"Agents Rivers and Sullivan? These just came in from the tech team. They managed to recover some of Pearce's recent emails from the server backup. Thought you'd want to see them right away."
Isla accepted the papers with a nod of thanks. As the agent left, she and Sullivan began reviewing the printouts, looking for anything that might connect to their investigation.
"Here," Sullivan said after several minutes, holding up a page. "Email from Pearce to Whitman, sent three days before his death. Subject line: 'Weight Discrepancies in Nash Global Shipments.'"
Isla felt a surge of adrenaline at the mention of the company and CEO she'd noticed in O'Connor's photograph. "What does it say?"
Sullivan read aloud: "'Marcus, noticed something odd in the NG manifests you flagged. Container weights consistently off by 50-75 pounds across multiple shipments. Too consistent to be measurement error. Can we discuss tomorrow? Diana.'"
"Nash Global again," Isla murmured. "The same company whose CEO was in that photo with O'Connor."
"Might be coincidence," Sullivan cautioned, though his tone suggested he didn't believe it.
"Two murder victims, both investigating the same company's shipping manifests?" Isla shook her head. "That's not coincidence. That's motive."
They continued through the emails, finding several more exchanges between Whitman and Pearce discussing weight discrepancies and manifest irregularities. Most mentioned Nash Global specifically, though a few referenced other shipping companies as well.
"They were building a case," Sullivan observed. "Methodically documenting patterns before taking their concerns up the chain."
"Which means they might have created backup documentation," Isla said, excitement building as the pieces began to align. "Copies stored somewhere besides their offices."
The intensity of their discovery seemed to energize them both, but Isla noticed Sullivan rubbing his temples—a gesture that reminded her of her own exhaustion. The case was consuming, but they were both running on adrenaline and caffeine, a dangerous combination when dealing with calculated killers.
Sullivan was already dialing his phone. "I'll send a team to both their residences. If they kept backup files at home, we need to find them before the killer does."
As he coordinated the search teams, Isla returned to the map, her gaze fixed on the vast expanse of the container yard. Somewhere in that maze of metal boxes was the evidence they needed—the pattern Whitman and Pearce had discovered, the system they had begun to unravel.
The question was whether she and Sullivan could find it before the killer eliminated any remaining traces—and any other potential witnesses.
She studied the shipping routes marked on the map and the connections between Duluth and ports across the Great Lakes and beyond. The sheer volume of cargo moving through this hub daily created perfect cover for illicit activities. Minor discrepancies multiplied across thousands of containers could represent massive smuggling operations hidden in plain sight.
"We can't search every container," Sullivan said, rejoining her at the map. "Even with additional personnel, it would take weeks."
"We don't need to search every container," Isla replied, her mind racing ahead. "We need to track the pattern Whitman and Pearce were following. If we can identify which shipments they flagged as suspicious, we can narrow our focus."
Sullivan considered this. "The weight discrepancies they mentioned—fifty to seventy-five pounds consistently off. That's not enough for major drug shipments or weapons."
"Unless it's high-value, low-weight cargo," Isla suggested. "Pharmaceuticals, electronic components, precious metals."
"Or unless the discrepancies are just markers," Sullivan countered. "A way to identify which containers are carrying illicit cargo elsewhere in the shipment."
Isla nodded slowly, seeing the logic. "A coding system. The weight discrepancy itself isn't the contraband—it's the signal that identifies which containers are part of the operation."
They looked at each other, both recognizing they were onto something significant.
"Either way," Isla continued, "we're not finding concrete evidence tonight. But we can secure the port, protect potential witnesses, and start reconstructing Whitman and Pearce's investigation in the morning."
Sullivan checked his watch, frowning slightly. "It's past nine. Emma's science project will have to wait." He pulled out his phone, and Isla caught the conflict in his expression—the pull between professional duty and parental responsibility that she knew all too well, though from a different perspective.
Watching him struggle with the decision brought unexpected memories of her own childhood—her father missing school plays because of Coast Guard emergencies, her mother's resigned acceptance of canceled family plans when duty called. The pattern that had shaped her own understanding of service and sacrifice, and perhaps her own reluctance to pursue the kind of family connections that required such difficult choices.
Sullivan stepped away briefly to make what Isla assumed was a call to his daughter. She could hear the apologetic tone in his voice, the gentle explanation of why her daddy wouldn't be home for bedtime tonight. When he returned, his expression was resolute but tinged with the guilt she recognized in every law enforcement parent.
"I've arranged for my ex-wife to stay with Emma tonight. We need to keep working."
"Sullivan," Isla said carefully, "you should go home. At least for a few hours. Emma needs you, and we both need fresh perspective tomorrow."
He shook his head stubbornly. "Two people are dead. The killer could strike again if we miss something."
