He nods once, wary.
"I'm Chief MacLeod." I pull out my notebook and flip to the page where I documented what I observed. "Last night's shipping activity. A cargo vessel departed around midnight. No advance notification in the harbor logs. I'd like to see the manifest."
His expression doesn't change, but something shutters behind his eyes. "You must be mistaken. No ships departed last night."
"I watched it leave." My voice stays level, professional. "Large cargo vessel, running dark, no visible markings. The transaction I witnessed suggested smuggling activity."
"Transaction?" He leans back in his chair, crossing arms over his broad chest. "You're accusing someone of crimes based on watching boats at night?"
"I'm investigating suspicious activity. There's a difference." I hold his gaze and refuse to be intimidated by his size or by the warning in his posture. "The manifest, Mr. MacKinnon. Unless you'd prefer I obtain a warrant, which will take longer and involve considerably more scrutiny of your operations."
For a long moment, he simply stares at me. He's weighing options, calculating risks, deciding how much obstruction he can manage before it becomes actionable interference. I've seen this dance before in Glasgow, from people protecting their own or hiding something they know will bring consequences.
Finally, he turns to his filing cabinet and pulls out a thick ledger. The movement is deliberate, almost theatrical in its reluctance.
"Here." He drops the book on his desk with enough force to make papers flutter. "Shipping manifests for the past week. You'll find everything properly documented."
I flip through pages filled with tight handwriting and scan dates and cargo descriptions and vessel names. Fishing equipment dominates the entries, along with standard supplies for an island community. Nothing obviously illegal. Nothing that matches what I saw last night.
But something nags at me as I scan the entries. The handwriting varies slightly between pages. Different pens, different pressure, small inconsistencies that suggest multiple people made these records. Or someone doctored them after the fact.
"May I take this back to the station?" I close the ledger and note how his jaw tightens at the request. "I need to cross-reference these entries with other documentation."
"That book doesn't leave this office." His voice carries finality that expects obedience. "Harbor regulations. You can review it here, during business hours, but it stays on these premises."
"I'm the chief of police conducting an investigation into criminal activity." I lean forward slightly and let him see that I won't be pushed around by local regulations or intimidation tactics. "That ledger is evidence in a potential smuggling case. I can confiscate it right now, or you can cooperate voluntarily. Your choice."
The small office suddenly feels airless. MacKinnon's hands flatten on his desk, and for a moment I think he might try to physically prevent me from taking the book. Then something crosses his face. Calculation, maybe resignation. He sits back.
"Take it, then. But you'll answer to more than me if those records disappear."
"They won't." I tuck the ledger under my arm and feel the weight of his stare as I head for the door. "I'll return it when my investigation concludes."
Outside, the fresh air clears the tension from my lungs. That went about as well as expected, which is to say poorlybut productively. The dock master's defensiveness confirms my suspicions about the harbor's operations. People who have nothing to hide don't threaten consequences for confiscating evidence.
Halfway back to the station, the awareness prickles across my skin like static electricity before a storm. The training kicks in immediately. I don't turn and don't show that I've noticed, but my peripheral vision tracks the figure leaning against the stone wall of a shop across the street.
O'Donnell watches me with the kind of casual intensity that suggests the meeting isn't accidental. Muscular frame relaxed against weathered stone, arms crossed loosely over his chest, tracking my movements with a hunter's focus. Everything about his posture radiates controlled violence wrapped in deceptive calm.
I cross the street and close the distance before he can disappear into whatever impossible mist transported him last night. Up close, he's even more striking than the surveillance photos suggested. Sharp features that belong on wanted posters, and muscular forearms that are visible below rolled shirtsleeves that seem to ripple as he moves.
"Mr. O'Donnell." I stop a careful distance away and keep close enough to converse but far enough to react if he tries anything. "Interesting coincidence, running into you here."
"Skara's a small island, Chief." His accent carries the rough edges of Ireland, consonants sharp enough to cut. "Running into people isn't exactly rare."
"Especially when you're looking for them." I hold up the ledger. "I was at the docks last night. I saw you conducting business there."
His expression doesn't change, but something flickers behind his gaze. Calculation, assessment, deciding how much I know and how much danger I represent. Glasgow taught me toread micro-expressions, the tiny tells that give away lies before words form. O'Donnell controls his face well, but the slight tension in his jaw says he's not as relaxed as he wants me to believe.
"Docks are public property. Looking at boats isn't illegal." He straightens from the wall, and the movement carries a fluid grace that makes my tactical instincts scream warnings. "Unless island law changed while I wasn't paying attention."
"Smuggling is illegal. In any jurisdiction." I hold his gaze and refuse to be intimidated by the way he moves into my space with the confidence of someone who's never lost a physical confrontation. "That cargo vessel last night didn't appear in any official logs. The transaction I witnessed suggested merchandise that wouldn't pass customs inspection."
"Transaction." He tilts his head slightly, studying me with unsettling intensity. "That's an interesting choice of words for watching strangers in the dark."
"I'm trained to identify criminal activity when I see it." Warmth floods my face, and I hate that his proximity affects me. Hate that part of my brain registers his attractiveness even while the professional side catalogs all the reasons he's lethal. "Glasgow's organized crime division taught me exactly what smuggling operations look like."
"Glasgow." Something changes in his expression, gone too fast to identify. "Rough city. Heard the police force loses officers regularly to gang violence."
