Superior Ice Adventures occupied a weathered building on the outskirts of Duluth's harbor district, its exterior painted in faded blues and whites that might have looked nautical twenty years earlier but now simply looked tired.The parking lot was packed with snow and ice, marked with tire tracks from trucks pulling boat trailers, even in the dead of winter.A hand-painted sign promised "Professional Guide Service" and "Equipment Rentals," but the building's sagging roofline and patched siding suggested a business operating on thin margins.
Isla and Sullivan approached the entrance, noting the various pieces of ice fishing equipment displayed in the front window—augers, shelters, electronic fish finders, and an array of rods and tackle that spoke to serious angling pursuits.Through the glass, they could see a stocky figure moving behind the counter, his movements sharp and efficient as he sorted through boxes of equipment.
The bell above the door chimed as they entered, and Michael Brennan looked up from his inventory with the practiced smile of someone accustomed to greeting customers.The expression faltered as he took in their appearance—the unmistakable bearing of law enforcement, the serious expressions that suggested this wasn't a social call.
"Michael Brennan?"Isla asked, approaching the counter with her credentials already in hand.
"Depends who's asking," Brennan replied, his tone shifting from welcoming to guarded.He was shorter than she'd expected based on his online photos, perhaps five-foot-eight, but built like someone who spent his time hauling equipment across frozen lakes.His hands were permanently stained with what looked like motor oil and fish scales, and his face bore the weathered look of someone who worked outdoors regardless of weather conditions.
"Special Agent Isla Rivers, FBI.This is my partner, Agent Sullivan."She held up her badge, watching as Brennan's expression cycled through surprise, suspicion, and finally settling into defensive hostility.
"FBI?What the hell does the FBI want with me?"
"We'd like to ask you some questions about Sarah Quinn," Sullivan said, his voice carrying the calm authority that served him well in tense situations.
Brennan's face darkened at the name."That environmentalist?Heard she went through the ice yesterday.Tragic accident, but I'm not sure what it has to do with me."
"You had several public disputes with Ms.Quinn regarding lake access restrictions," Isla said, pulling out her notebook and consulting the timeline they'd constructed."The most recent being at a public hearing two weeks ago."
"Dispute's a strong word," Brennan said, but his defensive posture suggested otherwise."We had different opinions about how the lake should be managed.She wanted to shut down access for working people, I disagreed.Last I checked, that wasn't a federal crime."
The shop's interior smelled of motor oil and rubber, with underlying notes of fish and lake water that spoke to equipment that was actually used rather than just displayed.Fishing rods lined the walls alongside displays of lures, nets, and the specialized gear that ice fishing required.Behind the counter, Brennan had arranged certificates and testimonials that spoke to his expertise and safety record.
"Can you tell us about your relationship with Sarah?"Sullivan asked, his tone remaining conversational despite the tension radiating from their subject.
"Relationship?"Brennan laughed, but there was no humor in the sound."We didn't have a relationship.She was an outside agitator trying to destroy businesses that have been supporting this community for generations.I was trying to protect the livelihoods of people who actually live here."
Isla noticed the way his language echoed the rhetoric from his blog posts—the emphasis on outsiders versus locals, the framing of environmental protection as an attack on working families.It suggested someone who'd thought deeply about his position and had crafted his arguments for maximum emotional impact.
"How well did you know Ms.Quinn's research schedule?"she asked, watching his reaction carefully."Her patterns for field work?"
Something flickered across Brennan's face—too quick to identify, but definitely a reaction to the question."I knew she was out there all the time, taking samples and measurements.Hard to miss her when you're trying to run a business on the lake."
"Did you know she was planning to be on the ice yesterday morning?"
"How would I know that?It's not like she sent out press releases about her daily schedule."But his voice carried a note of something that might have been uncertainty, as if he was trying to convince himself as much as them.
Sullivan moved closer to examine one of the certificate displays, his movement casual but calculated."You've been guiding on Superior for quite a while," he observed."Twenty years, according to your website."
"Twenty-two next month.Started when I was barely out of high school."There was pride in Brennan's voice now, the defensiveness temporarily replaced by the satisfaction of someone discussing their area of expertise.
"That's impressive.I imagine you know these waters better than almost anyone."
"Better than some college girl who's been here three years, that's for sure."The hostility returned, sharpening his tone."Sarah Quinn might have had a fancy degree, but she didn't understand what it's really like to work on this lake day after day, season after season."
Isla felt the familiar tingle of a conversation beginning to reveal more than the speaker intended."What do you think happened to her yesterday?"
Brennan shrugged, but the gesture seemed forced."The lake is dangerous.People who don't respect the lake pay the price.She probably thought her book learning was enough to keep her safe out there."
"Someone with your experience would know exactly how to evaluate ice conditions," Sullivan said, still examining the certificates with apparent casual interest."Twenty-two years of guiding, you'd be able to tell safe ice from dangerous ice just by looking at it."
"That's the whole point of being a professional guide," Brennan replied."It takes real experience to know where it's safe to do it."
The admission hung in the air between them, and Isla saw Sullivan's slight nod that indicated he'd caught the implication as well.Brennan had just acknowledged that he possessed the exact skills necessary to identify—or create—dangerous ice conditions.
"Where were you yesterday morning between six and nine AM?"she asked directly.
For the first time since they'd entered the shop, Brennan's composure cracked.His eyes darted toward the cash register, then back to them, as if he was calculating whether cooperation or defiance would serve him better.
