CHAPTER THREE
The Claddagh's warmth enveloped Isla like a familiar embrace as she settled into the worn leather booth that had become their unofficial office away from the office.
The Irish pub's amber lighting cast everything in honey-colored tones, softening the hard edges of another frustrating day.
Murphy had already delivered their usual order without being asked—a pint of Guinness for James, a glass of Jameson neat for her, and a promise that the shepherd's pie would be out in ten minutes.
"You know what the worst part is?" Isla said, wrapping her fingers around the whiskey glass.
The amber liquid caught the light from the nearby fireplace, reminding her uncomfortably of the cases that kept her awake at night.
"It's not that we don't have leads. It's that we have too many leads that all go nowhere. "
James took a long pull from his beer and nodded grimly. "Forty-seven employee interviews at Northern Star alone. Background checks on every worker who's been there in the past two years. And nothing—absolutely nothing—connects any of them to that boot print."
The shepherd's pie arrived steaming, filling the air with the scent of lamb and herbs that should have been comforting.
Instead, Isla found herself picking at the food, her mind still turning over the same facts that had consumed her for months.
The Lake Superior Killer had managed to stay invisible for years, possibly decades, making deaths look like accidents with a precision that spoke to intimate knowledge of the waterfront.
"He's still out there," she said, more to herself than to James. "Watching. Waiting. The interviews spooked him into lying low, but he hasn't disappeared. Predators like this don't just stop—they adapt."
The pub's atmosphere was exactly what she needed after hours on the cold docks—the low murmur of conversation from other patrons, the clink of glasses, the steady presence of James across from her.
Their booth in the corner provided privacy for the kind of case discussions that civilians didn't need to overhear, and Murphy had long ago learned not to hover when the two FBI agents were deep in conversation.
"Sarah Sanchez, Alex Novak, and how many others we haven't identified yet," James said, his fork pausing halfway to his mouth. "All made to look like industrial accidents. All discovered without witnesses. The pattern's clear enough once you know what to look for."
"But knowing the pattern and proving it are two different things.
" Isla took a sip of whiskey, feeling the burn all the way down.
"Every piece of evidence we have is circumstantial.
Every connection we've drawn could be explained by coincidence.
Any prosecutor would laugh us out of their office if we tried to build a case on what we have now. "
The fire crackled in the stone hearth nearby, casting dancing shadows across the dark wood paneling that covered the pub's walls.
Local memorabilia covered every available surface—photographs of fishing boats, certificates from maritime organizations, even a stuffed northern pike that Murphy claimed his grandfather had caught in Lake Superior back in 1962.
It was exactly the kind of place where waterfront workers might come to unwind after their shifts, which made Isla wonder if their killer had ever sat in one of these very booths.
James's phone buzzed against the table, its vibration cutting through their conversation. He glanced at the display and frowned. "Coast Guard. At this hour?" He answered on the second ring, his voice shifting immediately into professional mode. "Sullivan."
Isla watched his expression change as he listened, the relaxed lines around his eyes tightening into something harder. His free hand reached for a napkin and began scribbling notes—coordinates, she realized, recognizing the pattern of numbers.
"How many missing?" James asked, his voice sharp with concern. "Any signs of violence?... Copy that. We'll be there in fifteen minutes."
He ended the call and was already reaching for his jacket before the phone hit the table. "Unmanned cargo vessel found drifting two miles northeast of the shipping channel. Northern Dawn—Coast Guard boarded and found evidence of violence, but no crew. They're towing her into the marina now."
Isla was on her feet before he finished speaking, the whiskey and shepherd's pie forgotten. The familiar surge of adrenaline that came with a fresh crime scene was already coursing through her system, sharpening her focus and pushing away the fatigue of another long day. "Violence how? Blood?"
"Significant amounts, according to the boarding officer.
Plus signs that the crew abandoned ship in a hurry—personal belongings scattered, equipment left running, ship's log missing.
" James dropped a twenty on the table, more than enough to cover their barely touched meals.
"Could be piracy, could be something else entirely. "
Isla bristled. She didn’t like the sounds of this. “Let’s go find out.”
***
The drive to the marina took them through the heart of Duluth's harbor district, past the steel mills and grain elevators that had defined the city's economy for generations.
The Northern Dawn was already visible under the harsh glare of Coast Guard floodlights, a white-hulled vessel perhaps a hundred and fifty feet long, riding slightly low in the water as she was guided toward the dock by a Coast Guard tug.
Even from a distance, Isla could see that something was wrong with the ship's posture. The boat listed slightly to starboard, and her stern sat lower than it should. Navigation lights that should have been blazing were dark, giving the vessel a dead appearance that sent a chill through her chest.
"There," James pointed toward a cluster of emergency vehicles parked near the marina's main dock. "Coast Guard response team, crime scene unit, and... is that the medical examiner's van?"
The presence of the ME suggested this was already being treated as more than a missing persons case. Isla felt the familiar tension that came with a fresh crime scene—the combination of anticipation and dread that meant someone was dead and it was her job to figure out why.
They badged their way past the perimeter that had been established around the dock, finding Coast Guard Petty Officer Steve McTavish waiting near the Northern Dawn's berth. The man looked shaken, his face pale under the harsh lighting, but his voice was steady as he briefed them on what he'd found.
"No crew visible anywhere on board," he reported, consulting a small notebook. "Blood evidence on deck, signs of hasty departure. The engines were shut down, and the ship was drifting with no one at the helm."
Isla studied the vessel as McTavish spoke, noting details that might prove important later.
The Northern Dawn appeared to be a standard Great Lakes cargo hauler, the type of vessel that moved freight between smaller ports where the giant ocean-going freighters couldn't dock.
Her paint was fresh, her equipment well-maintained—this wasn't some rust bucket being operated on a shoestring budget.
"Any idea how long she was drifting?" James asked, already pulling on latex gloves from the crime scene kit he'd grabbed from their car.
"Fishing vessel spotted her around eight-thirty, but she could have been unmanned for hours before that," McTavish replied. "We're checking with harbor traffic control to see when she was last in radio contact."
As they approached the ship's boarding ladder, Isla felt the familiar shift in her perception that came with entering a crime scene.
The sounds of the harbor—diesel engines, voices, the lap of water against hulls—faded into background noise as her focus narrowed to the evidence before her.
This was where she belonged, where her training and instincts came together to make sense of violence and chaos.
The blood on deck was immediately visible under their flashlights, dark stains that formed a rough trail from somewhere near the cargo hold toward the starboard rail. Too much blood for a minor injury, spread in patterns that suggested movement—someone had been hurt badly and had tried to get away.
But it was what they found in the cargo hold that transformed their understanding of the situation completely. Crime scene technicians were already photographing wooden crates that had been pulled up from below decks, and Isla's breath caught as she saw what they contained.
Fully automatic weapons. Military-grade assault rifles, submachine guns, and what looked like enough ammunition to supply a small army.
The weapons were carefully packed in foam, pristine and obviously expensive.
This wasn't some weekend gun enthusiast's collection—this was serious hardware meant for serious violence.
"Jesus Christ," James breathed, playing his flashlight over the arsenal. "We're not just dealing with a missing crew. We're dealing with missing arms smugglers."
Isla felt the pieces of a new puzzle clicking into place in her mind.
The Northern Dawn wasn't just another cargo vessel—she was a floating weapons cache, moving illegal arms through the Great Lakes shipping network.
The missing crew, the evidence of violence, the hasty abandonment of the ship—it all pointed to something far more complex than a maritime accident.
And whoever had killed these men had left valuable cargo behind, making the motive blurry.
Isla had a very bad feeling about what had transpired here.