"I can think of a few people," Martinez said slowly. "Give me an hour to pull together a list."
Isla ended the call and turned back to find James studying his laptop screen with an intensity that suggested he'd found something significant.
"What?" she asked.
"Gary Holloway." James turned the screen so she could see. "Age forty-two, city infrastructure inspector. Has unrestricted access to all sections of the steam tunnel system, including decommissioned areas. It's literally his job to inspect and evaluate infrastructure safety."
Isla moved closer, reading over his shoulder. Gary Holloway's employment record was extensive—fifteen yearswith the city, consistently positive performance reviews, expertise in structural assessment and safety compliance. On paper, he looked exactly like the kind of dedicated public servant who made municipal infrastructure function.
But James was scrolling down to something else, something that made Isla's pulse quicken.
"His younger sister, Grace Holloway," James said quietly. "Committed suicide in the steam tunnels eight years ago. Access Point 9, one of the decommissioned sections. She was twenty-three, struggled with depression and substance abuse. According to the police report, she went into the tunnels late at night and overdosed on pills. Her body wasn't found for three days."
The words settled over Isla like a weight. A sister dead in the tunnels, a brother who spent his professional life navigating those same passages, intimate knowledge of both active and abandoned sections. And the security footage from this morning had shown a figure of average build, maybe five-nine or five-ten—dimensions that could fit Gary Holloway.
"It's thin," Isla said, though her investigator's instincts were already cataloging the connections. "Grief doesn't automatically create a killer."
"No, but trauma combined with opportunity and access?" James pulled up Gary's physical description from his employee file. "He's five-ten, average build. Matches the general dimensions of the suspect on the security footage. And he'd know the tunnel system intimately—not just from maps, but from years of hands-on inspection work."
Isla checked the time: 9:47 AM. If Gary Holloway was their killer, they needed to move carefully. He'd have the expertise to spot surveillance, the knowledge to disappear into passages that weren't on any official map, and the resources to continue killing while they scrambled to catch up.
But something about the theory felt wrong. She couldn't articulate exactly what, but the pieces didn't quite fit the way they should.
"Let's go talk to him," Isla said, reaching for her coat. "But we approach this carefully. If he's our killer, I don't want to spook him. And if he's not..." She trailed off, thinking about how many times they'd been wrong already, how many leads had dissolved into nothing.
"Then we're back to square one," James finished. "Again."
***
The city infrastructure office occupied the third floor of a municipal building near downtown, its hallways lined with architectural plans and safety notices that spoke to decades of bureaucratic accumulation. Isla and James were directed to a conference room where Gary Holloway sat waiting, his expression carrying the wariness of someone who'd been pulled away from important work for reasons nobody had explained.
He stood when they entered—a gesture of courtesy that immediately complicated Isla's assumptions. Gary Holloway was indeed around five-ten with an average build, but he carried himself with the easy confidence of someone comfortable in his own skin. His handshake was firm but not aggressive, and his eyes—a warm brown behind practical glasses—showed curiosity rather than fear.
"Agents," he said, gesturing to the chairs across from him. "My supervisor said you needed to speak with me urgently, but she didn't say what about. Is this regarding the murders in the tunnels? I've been following the news."
Isla settled into her chair, studying Holloway's body language. He seemed genuinely puzzled, not defensive. His posture was open, his hands resting casually on the tablerather than fidgeting or clenching. Nothing about his demeanor suggested someone bracing for interrogation.
"We're investigating the recent deaths, yes," Isla said carefully. "We understand you have extensive knowledge of the tunnel system, including decommissioned sections."
"That's my job." Holloway leaned forward slightly, his expression shifting to professional interest. "I conduct safety assessments on all city infrastructure, including older passages that are no longer in active use. We need to monitor them for structural integrity even if they're not carrying steam anymore."
"So you'd know how to navigate the abandoned sections," James said. "How to find your way through passages that aren't on the official maps."
"Sure, but—" Holloway stopped, his eyes widening slightly as understanding dawned. "Wait. You think I might be involved in these murders?"
The directness of the question caught Isla off guard. Most suspects deflected or denied, tried to maintain plausible deniability even when confronted with suspicion. But Holloway seemed more baffled than threatened by the implication.
"We're interviewing everyone with extensive tunnel access," Isla said, which was true but not the complete truth. "Can you tell us where you were between midnight and 2 AM on Tuesday, and again between 10 PM Wednesday and 2 AM Thursday?"
Holloway pulled out his phone, scrolling through what looked like a calendar app. "Tuesday night, I was home with my wife and kids. We watched a movie—some animated thing the kids picked out—, and I was in bed by eleven. Wednesday night, same thing. Family dinner, helped with homework, asleep by midnight. My wife can confirm all of this."
"And this morning, between 5:30 and 6:30 AM?"
"Home. Getting ready for work. I left the house at 7:15, stopped for coffee at the place on Fourth Street—they'll have meon their security cameras. Got to the office around 7:45." He met Isla's eyes directly. "I'm guessing that's when the third victim was killed? The doctor they're talking about on the news?"
Isla nodded slowly, her certainty already crumbling. Gary Holloway had alibis, easily verifiable ones involving family and public places with security cameras. More than that, his entire demeanor suggested someone who genuinely didn't understand why he'd be under suspicion.
"Mr. Holloway," she said, shifting her approach. "We understand your sister Grace died in the tunnels eight years ago. I'm very sorry for your loss."
