"Doubt it.Place has been sitting empty, and the power company usually shuts things off pretty quick when the bills stop getting paid.No one's maintaining anything there."
Isla crossed that one off mentally.A killer as careful as Thornton wouldn't risk a location without a working freezer—the whole point was preservation, and a dead freezer was just an insulated box.
"What else?"
"There's Maison Laurent," Murphy said."French bistro over on Lake Avenue.The owners are converting it into a Mediterranean fusion place—Olive & Thyme, they're going to call it.Pretty major renovation, been going on since early January."
"Is the freezer still working?"
"Should be.The renovation's mostly cosmetic—new paint, new fixtures, that kind of thing.They're keeping most of the kitchen equipment, including the walk-in.Last I heard, they were even storing some of their inventory in there while the work was being done."
Isla felt something tighten in her chest.A closed restaurant with an operational freezer, accessible during a renovation when workers came and went at irregular hours.The kind of location where a man who knew the restaurant industry could slip in unnoticed.
"Address?"
"Hold on, let me check my files..."More shuffling sounds."Here it is.847 Lake Avenue, between Third and Fourth.The owner's name is—"
"That's enough.Thank you, Mr.Murphy."
She ended the call and turned to James, who had been listening to her half of the conversation with growing tension.
"Two possibilities," she said."The Copper Kettle downtown—probably a dead end, power's likely off.And Maison Laurent on Lake Avenue, a French bistro being converted to Mediterranean fusion.Freezer should still be operational."
"We should check both."
"We should."Isla's eyes moved back to the wall of photographs, to the faces of women who might or might not be in danger, to the meticulous documentation of a killer's obsession."But we need to move fast.Split up, cover both locations simultaneously."
James hesitated—she could see the objection forming in his expression, the instinct to stay together, to approach the threat as a team.But he'd worked with her long enough to know that sometimes the math was simple: two locations, two agents, no time to waste.
"I'll take The Copper Kettle," he said."You take the bistro."
"Call Fritz, get backup rolling to both locations.And keep your phone on—if either of us finds something, the other needs to know immediately."
James nodded, already pulling out his phone.Isla took one last look at Jamie Thornton's apartment—the spartan furnishings, the wall of photographs, the files that documented his descent from grieving widower to methodical killer—and felt the familiar weight of a case approaching its end.
Three women were already dead.There might be a fourth out there right now, chosen from the pages of a magazine, stalked by a man who wanted to freeze her forever in some twisted memorial to his dead wife.
Isla intended to find her first.
She left the apartment at a near-run, her boots echoing in the empty hallway, her mind already mapping the fastest route to Lake Avenue.Behind her, James was coordinating with Fritz, his voice fading as she pushed through the building's broken front door and into the cold February afternoon.
Valentine's Day.The irony wasn't lost on her.A day meant for love, for connection, for celebrating the people who mattered most.And somewhere in Duluth, a man who'd lost the woman he loved was hunting for her replacement, one frozen face at a time.
The sedan's engine roared to life, and Isla pulled out of the parking lot with her heart pounding against her ribs.Maison Laurent.847 Lake Avenue.A French bistro becoming something new, its walk-in freezer humming in the dark, waiting.
She just hoped she wasn't already too late.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The French bistro looked like a crime scene waiting to happen.
Isla pulled the sedan to a hard stop in front of Maison Laurent, her eyes already scanning the building's facade for signs of activity.The renovation scaffolding cast angular shadows across the brick exterior, and plastic sheeting covered the front windows like bandages over wounds.A faded sign still bore the restaurant's old name, though someone had taped a notice beneath it: COMING SOON - OLIVE & THYME.
A gray Honda Civic sat in the narrow lot beside the building.
Isla's pulse spiked.She was out of the car before the engine had fully died, her hand moving to her weapon, her boots crunching on the salt-crusted pavement.The Honda's engine was cold—it had been here for at least twenty minutes, maybe longer.Long enough for whatever was happening inside to have already begun.
She should wait for backup.She knew that.Protocol demanded it, and James would have her head for going in alone.But somewhere behind those plastic-covered windows, a woman might be dying, her last breaths squeezed out of her by hands that wanted to preserve rather than destroy.Every second Isla waited was a second that woman didn't have.
