's reaction. "His smuggling operation appears to have connections to larger networks operating through the port."

Nash maintained his composed expression, but Isla noted a subtle tightening around his mouth—a micro expression of tension quickly suppressed. "I'm not familiar with Mr. Bradley personally. Commercial fishing operations and international shipping rarely intersect directly."

A careful non-answer that maintained plausible deniability while avoiding an outright lie. Isla found herself reluctantly impressed by Nash's composure.

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