And somewhere in that warehouse—or in Murphy's home, or his vehicle, or one of the countless places a careful killer might hide evidence—there might be something that would tell them definitively whether Daniel Murphy was the man who had strangled three women and posed them with such terrible tenderness.
The clock on the conference room wall read 7:34 AM.
In less than an hour, they'd have their warrant.
In less than an hour, they'd know.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Murphy's Restaurant Equipment Salvage occupied a sprawling warehouse on the industrial outskirts of Duluth, sandwiched between a defunct lumber mill and a storage facility that advertised boat winterization services.The building itself was unremarkable—corrugated metal siding gone rust-brown at the edges, a hand-painted sign that had seen better days, a parking lot potholed with the kind of freeze-thaw damage that plagued every outdoor surface in Minnesota.
Isla studied it through the sedan's windshield as James pulled in behind the unmarked surveillance unit that had been watching the place since Kate's call three hours ago.The morning light was gray and flat, the February sky pressing down like a weight, and somewhere inside that building waited either their killer or another dead end in a case that had produced far too many of them.
"No movement since we arrived," the officer in the surveillance car reported when Isla approached his window."Murphy showed up around seven-thirty, unlocked the front office, turned on the lights.Been inside ever since."
"Alone?"
"As far as we can tell.No other vehicles in the lot."
Isla nodded and stepped back, her eyes moving across the warehouse's facade.The front section appeared to be office space—she could see fluorescent lights glowing through grimy windows, the suggestion of a desk and filing cabinets.The rest of the building, the vast majority of it, was the warehouse proper.Where the freezers would be.Dozens of them, according to Murphy's business records, standing silent in the dark like monuments to meals that would never be served.
James appeared beside her, his breath fogging in the cold."Warrant's confirmed.We're clear to search the premises and seize any evidence related to the investigation."
"Then let's do this."
They approached the front entrance together, flanked by two additional agents who had arrived with the warrant.Isla could feel her pulse quickening despite her efforts at calm—that particular electricity that came with the possibility of resolution, of finally putting a face and a name to the shadow that had been stalking Duluth's women.
The door opened before she could knock.
Daniel Murphy stood in the doorway, a coffee mug in one hand and an expression of mild confusion on his unremarkable face.He was exactly as his driver's license photo had suggested—average height, average build, brown hair going gray at the temples.The kind of man you'd pass without a second glance.The kind of man who could watch women in yoga studios and disappear into the crowd afterward.
"Can I help you?"His voice carried no alarm, only the vague bewilderment of someone interrupted during their morning routine.
"Mr.Murphy?I'm Special Agent Rivers, FBI.This is Special Agent Sullivan."Isla held up her badge, letting him get a good look."We have a warrant to search your premises."
Murphy blinked.The coffee mug lowered slightly in his grip, and Isla watched his expression shift through confusion, surprise, and what appeared to be genuine bafflement.
"FBI?"He repeated the letters as if testing them for sense."A warrant?For what?"
"We'll explain inside, Mr.Murphy.May we come in?"
He stepped back automatically, the movement of someone too startled to think of refusing.The office was small and cluttered—a metal desk buried under paperwork, filing cabinets that had seen better decades, a calendar on the wall still showing January.The smell of old coffee and machine oil hung in the air.
"I don't understand."Murphy set his mug down on the desk, his hands finding each other in front of his chest in an unconscious gesture of anxiety."What is this about?I haven't done anything—"
"Mr.Murphy, we're going to need you to wait here while we conduct our search."Isla kept her voice professional, neutral, revealing nothing of the anticipation thrumming through her veins."You're not under arrest at this time, but I strongly advise you to cooperate fully."
"Cooperate?Of course I'll cooperate, but—" He ran a hand through his thinning hair, looking between Isla and James with the particular helplessness of someone whose world had suddenly stopped making sense."Can you at least tell me what you're looking for?"
"All in good time, Mr.Murphy."
She left one of the agents with him and followed James through the door that led into the warehouse proper.The transition was immediate and disorienting—from the cramped warmth of the office into a vast, cold space that seemed to swallow sound whole.Fluorescent fixtures hung from the distant ceiling, casting pools of harsh light that left shadows pooling between them.And filling the space, arranged in rows like silent sentinels, were the freezers.
Dozens of them.Maybe a hundred.Industrial walk-ins and reach-ins, chest freezers and display cases, every size and style imaginable.Some were clearly defunct—doors hanging open, interiors stripped of shelving—while others hummed softly, their compressors still running, their doors sealed against the warehouse's ambient cold.
"Jesus," James said quietly."It's like a graveyard."
The word felt appropriate.Isla moved between the rows, her flashlight cutting through the shadows, her heart pounding with each new freezer she approached.Any one of them could contain evidence.Any one of them could contain—
