It was evening, so the bull pen was mostly empty. In the far corner, Rockport’s newest and very eager rookie, Detective O’Malley, was hunched over his computer, his back to her; there was a light on in Murdoch’s office, but Izzy couldn’t see the woman.

Other than that, she was alone. It was on the later side, and Rockport’s crime levels didn’t necessitate a robust round-the-clock police detail.

Izzy powered up her desktop as she sent Mia a quick text that she’d made it back to the station and was going to start digging in to find the Bells. It was a crapshoot whether Mia would get the message or not, judging by the storm that had been rolling in as Quinn and Izzy left the island.

Tossing the phone onto a stack of files, Izzy turned back to her computer. She’d have to start with the basics—Google, a scan of the national databases, and anything Rockport had on file.

She realized within a few minutes the futility of looking for such a common name.

There was nothing in the federal criminal system nor in the local ones. As for the web search, there were a couple of society columns, a few mentions of Monroe’s death, a few more of the artist residency, and a profile of Charles and Bix from a few decades back that some quirky magazine had helpfully uploaded onto their site. She printed that out.

Narrowing it down to the Boston Globe for any mentions garnered only an article on Bix’s gallery opening from ten years before Monroe’s death and an old engagement announcement.

Izzy clicked on the short piece with the young couple.

Charles Edward Bell, a prominent psychiatrist and the son of Hayes and Eliza Bell, was to wed Brenna “Bix” Connolly, a student at the Rhode Island School of Design. The pair had met in Providence, when Charles commissioned a caricature from Bix, who had worked as a street artist to help pay her tuition. The quick sketch had cost him five dollars, and he’d walked away with her phone number.

It was a cute story, and she wondered if it were true. Probably they’d hooked up in a bar and had made up the rest of it so it would be a good read.

Either way, now Izzy had a real name. Brenna Connolly. Somewhat less glamorous than Bix Bell, but somewhat more helpful when it came to searches.

With that, she started getting real results.

Including an obituary.

“All right, here we go,” she whispered to the mostly empty room. O’Malley grunted but didn’t look up, and there had yet to be any movement coming from Murdoch’s office.

The obit was from a paper in Cooperstown, Maine. Izzy tabbed over to a new page, pulled up a map, and typed in the town.

Just outside Portland.