CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Three bodies in four days.
The numbers scrolled through her mind like a death toll, each victim representing not just a life lost but a pattern she couldn't quite grasp.
David Langford, the difficult pipe fitter.
Linda Graves, the cold social worker. And now Robert Yamamoto, the compassionate pediatrician whose murder broke every theory they'd built.
"Coffee?" James appeared in her doorway holding two cups from the break room, though from the expression on his face, he wasn't optimistic about the quality.
"Please." Isla accepted the offering, not caring that it tasted like it had been sitting on the burner since yesterday. The bitter liquid cut through the fog in her head, providing a jolt of clarity she desperately needed.
James settled into his usual chair across from her desk, pulling out his laptop with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd done this dance too many times. "Kate wants a briefing in an hour. The Director's office is breathing down her neck about the body count."
"I know." Isla had already fielded two emails from Kate and a text that had been politely worded but carried an unmistakable undercurrent of urgency. Three murders in four days looked bad. Three unsolved murders looked worse. "But I can't brief her on the progress we haven't made."
"So let's make some." James opened a new document on his screen. "What do we know for certain?"
Isla stood and moved to the whiteboard where they'd been mapping the case, studying the photographs, timelines, and connections they'd painstakingly documented.
"The killer has intimate knowledge of the steam tunnel system—not just the active sections, but the abandoned ones too.
They know how to navigate in the dark, how to modify temperature controls, how to prepare these elaborate death scenes. "
"And they have legitimate access," James added. "The security logs show authorized entries at multiple access points, which means they're either a current city employee or someone with stolen credentials."
"Or someone whose consulting contract gives them broad access." Isla thought about Dr. Pritchard, who was under surveillance, so he couldn’t have done this. "But we need more than theories. We need maps."
She pulled out her phone and called Carol Martinez, who answered on the second ring with the slightly frazzled tone of someone dealing with a crisis.
"Agent Rivers. I've been expecting your call."
"I need complete maps of the tunnel system," Isla said without preamble. "Every section, active and decommissioned, with all access points marked. How quickly can you get them to me?"
Martinez's pause was telling. "That's... complicated. The official maps we have are incomplete. The system's been expanded and modified so many times over the decades that the documentation hasn't kept pace. Some of the older sections were never properly documented to begin with."
Isla felt frustration building in her chest, hot and tight. "You're telling me the city doesn't know what's underneath its own streets?"
"I'm telling you the city knows most of it, but not all of it. The decommissioned sections, especially, some of those date back to the 1920s. They were abandoned when we built newer systems, and nobody bothered to maintain detailed records of passages nobody was supposed to use anymore."
"But someone is using them," Isla said, her voice tight with the effort of staying professional. "Someone who knows those passages better than your official maps show them."
"I know." Martinez sounded miserable. "I'm working on compiling what we have, but it's going to take time. Maybe by the end of the day, I can have something comprehensive for you."
End of day. Another eight hours while a killer who'd already murdered three people in four days remained free to plan their next victim. Isla's hand tightened on her phone.
"Make it your priority," she said. "And Martinez? If you have staff who know the tunnels better than what's on your official maps, I need their names. Someone who's spent significant time down there, someone who'd be familiar with the abandoned sections."
"I can think of a few people," Martinez said slowly. "Give me an hour to pull together a list."
Isla ended the call and turned back to find James studying his laptop screen with an intensity that suggested he'd found something significant.
"What?" she asked.
"Gary Holloway." James turned the screen so she could see. "Age forty-two, city infrastructure inspector. Has unrestricted access to all sections of the steam tunnel system, including decommissioned areas. It's literally his job to inspect and evaluate infrastructure safety."
Isla moved closer, reading over his shoulder.
Gary Holloway's employment record was extensive—fifteen years with the city, consistently positive performance reviews, expertise in structural assessment and safety compliance.
On paper, he looked exactly like the kind of dedicated public servant who made municipal infrastructure function.
But James was scrolling down to something else, something that made Isla's pulse quicken.
"His younger sister, Grace Holloway," James said quietly.
"Committed suicide in the steam tunnels eight years ago.
Access Point 9, one of the decommissioned sections.
She was twenty-three, struggled with depression and substance abuse.
According to the police report, she went into the tunnels late at night and overdosed on pills. Her body wasn't found for three days."
The words settled over Isla like a weight.
A sister dead in the tunnels, a brother who spent his professional life navigating those same passages, intimate knowledge of both active and abandoned sections.
And the security footage from this morning had shown a figure of average build, maybe five-nine or five-ten—dimensions that could fit Gary Holloway.
"It's thin," Isla said, though her investigator's instincts were already cataloging the connections. "Grief doesn't automatically create a killer."
"No, but trauma combined with opportunity and access?
" James pulled up Gary's physical description from his employee file.
"He's five-ten, average build. Matches the general dimensions of the suspect on the security footage.
And he'd know the tunnel system intimately—not just from maps, but from years of hands-on inspection work. "
Isla checked the time: 9:47 AM. If Gary Holloway was their killer, they needed to move carefully. He'd have the expertise to spot surveillance, the knowledge to disappear into passages that weren't on any official map, and the resources to continue killing while they scrambled to catch up.
But something about the theory felt wrong. She couldn't articulate exactly what, but the pieces didn't quite fit the way they should.
"Let's go talk to him," Isla said, reaching for her coat. "But we approach this carefully. If he's our killer, I don't want to spook him. And if he's not..." She trailed off, thinking about how many times they'd been wrong already, how many leads had dissolved into nothing.
"Then we're back to square one," James finished. "Again."
***
The city infrastructure office occupied the third floor of a municipal building near downtown, its hallways lined with architectural plans and safety notices that spoke to decades of bureaucratic accumulation.
Isla and James were directed to a conference room where Gary Holloway sat waiting, his expression carrying the wariness of someone who'd been pulled away from important work for reasons nobody had explained.
He stood when they entered—a gesture of courtesy that immediately complicated Isla's assumptions.
Gary Holloway was indeed around five-ten with an average build, but he carried himself with the easy confidence of someone comfortable in his own skin.
His handshake was firm but not aggressive, and his eyes—a warm brown behind practical glasses—showed curiosity rather than fear.
"Agents," he said, gesturing to the chairs across from him. "My supervisor said you needed to speak with me urgently, but she didn't say what about. Is this regarding the murders in the tunnels? I've been following the news."
Isla settled into her chair, studying Holloway's body language. He seemed genuinely puzzled, not defensive. His posture was open, his hands resting casually on the table rather than fidgeting or clenching. Nothing about his demeanor suggested someone bracing for interrogation.
"We're investigating the recent deaths, yes," Isla said carefully. "We understand you have extensive knowledge of the tunnel system, including decommissioned sections."
"That's my job." Holloway leaned forward slightly, his expression shifting to professional interest. "I conduct safety assessments on all city infrastructure, including older passages that are no longer in active use.
We need to monitor them for structural integrity even if they're not carrying steam anymore. "
"So you'd know how to navigate the abandoned sections," James said. "How to find your way through passages that aren't on the official maps."
"Sure, but—" Holloway stopped, his eyes widening slightly as understanding dawned. "Wait. You think I might be involved in these murders?"
The directness of the question caught Isla off guard. Most suspects deflected or denied, tried to maintain plausible deniability even when confronted with suspicion. But Holloway seemed more baffled than threatened by the implication.
"We're interviewing everyone with extensive tunnel access," Isla said, which was true but not the complete truth. "Can you tell us where you were between midnight and 2 AM on Tuesday, and again between 10 PM Wednesday and 2 AM Thursday?"