"Lang's studio," she said."Let's see what our rival photographer has to say."
CHAPTER SIX
The studio occupied a converted warehouse on Lake Avenue, its exposed brick and industrial windows projecting the kind of calculated artistry that screamed "serious photographer" to anyone walking past.A sign above the entrance readLang Photography: Capturing the Soul of Superiorin elegant silver lettering that probably cost more than Isla's monthly rent.
She pushed through the front door with Sullivan a step behind, a bell chiming overhead to announce their arrival.The interior was exactly what she'd expected—polished concrete floors, track lighting angled with geometric precision, and walls covered floor to ceiling with photographs that stopped her in her tracks.
Winter landscapes.Dozens of them.Lake Superior in all its frozen glory: ice caves glowing blue in filtered sunlight, snow-covered cliffs plunging toward churning gray water, lone pine trees bent against invisible winds.The images were technically stunning, each one composed with an eye for drama that bordered on theatrical.
And every single one of them looked familiar.
Isla moved along the gallery wall, her boots clicking against the concrete, her eyes cataloging composition after composition that she'd seen somewhere before.The angle of this shoreline shot.The framing of that ice formation.The way this particular image used the horizon line to divide the frame into perfect thirds.
She'd spent the drive over reviewing Derek Paulson's portfolio on her phone.These weren't copies—not exactly—but they were close enough to make her skin prickle with recognition.Close enough to understand why Paulson had accused Lang of following him, of studying his work, of building a career on stolen ideas.
"Quite a collection," Sullivan said quietly, appearing at her shoulder.
"Quite a coincidence."
A door at the back of the gallery swung open, and Marcus Lang emerged with the confident stride of a man who expected to be admired.He was younger than Isla had anticipated—forty-seven according to his file, but he moved like someone who spent serious time in a gym.Lean and angular, with salt-and-pepper hair swept back from a face that was probably called "distinguished" by gallery patrons and "smug" by everyone else.He wore a black turtleneck that looked deliberately European and jeans that probably cost more than Sullivan's entire wardrobe.
"Can I help you?"His voice was smooth, cultured, carrying the faint condescension of someone who assumed visitors were there to buy.
Isla produced her badge."Special Agent Rivers, FBI.This is Special Agent Sullivan.We'd like to ask you some questions about Derek Paulson."
Something flickered across Lang's face—too fast to identify, too controlled to be surprise.He recovered quickly, his expression settling into practiced neutrality.
"Paulson," he repeated."What's he done now?Finally followed through on his threats?"
"Mr.Paulson was found dead this morning."
The silence that followed was thick enough to taste.Lang stared at her for a long moment, his jaw working slightly, his eyes revealing nothing.Then he let out a breath that might have been a laugh, might have been something else entirely.
"Well," he said."I suppose I should pretend to be sorry."
Isla felt Sullivan shift beside her, a subtle movement that communicated disapproval without a word.She kept her own expression neutral, waiting.
"That sounds like something you should explain," she said.
Lang gestured toward a sitting area near the gallery's entrance—two leather chairs arranged around a glass coffee table, the kind of setup designed for discussing art purchases over overpriced espresso."You might as well sit.This will take a while."
They sat.Lang took the chair across from them, crossing his legs with studied casualness, his fingers steepled beneath his chin.The pose was calculated, Isla noted—designed to project calm, control, intellectual superiority.She'd seen suspects adopt it a hundred times, usually right before they said something incriminating.
"Derek Paulson was a thief and a fraud," Lang began, his voice hardening around each word."He built his entire reputation on copying other photographers' work—not just mine, though God knows I was his favorite target.The man had no original vision, no creative spark of his own.He was a parasite who fed on the talent of others."
"That's quite an accusation," Sullivan said.
"It's quite a truth."Lang leaned forward, his mask of composure slipping slightly."Do you know how many times I found him lurking at my shooting locations?How many times I'd publish a photo only to see him post something almost identical two weeks later, claiming he'd 'discovered' the same spot independently?The man was pathological.He couldn't create anything original, so he stole from people who could."
Isla let the silence stretch, watching the color rise in Lang's cheeks, the way his hands had tightened around the arms of his chair.Anger this fresh didn't come from nowhere.This was something that had been building for years, festering beneath the surface, waiting for a moment to erupt.
"We've seen his accusations against you," she said."The copyright controversy last summer.He claimed you were the one doing the copying."
Lang's laugh was sharp and bitter."Of course he did.That's what people like Paulson do—they project their own sins onto others.When I started calling him out publicly, he tried to flip the narrative, make himself the victim.Posted those ridiculous 'comparison' shots on social media, as if proving we'd photographed some of the same landscapes was evidence of theft."He shook his head."Lake Superior isn't a big secret, Agent Rivers.Thousands of photographers shoot the same locations every year.But there's a difference between capturing a sunset over Split Rock and systematically recreating another artist's exact compositions."
"And you believe he was systematically recreating yours?"
"I know he was.I have files—documentation going back five years, showing the patterns, the timing, the way he'd wait just long enough after I published something before unveiling his own 'version.'"Lang's voice dripped with contempt."The man was clever, I'll give him that.Always stayed just on the right side of legal.But anyone with eyes could see what he was doing."