"Or at least, not in the way we thought," Sullivan agreed, running a hand through his hair. "But there has to be a connection. Whitman was investigating Bradley's operation, and now Whitman's dead."
"Different parts of the same puzzle," Isla mused. "Whitman found something in those shipping manifests—something that led him to Bradley's operation but possibly pointed to something bigger."
"Something worth killing for," Sullivan finished her thought.
As they walked toward the conference room they'd been assigned, Isla felt the familiar buzz of a complex case starting to take shape. The obvious answer—that Bradley had killed Whitman to protect his smuggling operation—had been easy but wrong. Now, they were entering murkier waters, where the connections would be more subtle and the stakes potentially much higher.
"We need to find out what Whitman discovered in those manifests," she said. "And who might have known he was looking."
Sullivan nodded grimly. "And we need to do it before they realize we're still looking, too."
CHAPTER NINE
The Lake Superior Diner sat across from the harbor, its large windows offering a panoramic view of the massive freighters docked in the frozen port. Despite its proximity to federal buildings and shipping offices, the restaurant maintained the authentic charm of a local establishment—worn leather booths, walls decorated with historic photos of Duluth's shipping heyday, and the persistent scent of fresh coffee and grilled onions.
Isla slid into a booth by the window, grateful for the warmth after another morning spent in the biting cold of the port area. The cracked leather seat creaked beneath her as she settled in, and she wrapped her hands around the mug of coffee a server had promptly delivered. Sullivan joined her a moment later, having finished a phone call outside. His expression remained as unreadable as ever, but the slight loosening of his shoulders suggested positive news.
"Bradley's GPS data confirms his alibi," he said, reaching for the laminated menu tucked behind the napkin dispenser. "He was nowhere near the port when Whitman was killed."
"Which leaves us with a weapons smuggling and prescription drug bust but no murder suspect," Isla sighed, warmth seeping into her fingers, still stiff from the cold despite her gloves. She wore insulated boots, thermal layers, and a parka that made her feel like an arctic explorer, but they kept the biting wind at bay, at least slightly.
"We'll find the connection," Sullivan said with quiet confidence. "Bradley's operation and Whitman's murder are linked, even if Bradley himself isn't the killer."
A server approached—a woman in her sixties with silver hair and the efficient movements of someone who had been doing this job for decades. "James Sullivan," she said, her stern expression softening slightly. "Haven't seen you in here for weeks."
"Been busy, Margaret," Sullivan replied, a hint of warmth in his voice that surprised Isla. "How's the knee?"
"Still attached," Margaret quipped. "Who's your new partner? Haven't seen her before."
"Agent Isla Rivers," Sullivan introduced. "Recently transferred from Miami."
Margaret gave Isla an appraising look. "Miami to Duluth in December? What'd you do to deserve that?"
Before Isla could formulate a response, Sullivan intervened smoothly. "She's the best they had, so they sent her to us."
The unexpected compliment caught Isla off guard, and she masked her surprise by studying the menu. Margaret took their orders—lake trout sandwich for Sullivan, soup and salad for Isla—and departed with a familiar "Holler if you need anything, Jimmy."
"Jimmy?" Isla couldn't resist asking once Margaret was out of earshot.
Sullivan's expression remained neutral, but a faint color rose in his cheeks. "My dad used to bring me here when I was a kid. Margaret's known me since I was ten."
This glimpse into his personal history felt significant—a small crack in the professional armor he maintained. Isla decided to tread carefully, aware that their working relationship was still fragile.
They ate in relative silence for several minutes, both absorbed in their own thoughts about the case. The diner gradually filled with the lunch crowd—dockworkers in heavy overalls, office staff from nearby buildings, Coast Guard personnel in uniform. The clatter of silverware against plates and the low murmur of overlapping conversations created a backdrop of everyday normalcy that felt almost surreal, given the violence they'd been investigating. Isla observed them all with the practiced eye of an investigator, noting interactions, hierarchies, the easy familiarity of a small community where everyone seemed to know everyone else. It was exactly this tight-knit quality that made crimes here more personal; everyone knew the victims, making their investigation feel less like a case and more like a violation of the community itself.
"You could have died yesterday," Sullivan said abruptly, setting down his sandwich.
Isla looked up, startled by both the statement and the intensity in his voice.
"On Bradley's boat," he continued, his eyes meeting hers directly. "That jump was reckless. If you'd missed, fallen into the water..." He shook his head.
"I made it," she pointed out, keeping her tone neutral despite her surprise at his concern.
"This time," Sullivan said. "Lake Superior doesn't forgive mistakes. Even experienced sailors respect its power." He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping. "The cold water causes muscles to seize within seconds. Even strong swimmers can't fight it. The lake just... takes them down before rescue is possible."
The specificity of his description gave Isla pause. "You sound like you're speaking from experience."
Something flickered in Sullivan's eyes—a shadow of old pain quickly masked. "When I was fourteen, my best friend's father went missing during an early spring fishing trip. Water was still near freezing. They found his boat, but not him." He paused. "I helped with the search parties for three days."
