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—
She stopped that thought before it could fully form.
They weren't looking for bodies here. The victims had been found at the crime scenes, posed with care in freezers that weren't Murphy's.
What they were looking for was something else—the paper trail that would connect Murphy to those locations, the planning documents that would prove premeditation, the evidence that would transform a suspicious connection into a prosecutable case.
"Rivers." James's voice carried across the warehouse. "Over here."
She found him near the back of the building, standing before a workbench that had been set up as a makeshift office space.
A laptop sat open on the surface, surrounded by binders and folders and loose papers covered in meticulous handwriting.
James was holding one of the folders, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and something that looked almost like disappointment.
"Look at this."
Isla took the folder. Inside were printed spreadsheets—dozens of pages, organized by date and location. Her eyes moved down the columns, and she felt her pulse spike as she recognized the names.
Bella Ristorante. Listed with notes about the salmonella shutdown, the date it closed, the status of its utilities. Power still active. Water on. Freezer operational.
Shoreline Diner. Renovation timeline. Utility status. Freezer specs.
Harrington's Steakhouse. Fire damage assessment. Insurance dispute. Power maintained by—and here the spreadsheet noted "MRS"—Murphy's Restaurant Salvage, paying utilities for equipment preservation.
Every closed restaurant in Duluth. Every single one, organized and catalogued with a detail that bordered on obsessive. Which ones had working power. Which ones had functional water systems. Which ones had freezers still running.
It was a blueprint. Exactly the blueprint the killer would need.
"There's more." James handed her another folder, this one thicker, heavier with documentation. "These go back years."
Isla opened it and found herself looking at photographs.
Old photographs, sepia-toned and faded, showing restaurants that had closed decades ago.
Menus from establishments that no longer existed.
Newspaper clippings about beloved diners shuttering their doors, about family-run eateries falling victim to economic downturns and changing tastes.
And mixed among them, newer materials—business plans, architectural sketches, grant applications to something called the Duluth Culinary Preservation Society.
"What is this?" Isla muttered, more to herself than to James.
"I can explain."
She turned. Daniel Murphy stood at the edge of the warehouse space, the agent assigned to watch him hovering uncertainly at his shoulder. Murphy's expression had shifted from confused to concerned, his eyes fixed on the folders in Isla's hands.
"Mr. Murphy, you were told to wait in the office."
"I know, I know, but—" He took a step forward, stopped when James's hand moved toward his weapon. "Please. I need to explain what all this is. You're looking at it wrong."
Isla studied him—the anxious twist of his hands, the genuine distress in his unremarkable features. Either Daniel Murphy was an exceptional actor, or something about their theory was very, very wrong.
"Then explain," she said. "What is all this?"
Murphy took a breath, visibly collecting himself.
"It's a museum project. A passion project, really.
I've been working on it for almost five years.
" He gestured toward the folders, the spreadsheets, the binders full of documentation.
"Duluth's culinary history is disappearing.
Every year, another restaurant closes—places that have been feeding this community for generations—and all that history just..
. vanishes. The recipes, the stories, the equipment that made those meals possible. Gone."
"And the spreadsheets?" James asked. "The records of which closed restaurants still have working utilities?"
"For preservation." Murphy's voice carried the particular intensity of someone discussing their deepest passion.
"When a restaurant closes, the first thing that usually happens is the power gets shut off.
The equipment starts to decay. Freezers, ovens, prep stations—these are historical artifacts, and they're being destroyed because no one thinks to maintain them. "