As they left the patrol car, the wind whipped harder, driving snow horizontally across the port. Isla pulled her inadequate coat tighter, scanning the maze of containers stacked like children's blocks across the massive yard. The sound of ongoing operations—diesel engines, hydraulic machinery, shouted orders—created a strange counterpoint to the somber reality of their investigation.
"What's your read?" Sullivan asked, surprising her with the question.
"Kowalski seems genuinely shocked," Isla replied. "I don't think he's involved, and we should probably talk to the other guys in customs, like he suggested."
"Agreed," Sullivan said. "Let's see if they can shed some light on Whitman's last days."
In the distance, the sound of a container crane grinding to life reminded them both that despite the presence of death, the port's vital work continued—and somewhere among those workers might be a killer who had already demonstrated they would murder to protect their secrets.
CHAPTER FOUR
The customs office occupied the second floor of a utilitarian building overlooking the main shipping terminal. The office resembled a typical government workspace—fluorescent lighting, beige walls, outdated furniture—but the massive windows offered spectacular views of the harbor, now partially obscured by the continuing snowfall. As Isla stepped inside, the familiar hum of institutional life struck her with unexpected recognition. Despite the different climate and cargo, the rhythms were the same as Miami's port authority: the quiet dedication of civil servants and the weight of responsibility for protecting the nation's borders. For the first time since arriving in Duluth, she felt a flicker of belonging rather than exile.
The customs director, a rail-thin man named Harrison, met them at the entrance; his reddened eyes and disheveled appearance suggested he'd been crying.
"Marcus was the best of us," he said without preamble. "Incorruptible. Meticulous. This makes no sense."
"We're very sorry for your loss," Isla said, meaning it. The grief here felt familiar, too—the tight-knit bond of people who worked dangerous, often thankless jobs together. "We'd like to speak with everyone who worked closely with Inspector Whitman."
Harrison nodded, leading them to a conference room where several employees had already gathered, their expressions ranging from shock to barely contained grief.
"This is Agent Sullivan, FBI, and his partner Agent Rivers," Harrison introduced them. "They're investigating Marcus's—" His voice caught. "Marcus's death."
Sullivan stepped forward, and Isla noticed his demeanor shift subtly—less of the professional distance he maintained with her, more of the warmth of someone addressing a community he knew. "I worked with Marcus on the agricultural smuggling case last year," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "He was instrumental in breaking that operation. We're going to find who did this to him."
The assembled customs workers—three men and two women—looked up with varying expressions of wariness and grief, but Sullivan's personal connection visibly eased some of their tension. A junior employee—Luis Morales, according to his ID badge—shifted nervously in his seat.
"Marcus wasn't just our colleague," one of the women spoke up, her silver-streaked hair pulled back in a severe bun. "He was family to most of us. Fifteen years working the same port, you become family."
Isla nodded sympathetically. "That's exactly why your insights are so valuable. You knew him best."
"He lived for this job," the woman continued, twisting a tissue in her hands. "Always the first in, last to leave. Knew the regulations better than the people who wrote them."
"Did he mention any concerns recently?" Sullivan asked. "Any particular shipments or companies that worried him? Marcus had good instincts—if something bothered him, it was usually worth investigating."
The question elicited exchanged glances among the staff before Morales cleared his throat hesitantly.
"He was asking questions about Thomas Bradley," Morales offered.
Sullivan's posture changed subtly. "The fisherman?"
Morales nodded. "Bradley has a prior conviction for smuggling, right? Whitman noticed his boat had been making more trips across the Canadian border than usual. He was concerned about the weight of Bradley's declared catches versus what his vessel should realistically hold."
"Did Whitman file any official reports?" Isla asked.
"Not that I saw," Morales replied. "He was still gathering information. Marcus was thorough that way—wouldn't make accusations without solid evidence."
Sullivan exchanged a look with Isla. "Did Inspector Whitman tell anyone else about his suspicions?"
The room fell silent, shoulders tensing across the table.
"He mentioned it to me," said the silver-haired woman, whose name tag read 'Eleanor Katz.' "Last Thursday. We were having coffee before shift. Said something about needing to check Bradley's logs against the harbormaster's records."
"Did he say why?" Isla asked, pulling out her notepad.
Eleanor shook her head. "Just that something didn't add up with the weight distributions. Marcus had this... instinct about these things. Fifteen years at this port, he could spot irregularities most people would miss."
Harrison, who had been standing by the door, stepped forward. "Bradley's boat—the Northern Star—docked yesterday morning. Left again this morning before dawn."
