Harrington's Steakhouse looked like it was trying to forget its own existence.
The building sat on a corner lot on West Superior Street, its brick facade darkened by soot, its windows boarded over with plywood that had already begun to warp from the winter weather.Yellow caution tape stretched across the front entrance—not crime scene tape, but the kind left behind by fire inspectors and insurance adjusters.The steakhouse had been closed since December, James had told her on the drive over.Kitchen fire.Extensive damage.The owner was still fighting with the insurance company over whether to rebuild or sell.
Now it had a different kind of yellow tape strung across its entrance.The kind that said someone had died here.
Isla climbed out of the sedan before James had fully stopped, her boots hitting the icy pavement hard enough to send shocks up through her legs.The cold air bit into her face—sharper now that the sun had set, the temperature dropping toward single digits.Around her, the scene was already taking shape: three Duluth PD cruisers, their lights painting the darkened street in strobing red and blue; Detective Fritz's unmarked sedan; and an ambulance that would have nothing to transport except a body bag.
Fritz met them at the perimeter, his young face drawn tight with something that looked like barely controlled anger.Or maybe fear.With a case moving this fast, the two often felt the same.
"Third one," he said without preamble."Same MO as the others.The female victim, strangled, was posed in the walk-in freezer.But—"
"But she's fresh," Isla finished."SAC Channing told us.How fresh?"
"The MEs are inside with her now, but his preliminary estimate is less than two hours.Maybe ninety minutes."Fritz pulled out his notebook, his breath fogging in the cold."The owner—guy named Paul Harrington—came by around six to pick up some paperwork from his office.He saw a man leaving through the back entrance.Called out to him, but the guy took off at a jog."
Isla felt something spike in her chest—not quite hope, but close."Did he get a good look?"
"Average height, average build, dark jacket.Baseball cap pulled low."Fritz's jaw tightened."Harrington said he thought it was weird—the place has been closed for two months, no one should have been in there—but by the time he realized something was actually wrong, the guy was gone."
"Which direction?"
"East on Superior, then he cut between buildings.Harrington lost sight of him."Fritz gestured toward the building."He went inside to make sure no one had vandalized the place, found the freezer door propped open, and—well.You can imagine the rest."
Isla could.She'd seen it twice already in the past forty-eight hours—the careful posing, the folded hands, the closed eyes.The terrible tenderness with which this killer treated his victims.She just didn’t understandwhy.
"We need to talk to Harrington," James said."Get a detailed description, see if—"
"He's in my car."Fritz nodded toward his sedan."Shaken up but coherent.I figured you'd want first crack at him."
"In a minute."Isla turned toward the steakhouse."I want to see the victim first.The scene's still fresh—there might be something we can use."
Fritz led them around to the back of the building, where a service entrance stood propped open with a cinder block.Two uniformed officers stood guard, their faces carefully neutral in the way that meant they'd already seen what waited inside and were working hard not to think about it.
The smell hit Isla the moment she stepped through the door—not the antiseptic cold of a working freezer, but something earthier.Char and old grease and the particular mustiness of a building that had been closed too long.The kitchen was a disaster of soot-stained walls and equipment shrouded in plastic.The fire had clearly started near the stove, spreading across the ceiling before being contained, leaving behind a layer of ash and damage that would cost hundreds of thousands to repair.
Through the ruined kitchen, past prep stations still cluttered with the detritus of that last service in December, to a walk-in freezer at the back that hummed softly in the silence.Apparently, they’d never turned it off.
The door stood open.Light spilled out from inside—harsh and white and unforgiving.
Isla stepped into the freezer.
Dr.Patricia Henley was crouched beside the body, her gray-streaked hair pulled back in its usual practical bun, her face set in the neutral expression of someone who had seen too much death to let any single instance rattle her.She looked up as Isla entered, and something in her eyes made Isla's stomach clench.
"Agent Rivers."Henley's voice was quiet, carrying none of its usual clinical detachment."I was hoping you'd get here quickly."
The victim lay on the freezer floor between shelves that were mostly empty—just a few boxes of frozen steaks, some vegetables that had survived the fire.She was on her back, arms folded across her chest, legs straight, head tilted slightly to one side.The same pose Isla had seen twice before.The same terrible care was taken with her arrangement.
But Henley was right.This one was different.
She wasn't frozen.Her skin was pale but still held the color of life—not the waxy blue-white of Monica Hayes and Amanda Pierce.Her light blonde hair wasn't stiff with frost but fell in soft waves around a face that could have been sleeping.Her eyes were closed, her expression peaceful, and if it weren't for the darkening bruises around her throat—
"She's still warm," Henley said quietly."Body temperature's dropped some, but not much.I'd estimate time of death at between ninety minutes and two hours ago.No more than that."
Ninety minutes.While Isla had been standing in the field office staring at a whiteboard, this woman had been dying.While she'd been chasing leads that went nowhere, following connections that dissolved under scrutiny, the killer had been here, strangling another victim, posing her with care.
"Same cause of death?"James asked from the doorway.He'd positioned himself so he could see both the body and the entrance—an old cop's habit that had never left him.
"Pending the full autopsy, yes.Manual strangulation.Same hand positioning as the others—you can see the marks here."Henley indicated the bruising with a gloved finger."He's consistent.Knows exactly what he's doing."
