"Chief MacLeod." Her accent carries the musical lilt of the Hebrides, words rolling like waves against the shore. "Didn't expect you to actually show up tonight. Thought mainlanders preferred to start fresh in the morning."
"Deputy Fraser, I presume." I extend my hand, which she shakes with a grip just shy of aggressive. "I prefer to assess my new post immediately rather than wait for morning briefings."
"Assess." She releases my hand and returns to the desk she's been occupying, leaning back in a chair that creaks ominously under her weight. "Is that what you call snooping around the docks?"
So much for discretion. Gossip apparently travels at the speed of light here, even on my first night.
"I was conducting preliminary surveillance of known criminal activity hot spots." I keep my voice professional, refusing to rise to the obvious bait. "Would you care to explain why a commercial shipping operation was occurring after authorized hours with minimal documentation?"
Rhona Fraser studies me with shrewd eyes that have seen decades of local politics and probably buried more secrets than I've solved cases. When she finally speaks, her tone carries warning wrapped in false courtesy.
"Things work differently here than on the mainland, Chief. Stormhaven has its own ways, its own rhythms. Fishing schedules don't follow nine-to-five hours. Tides don't wait for daylight. Smart outsiders learn to adapt before they start making accusations."
"I'm not making accusations." I pull out my camera and set it on the desk between us. "I'm gathering documentation of what appears to be smuggling operations most likely involving stolen goods and possible racketeering charges. As law enforcement officers, it's our job to investigate regardless of local customs or fishing schedules."
Something flickers across her face. Concern? Fear? It's gone before I can properly identify it, replaced by stony neutrality.
"You saw something specific at the docks?"
"I photographed a transaction between individuals involving what appeared to be payment for illegal services. I documented cargo being loaded onto an unauthorized vessel. And I witnessed one suspect exhibit behavior that requires further investigation."
I don't mention the impossible disappearance or the shape I thought I saw in the mist. Not yet. Not until I've had time to review the footage properly and determine whether I'm dealing with evidence or hallucination.
Rhona's expression suggests she knows I'm holding something back, but she doesn't push. She gestures toward a filing cabinet that dominates one wall of the small office.
"Your predecessor, Chief Murdoch, kept case files on all known criminals operating in or around Stormhaven. You might want to familiarize yourself with the local players before you go making enemies of people you don't understand."
"That's exactly what I intend to do." I move toward the cabinet, already cataloging what I'll need to review. "How long was Murdoch in this position?"
"Long enough to know everyone and understand how things worked." Rhona's emphasis on 'understand' carries weight I'm clearly meant to interpret. "He died about eight months back. Boating accident on his day off, or so they say." Her gaze holds mine for a beat too long. "Strange thing was, he'd been sailing these waters since he was a boy. Never capsized once, then suddenly goes over on a calm day."
The implication hangs between us, heavy and deliberate. An accident that wasn't an accident. My guess is my predecessor died investigating something on this island.
"We've had temporary coverage from mainland constables who came and went," she continues. "None of them stayed long enough to learn the island properly. You're the first permanent replacement they've sent."
And probably the first female chief Stormhaven's ever had, though Rhona doesn't say that part aloud. I can read it in her skeptical expression well enough.
I pull open the filing cabinet and start leafing through folders. Immediately, gaps become apparent. Cases that reference previous investigations but don't include the original files. Reports that end mid-sentence with no conclusions. Entire sections where files should exist but don't.
"Where's the rest of the documentation?"
"That's all there is." Rhona doesn't look up from whatever paperwork she's pretending to review. "Murdoch wasn't much for extensive record keeping. Said he preferred to keep important information in his head where it couldn't be stolen or misused."
Or where it couldn't be used as evidence against criminals he was protecting. Or where it died with him when his "accident" happened. I don't voice either thought aloud, but Rhona's slight smile suggests she heard them anyway.
What files do exist paint an interesting picture. Petty theft. Domestic disturbances. Tourist complaints. Nothing that suggests organized smuggling. Nothing that would explain operations sophisticated enough to move stolen goods through international waters.
But one folder catches my attention before I reach the file I'm looking for. Shipping manifests, the ones that should match the harbor master's records. I flip through them, and my investigator's instincts start screaming.
"Livestock—8 units" from Aberdeen. No refrigeration listed. But the crate specifications include ventilation holes and what's described as "restraint systems." Livestock don't need restraints. Animals in transport need space and airflow, not chains.
"Art shipment—fragile" from an Edinburgh gallery. Except the crate dimensions don't match standard art transport, andthe required handling notes specify "silver-lined container, do not expose to direct sunlight." What artwork requires a silver lining?
"Mineral samples" from a Norwegian research facility. The manifest lists them as geological specimens, but the shipping notes specify "living cargo protocols" and "veterinary inspection waived by special authorization."
My stomach turns. These aren't normal smuggling operations moving stolen goods or contraband. This is something else entirely. Something that doesn't make sense with any trafficking pattern I've ever seen.
I set the manifests aside and continue searching until I find what I need. A single folder, thicker than the others, with a picture of one of the men I saw down at the dock. It’s labeled simply: O'Donnell, K.
