"Kari! Thank God. I was hoping Yazzie would clear you." Maria's voice carried relief mixed with urgency. "How soon can you get to Phoenix?"
"Couple hours. I need to pack a bag, brief my partner on my cases." Kari paused. "Yazzie said you're skeptical about the suspect's guilt?"
"I'll explain when you get here. It's... complicated." Maria's voice dropped lower, as if she was worried about being overheard. "I need your eyes on this, Kari. Someone who won't just see what the evidence wants us to see."
"That sounds ominous."
"It is. Look, we'll talk when you get here. Come straight to the station—I'll meet you in the lobby." Maria paused. "It's good to hear your voice. I've missed working with you."
"Same here." Kari felt a warmth in her chest that surprised her. "I'll be there by early afternoon."
After ending the call, Kari sat for a moment, processing. Two murders. A suspect in custody with DNA evidence. Maria skeptical despite the physical evidence. It had the hallmarks of exactly the kind of case that had made Kari good at her job in Phoenix—complicated, politically charged, requiring the ability to see past surface explanations to deeper truths.
She thought about Hatathli's photo, about a man who'd spent his career fighting for indigenous rights within the legal system. Had that activism finally escalated into violence? Or was something else going on, something that Maria had sensed but couldn't yet prove?
Kari locked her desk, grabbed her jacket, and headed out. First stop would be Ben's desk to brief him on the change of plans, then home to pack, then the drive to Phoenix and whatever waited there.
As she walked through the station, Kari caught sight of the folder she'd been working on that morning—Anna's research, Evan Naalnish's case, the investigation that might finally explain what had happened to her mother. That work would have to wait. But it had waited fifteen years already. A few more days wouldn't matter.
What mattered now was two dead people in Phoenix and a suspect who might or might not be guilty of murder.
CHAPTER FIVE
The drive to Phoenix took just under three hours, the landscape gradually shifting from reservation territory to suburban sprawl. Kari had made this drive countless times during her years with Phoenix PD, but it felt different now—like returning to a place she'd once lived but no longer quite belonged.
Phoenix PD headquarters looked exactly as she remembered it. Same imposing concrete structure, same parking lot full of marked units and unmarked detective cars, same institutional atmosphere. Kari found a visitor spot and headed inside, her Navajo Nation Police badge getting her through security and up to the Homicide division on the third floor.
Maria Santos was waiting in the lobby, and Kari felt a surge of genuine happiness at seeing her former partner. Maria had cut her hair short since they'd last seen each other—practical for the Phoenix heat—and was wearing the same battered leather jacket she'd had for years, the one with the coffee stain on the left cuff that she'd never bothered to clean. She still had that habit of standing with her weight shifted to one side, like she was always ready to move, and when she smiled it was the real thing, not the tight professional smile she used for brass and witnesses.
"Kari Blackhorse." Maria pulled Kari into a brief, fierce hug. "Look at you. Reservation life agrees with you."
"It has its moments." Kari stepped back, studying Maria's face. "You look tired."
"This case. It's been..." Maria shook her head. "Come on. Let's talk somewhere private."
She led Kari through the familiar maze of cubicles and offices, past detectives working phones and computers, past the conference rooms where Kari had spent countless hoursreviewing evidence and building cases. A few faces looked familiar, but most were new. Turnover in a homicide division was always high.
Maria's office was small but functional, the walls covered with case photos and timelines, her desk piled with files and coffee cups. She closed the door and gestured for Kari to sit.
"First things first," Maria said, settling into her chair. "Thank you for coming. I know this pulls you away from your work on the rez, but I needed someone I could trust. Someone who wouldn't just tell me what the brass wants to hear."
"Yazzie said you're skeptical about Hatathli's guilt."
"I am. But let me walk you through what we have, and you can tell me if I'm seeing ghosts or if there's something real here." Maria pulled out a thick case file. "Two victims. Richard Garrison, fifty-eight, killed in his Paradise Valley home on the evening of April 18th. Margaret Hoffman, sixty-two, killed in her home on April 25th. Both shot with what ballistics confirms is the same weapon—a nine-millimeter handgun with a suppressor attached."
"No signs of forced entry at either location?"
"None. No defensive wounds, either, no signs of struggle. Garrison was shot in his home office, Hoffman in her kitchen." Maria laid out crime scene photos. "Clean executions. The killer knew what they were doing."
Kari studied the photos. "How'd you connect the cases?" she asked.
"The Sunset Ridge Resort development. Garrison was the primary investor, Hoffman was the city planning official who approved the permits." Maria pulled out more documents. "The project was controversial from the start—it involved building a luxury resort on land near ancient petroglyphs. Indigenous groups protested, archaeologists raised concerns,environmental lawyers filed objections. But the city approved it anyway, and construction began last year."
"And destroyed the petroglyphs in the process."
"Yeah. That's where Thomas Hatathli enters the picture." Maria showed Kari a photo of the lawyer. "He was the lead attorney fighting the development, representing Hopi and Navajo families who opposed the project. When the petroglyphs were destroyed during construction, Hatathli made public statements that were... inflammatory. Called the developers criminals, said they had blood on their hands, said they'd answer for what they'd done."
"Threatening language."
