Page 42 of Outside the Room

"Which explains why she didn't call for backup when she spotted something," Sullivan observed grimly.

O'Connor's expression darkened with guilt. "I should have instructed her to take another officer with her. After what happened to Marcus and Diana..." His voice trailed off, the implication clear. He felt responsible.

Isla regarded him thoughtfully. "One more question, Mr. O'Connor," she said. "Do you own a boat?"

The question clearly caught him off guard. "A boat? Yes, a small fishing boat. Nothing fancy. Why?"

"Where is it docked?" Sullivan asked, following Isla's line of inquiry.

"Marina on the north shore, about twenty minutes from here." O'Connor's brow furrowed with confusion. "It's winterized and in storage for the season. Has been since October."

"We'll need to verify that," Isla said. The movement of boats might be relevant to how the killer was accessing different parts of the port undetected, particularly during the nighttime hours when security patrols were most active.

As they prepared to leave, O'Connor rose from his chair. The movement appeared to require significant effort as if the weight of events had physically aged him.

"Agents," he said quietly, "I've lost three good people in less than a week. Whatever resources you need, whatever access—it's yours. Just catch whoever is doing this before anyone else dies."

The raw emotion in his voice struck Isla as genuine. O'Connor might still be hiding something—his true connection to Nash, perhaps, or knowledge of smuggling operations—but she was increasingly convinced he wasn't their killer.

"We'll be in touch, Mr. O'Connor," she assured him. "In the meantime, consider accepting personal protection. Whoever killed Sanchez might view you as either a threat or a loose end."

He nodded wearily. "I'll think about it. Thank you."

In the hallway outside his office, Sullivan turned to Isla. "Thoughts?"

"His alibi checks out so far," she replied in a low voice. "We probably shouldn’t waste more time on him. I'm more interested in this Michael Thorne now. Navy background, physical capability, intimate knowledge of port operations."

Sullivan nodded. "Let's pay Thorne a visit next. Where would he be at this hour?"

"If he's on shift, western terminal supervisor's office. If not, we'll need his home address." Isla checked her watch—nearly midnight now. "Either way, I want to talk to him before he has a chance to clean up any evidence."

They made their way back to the reception area, where Maria was still at her desk, now accompanied by a uniformed security officer who had apparently been assigned to the building following Sanchez's murder.

"Maria," Isla said, "do you know if Michael Thorne is working tonight?"

The receptionist looked up from her computer. "Mr. Thorne? Yes, he's on the third shift this week. Should be in his office at the western terminal unless he's out on the docks."

They thanked Maria and headed for the exit, both mentally preparing for their confrontation with Thorne. Outside, the storm had intensified, snow whipping horizontally across the parking lot in blinding sheets. Visibility had dropped to mere feet, the world beyond their immediate surroundings reduced to vague shapes in swirling white.

"Weather's working in the killer's favor," Sullivan observed grimly as they hurried to their vehicle. "Covering tracks, compromising evidence collection."

Isla nodded, pulling her coat tighter against the biting cold. "Let's hope it hasn't given Thorne time to disappear as well."

As Sullivan navigated their vehicle carefully through the storm toward the western terminal, Isla's mind raced through the implications of their latest findings. If Sanchez had discovered something in section W-17, something worth killing for, they needed to identify what it was before any evidence was destroyed. And if Thorne was involved, whether as Nash's enforcer or operating independently, confronting him would require extreme caution.

The storm raged around them, transforming Duluth's massive port into a ghostly landscape of shadow and snow. Somewhere in this frozen maze was a killer who had already claimed three victims. Isla was determined not to let the count rise to four.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

The storm had transformed Duluth's port into an alien landscape of swirling white and muffled sounds. Isla pulled her collar higher against the driving snow as she and Sullivan made their way toward the western terminal, their footsteps creating temporary impressions that vanished moments later under the relentless fall. The harbor, normally alive with the industrial symphony of loading cranes and diesel engines, had fallen into an eerie quiet broken only by the howl of wind through metal structures.

"Visibility's getting worse," Sullivan observed, his voice nearly lost in the storm. Ice crystals clung to his eyebrows, and his breath formed clouds that were immediately torn away by the wind.

Isla nodded, squinting through the blizzard toward the modest building that housed the western terminal's supervisory offices. Michael Thorne's office was supposed to be there—the man whose Navy background and intimate knowledge of port operations had made him their prime suspect. The building loomed out of the snow like a ghost ship, dark windows reflecting nothing but the swirling white beyond.

When they reached Thorne's office, Sullivan tried the door handle. It turned freely in his grip, too freely—the lock had been forced.

"Door's been jimmied," he said, drawing his weapon with practiced efficiency.

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