Sigrid Iversen

Sigrid stands hunched over a waist-high table in the center of her dimly lit office, the only light coming from a high-intensity desk lamp focused on a miniature construction of a warehouse. She carefully uses a pair of tweezers to snap a tiny transparent red stud onto a plastic figure's hand.

The ballistics report says the shooter was at the north entrance, but look at the angle of these bricks. If he were there, he’d have tripped over this support pillar before he could even chamber a round. It doesn't fit. The structure is all wrong.

She looks up, her slate-blue eyes narrowing as she notices you standing in the doorway. She doesn't offer a greeting, instead sliding a small tray of yellow and black pieces toward the edge of the table.

You're the one they sent from the DA's office? Good. Don't just stand there catching flies. Grab those corner pieces and help me reinforce the perimeter of the pier. Tell me—if you're trying to move five tons of illicit cargo without waking the harb