Page 9 of Outside the Room

Another employee shifted in his seat, clearly wrestling with something. Sullivan caught the movement.

"You have something to add, Mr. Dawson?" Sullivan said, reading the young man's name tag.

"It's... Peter Dawson," he replied, swallowing hard. "I, uh... Marcus asked me to pull some satellite images of Bradley's usual routes. I thought it was standard procedure until he told me not to log the request in the system."

Sullivan leaned forward. "When was this?"

"Three days ago. He said—" Dawson lowered his voice "—that he didn't want to tip anyone off until he was certain."

Isla exchanged a look with Sullivan, remembering that Whitman had apparently tipped off the FBI on another case. That kind of thing was appreciated by the cops and feds—not so much the local gangsters.

Maybe this time, he was onto the wrong man.

Sullivan turned to Harrison. "We need to take a look at Whitman's workspace."

"We need to see his computer, too," Isla added.

Harrison nodded, leading them down a narrow hallway lined with outdated motivational posters. "Marcus kept things old school—paper files, handwritten notes. Said computers made people lazy investigators."

Whitman's office was spartan—a metal desk, filing cabinet, and a single personal photograph of an older couple Isla assumed were his parents. A computer sat untouched on the desk, a thin layer of dust on the keyboard suggesting minimal use.

"When was the last time anyone saw him alive?" Sullivan asked, pulling on a pair of latex gloves.

Harrison frowned. "Security logs show his badge was scanned leaving the building at 8:43 p.m. yesterday. That was after most of us had gone home."

Isla moved to the filing cabinet, finding it unlocked. "Did he typically work late?"

"Often enough that no one would question it," Harrison replied. "Especially if he was working on something that caught his interest."

Sullivan booted up the computer while Isla methodically worked through the files. Most contained standard customs documentation—shipping manifests, inspection reports, violation notices. Nothing immediately suspicious.

"Computer's password protected," Sullivan announced.

"IT can help with that," Harrison offered.

Isla paused at a folder labeled simply "B." Inside were photocopies of shipping manifests for the Northern Star, dating back six months. Several entries were highlighted in yellow, with question marks and calculations in the margins.

"Found something," she said, carefully examining the contents. The handwritten notes about specific shipping manifests showed the same meticulous attention to detail she was beginning to recognize as Whitman's signature approach. Several notations about Bradley's fishing operation were circled in red ink, with calculations done in the precise, methodical hand of someone who took no shortcuts.

"He was building a case," she murmured, showing Sullivan a page where Whitman had calculated the theoretical maximum weight of Bradley's boat versus his declared cargo. The same precision that had made him an exceptional customs inspector was evident in every notation.

"Bradley did three years for smuggling prescription drugs from Canada," Sullivan said, his local knowledge proving useful. "Got out about five years ago. Been running a legitimate fishing operation since—at least supposedly. Marcus helped us nail him the first time."

"These discrepancies Whitman noted are significant," Isla observed. "Either Bradley's lying about his catches—which doesn't make sense given how easily that could be verified—or he's carrying something else."

Sullivan nodded. "The question is, what was important enough that Whitman would go to the port alone at night instead of waiting to investigate officially?"

"Maybe he didn't trust someone on his team," Isla suggested. "Or maybe he wasn't sure enough yet to make it official."

They continued searching until they found a small notebook tucked beneath Whitman's desk blotter. Inside were more detailed notes about Bradley's operations, including coordinates where his boat had been spotted outside normal fishing areas. The same careful handwriting filled every page—meticulous observations that connected seamlessly to another framed photograph on Whitman's desk that Isla now noticed more clearly.

The photograph showed a younger Whitman standing proudly beside a display case of meticulously crafted model ships. The attention to detail in the miniature vessels was extraordinary—every rigging line perfectly scaled, every deck plank individually placed. The same hands that had documented shipping irregularities with such precision had created these tiny masterworks.

"He built these himself," Harrison said, noticing her interest. "It was his only hobby outside of work. Said it helped him think, working with his hands like that."

Isla studied the photograph, struck by how Whitman's methodical nature had shaped every aspect of his life—from his professional investigations to his personal pursuits. "Did he have a workshop at home?"

"A dedicated room," Harrison confirmed. "He invited the staff over once for a holiday party. Had these incredible detailed models everywhere. More of a museum than a home, really."

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