CHAPTER SIX
The studio occupied a converted warehouse on Lake Avenue, its exposed brick and industrial windows projecting the kind of calculated artistry that screamed "serious photographer" to anyone walking past. A sign above the entrance read Lang Photography: Capturing the Soul of Superior in elegant silver lettering that probably cost more than Isla's monthly rent.
She pushed through the front door with Sullivan a step behind, a bell chiming overhead to announce their arrival.
The interior was exactly what she'd expected—polished concrete floors, track lighting angled with geometric precision, and walls covered floor to ceiling with photographs that stopped her in her tracks.
Winter landscapes. Dozens of them. Lake Superior in all its frozen glory: ice caves glowing blue in filtered sunlight, snow-covered cliffs plunging toward churning gray water, lone pine trees bent against invisible winds.
The images were technically stunning, each one composed with an eye for drama that bordered on theatrical.
And every single one of them looked familiar.
Isla moved along the gallery wall, her boots clicking against the concrete, her eyes cataloging composition after composition that she'd seen somewhere before.
The angle of this shoreline shot. The framing of that ice formation.
The way this particular image used the horizon line to divide the frame into perfect thirds.
She'd spent the drive over reviewing Derek Paulson's portfolio on her phone.
These weren't copies—not exactly—but they were close enough to make her skin prickle with recognition.
Close enough to understand why Paulson had accused Lang of following him, of studying his work, of building a career on stolen ideas.
"Quite a collection," Sullivan said quietly, appearing at her shoulder.
"Quite a coincidence."
A door at the back of the gallery swung open, and Marcus Lang emerged with the confident stride of a man who expected to be admired.
He was younger than Isla had anticipated—forty-seven according to his file, but he moved like someone who spent serious time in a gym.
Lean and angular, with salt-and-pepper hair swept back from a face that was probably called "distinguished" by gallery patrons and "smug" by everyone else.
He wore a black turtleneck that looked deliberately European and jeans that probably cost more than Sullivan's entire wardrobe.
"Can I help you?" His voice was smooth, cultured, carrying the faint condescension of someone who assumed visitors were there to buy.
Isla produced her badge. "Special Agent Rivers, FBI. This is Special Agent Sullivan. We'd like to ask you some questions about Derek Paulson."
Something flickered across Lang's face—too fast to identify, too controlled to be surprise. He recovered quickly, his expression settling into practiced neutrality.
"Paulson," he repeated. "What's he done now? Finally followed through on his threats?"
"Mr. Paulson was found dead this morning."
The silence that followed was thick enough to taste. Lang stared at her for a long moment, his jaw working slightly, his eyes revealing nothing. Then he let out a breath that might have been a laugh, might have been something else entirely.
"Well," he said. "I suppose I should pretend to be sorry."
Isla felt Sullivan shift beside her, a subtle movement that communicated disapproval without a word. She kept her own expression neutral, waiting.
"That sounds like something you should explain," she said.
Lang gestured toward a sitting area near the gallery's entrance—two leather chairs arranged around a glass coffee table, the kind of setup designed for discussing art purchases over overpriced espresso. "You might as well sit. This will take a while."
They sat. Lang took the chair across from them, crossing his legs with studied casualness, his fingers steepled beneath his chin.
The pose was calculated, Isla noted—designed to project calm, control, intellectual superiority.
She'd seen suspects adopt it a hundred times, usually right before they said something incriminating.
"Derek Paulson was a thief and a fraud," Lang began, his voice hardening around each word.
"He built his entire reputation on copying other photographers' work—not just mine, though God knows I was his favorite target.
The man had no original vision, no creative spark of his own.
He was a parasite who fed on the talent of others. "
"That's quite an accusation," Sullivan said.
"It's quite a truth." Lang leaned forward, his mask of composure slipping slightly.
"Do you know how many times I found him lurking at my shooting locations?
How many times I'd publish a photo only to see him post something almost identical two weeks later, claiming he'd 'discovered' the same spot independently?
The man was pathological. He couldn't create anything original, so he stole from people who could. "
Isla let the silence stretch, watching the color rise in Lang's cheeks, the way his hands had tightened around the arms of his chair. Anger this fresh didn't come from nowhere. This was something that had been building for years, festering beneath the surface, waiting for a moment to erupt.
"We've seen his accusations against you," she said. "The copyright controversy last summer. He claimed you were the one doing the copying."
Lang's laugh was sharp and bitter. "Of course he did.
That's what people like Paulson do—they project their own sins onto others.
When I started calling him out publicly, he tried to flip the narrative, make himself the victim.
Posted those ridiculous 'comparison' shots on social media, as if proving we'd photographed some of the same landscapes was evidence of theft.
" He shook his head. "Lake Superior isn't a big secret, Agent Rivers.
Thousands of photographers shoot the same locations every year.
But there's a difference between capturing a sunset over Split Rock and systematically recreating another artist's exact compositions. "
"And you believe he was systematically recreating yours?"
"I know he was. I have files—documentation going back five years, showing the patterns, the timing, the way he'd wait just long enough after I published something before unveiling his own 'version.
'" Lang's voice dripped with contempt. "The man was clever, I'll give him that.
Always stayed just on the right side of legal.
But anyone with eyes could see what he was doing. "
Sullivan pulled out his tablet, scrolling to something. "Your last public exchange with Mr. Paulson was three weeks ago. He wrote—" He paused, reading from the screen. "'You'll get what's coming to you, Lang. I'll make sure of it.' Care to comment on that?"
"He was threatening to sue me. Again. Over my gallery show.
" Lang gestured at the photographs surrounding them.
"This exhibition has been planned for months.
When Paulson found out I'd be featuring winter landscapes of the North Shore—his supposed specialty—he lost what was left of his mind.
Started sending emails, calling the gallery, posting online about how I was 'stealing his vision.
'" The air quotes were audible. "The man was unhinged. "
"And how did you respond to those threats?"
Lang's expression cooled. "I ignored them. Like I always did. Paulson could threaten and posture all he wanted—it didn't change the fact that my work is original and his was derivative. I wasn't going to let a talentless hack dictate my artistic choices."
Isla let another beat of silence pass, watching Lang's face, cataloging the micro-expressions that flickered beneath his practiced composure.
The contempt was genuine—years of accumulated resentment compressed into every word.
But there was something else there too, something harder to read.
Fear? Relief? The particular flatness of someone who'd been expecting this conversation and had prepared for it?
"Mr. Lang," she said, keeping her voice even, "where were you this morning between four and seven AM?"
The question hung in the air like smoke. Lang's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, a tiny crack in the facade.
"I was out scouting locations," he said. "For the next phase of the exhibition. I left my apartment around four-thirty and drove north along the shore."
"Alone?"
"That's generally how I work, Agent Rivers. The creative process doesn't benefit from audience participation."
"Can anyone verify your whereabouts? Did you stop for gas, talk to anyone, take any photographs with timestamps?"
Lang's composure flickered again—a momentary uncertainty that he masked with studied indifference.
"I didn't find anything worth shooting. The light wasn't cooperating.
I drove around for a few hours, then came back here to open the studio.
" He paused. "I'm sure there are traffic cameras somewhere along my route, if you need to verify. "
It was a weak alibi and they both knew it. Driving alone for hours, no witnesses, no documentation, returning just in time to "discover" that his bitter rival had been murdered at a location Lang himself had photographed dozens of times.
Isla could feel Sullivan's tension beside her, the restrained energy of a partner who wanted to push harder, dig deeper, find the crack that would split this polished facade wide open.
But they didn't have enough. Lang's animosity wasn't evidence.
His weak alibi wasn't proof. Being a smug, contemptuous asshole wasn't actually a crime, no matter how satisfying it would be to treat it as one.
"You photographed Hawk Ridge frequently," Isla said. "The overlook where Mr. Paulson was found. You've posted images from that exact location multiple times."