Isla felt her investigator's mind engage, pushing aside the distraction of the Brune manhunt. "We went through his personnel file. Nothing jumped out."
"His official file, yeah. But what about unofficial complaints? Water cooler gossip? The kind of thing that doesn't make it into HR records but everyone in the department knows about?"
It was a good angle, one they hadn't fully explored yet. Isla pulled out her phone and called Carol Martinez, who answered on the second ring despite the late hour.
"Martinez."
"Carol, it's Agent Rivers. I need to ask you about David Langford. Off the record, no official documentation—was there anything about him that people talked about? Any rumors, concerns, incidents that didn't rise to the level of formal complaints?" Isla wanted to hear it from Carol herself first, before letting her know what she’d already learned about the Langford’s reputation.
Martinez was quiet for a moment, and Isla could almost hear her weighing professional loyalty against the need to solve a murder. "There was talk," she said finally. "About six months ago. Some of the guys said David was cutting corners on safetyinspections, signing off on tunnel sections without actually going down there to check them. Nobody filed a formal complaint because..." She trailed off.
"Because everyone does it sometimes," Isla finished. "And nobody wants to be the one who narcs. Yet David himself placed a complaint against people.”
"Exactly. It's not right, but it happens. Budget cuts, time pressure, too much work and not enough people. Sometimes guys skip steps."
Isla thought about Russ Bellamy's claim that he'd reported Langford for cutting corners, and how that had made him unpopular with his coworkers. Maybe Bellamy had been telling the truth after all.
"If someone wanted to blackmail Langford," Isla said carefully, "would those skipped inspections be enough leverage?"
"Depends on how bad it was. If it was just routine stuff, probably not. But if he signed off on something major without checking it, and something happened because of it..." Martinez paused. "Yeah, that could be career-ending. Maybe worse if someone got hurt."
Isla thanked her and ended the call, her mind racing. They needed to review Langford's inspection reports, cross-reference them with actual maintenance logs, look for discrepancies that might indicate what he'd been hiding.
"James, pull up Langford's work orders for the last year," she said, moving back to her computer. "I want to see every tunnel section he signed off on, compare it against when maintenance was actually performed."
They worked in focused silence for twenty minutes, the only sounds the clicking of keyboards and the occasional shuffle of papers. Isla's exhaustion faded into the background, replaced bythe familiar rush of investigation, of pieces slowly clicking into place.
Her phone rang again—Deputy Marshal Barrett's number. Isla's heart jumped as she answered.
"Agent Rivers, wanted to update you. We've got the motel surrounded, but..." Barrett's voice carried frustration. "The room is empty. Looks like he cleared out maybe an hour ago. We're getting K-9 units to try and track which direction he went, but he's got a head start."
The disappointment was crushing but not surprising. Of course Brune had slipped away again. Of course he'd stayed just far enough ahead of them to remain free.
"Keep me posted," Isla said, trying to keep the frustration from her voice. "And thank you for the update."
She ended the call and looked at James, who'd clearly heard enough to understand what had happened. He didn't say I told you so, didn't point out that she'd have wasted three hours driving for nothing. He just nodded sympathetically and returned to his screen.
Isla took a breath, pushing Brune back into the compartment where she'd tried to keep him contained, and refocused on the spreadsheet in front of her. David Langford's inspection history. The case she could actually solve.
The killer who was still out there.
CHAPTER NINE
Linda Graves had learned long ago that crisis didn't respect b
usiness hours. Twenty-three years as a social worker had taught her that the worst moments—the times when people most needed help—often came at 11 PM on a Tuesday, or 3 AM on a Sunday, or any other hour when reasonable people were safely home in bed.
Still, the text message that lit up her phone at 10:47 PM made her stomach clench with unease.
Ms. Graves, it's Jessica. I need to talk. I'm going to do something bad. Please help me. Can you meet me? I'll be near the old maintenance building on Harbor Drive. The one by the steam tunnels. I can't go anywhere public. Please come.
Linda read the message three times, sitting at her kitchen table with the remains of her late dinner—reheated pasta, eaten while reviewing case files—growing cold beside her laptop. Jessica. She scrolled through her mental roster of current and former clients, trying to place the name. She’d had many clients named Jessica, and this number had come from a number unsaved in her phone—a number she’d never seen before.
The most recent that came to mind was Jessica Chan. She remembered now—a referral from the domestic violence shelter about a year ago, after Jessica had finally left her abusive husband. Linda had worked with her for several months, helping her navigate the complexities of restraining orders and custody arrangements. Jessica had been making good progress when she'd moved to Superior, Wisconsin for a fresh start. Linda had closed the case six months ago, noting the termination with cautious optimism.
She picked up her phone, fingers hovering over the screen. Her first instinct was to call 911, to let trained crisis interventionspecialists handle this. But the text specifically mentioned not wanting to go anywhere public. If Jessica was genuinely suicidal—and the phrasingI'm going to do something badcertainly suggested that—then having police show up might escalate rather than de-escalate the situation. And if Jessica's ex-husband had found her, was threatening her again, police presence might put her in more immediate danger.
Linda glanced at the clock on her microwave. 10:51 PM. The maintenance building Jessica had mentioned was only about fifteen minutes away, in the industrial district near the port. She could be there by 11:10, talk her down, assess whether she needed immediate help or could wait until morning for proper intervention.
