Yang crossed his arms, his expression thoughtful. "Say you're right. Say someone did frame him. Who? And why?"
"That's what we're trying to figure out," Kari said. "But we can't do that if everyone's already decided Hatathli's guilty and stopped looking for other suspects."
"We haven't stopped looking," Jenkins said, though his tone suggested otherwise. "But we also can't ignore the evidence we do have."
The conversation was going in circles now, and Kari could feel the frustration building in her chest. These were cops she'd worked with, people she'd respected and learned from. But they were trapped in a system that sometimes valued closure over truth, that responded to political pressure more than investigative integrity.
She'd been trapped in that system too, once. Had made her own compromises, justified her own shortcuts. It was only after leaving, after returning to the reservation and reconnecting with something larger than career advancement, that she'd realized how much she'd been willing to bend.
"I need some air," Kari said, sliding out of the booth.
Maria started to follow, but Kari shook her head. "I'm fine. Just need a minute."
Outside, the Phoenix evening was warm, the sky still holding the last traces of sunset. Kari walked to the edge of the parking lot, away from the entrance, and leaned against the hood of her Jeep. Her hands were shaking slightly—adrenaline and anger combining into something that felt like electricity under her skin.
The door opened behind her, and Maria emerged, carrying both their beers.
"Thought you might want this," Maria said, offering one bottle.
Kari took it but didn't drink. "Is it always like that now? The pressure from upstairs, the political calculations?"
"It's gotten worse. The chief's close to retirement, doesn't want to rock the boat. The mayor's been pushing hard on economic development, trying to attract more business to Phoenix. Cases like this—that intersect with those priorities—they get complicated fast." Maria leaned against the Jeep beside Kari. "But that's not why I asked you here. I didn't bring you in to rubber-stamp the department's conclusions. I brought you in because I knew you wouldn't."
"Gagne and the others seem to think I'm here to cause problems."
"You are. Good problems." Maria smiled. "The kind that make us do our jobs better."
Kari watched a car pull into the lot, two patrol officers climbing out and heading for the bar. She wondered if they were going inside to celebrate a righteous bust, or to commiserate about the pressure they were under, or simply to forget about work for a few hours.
"I don't think I could work here again," she said quietly. "Even if I wanted to. It doesn't fit anymore."
"You've changed. That's not a bad thing." Maria took a sip of her beer. "The reservation's been good for you. You seem more... centered. Like you know who you are now."
Kari thought about her grandmother, about the conversations they'd had over the past two years. About learning to see herself as Diné first, cop second. About understanding that her instincts—the ones she'd been taught to distrust in favor of evidence and procedure—were often right.
"I do know who I am," Kari said. "Which is why I know Hatathli didn't do this."
"Walk me through it. The access question."
"The real killer needed access to three distinct locations: Garrison's home, Hoffman's home, and somewhere Hatathli spent time—his office or his house. That's the only way to plant the DNA evidence convincingly." Kari turned to face Maria. "Garrison and Hoffman were both careful people, successful professionals in their sixties. They wouldn't have let a stranger into their homes at night. So the killer was someone they knew, someone they trusted enough to let inside."
"Someone connected to the resort project," Maria said.
"Probably. But also someone who had access to Hatathli's spaces. A volunteer at his office? Someone he'd met with?" Kari paused. "Someone who could move between both worlds—the wealthy Paradise Valley circles and the activist community—without raising suspicion."
"That's a narrow pool."
Kari looked back at the bar, at the warm light spilling from the windows. "But everyone in there is so focused on the DNA evidence, on the convenient narrative, that they're not asking who else could have done this."
"Because asking that question means more work. More investigation, more uncertainty, more time before the case closes." Maria's voice was bitter. "And time is exactly what the department doesn't want to give us."
"So what do we do?"
"We investigate anyway. Quietly, carefully, building a case that's strong enough to overcome the political pressure." Maria finished her beer. "I'm glad you're here, Kari. I need someone who's not afraid to see what's really there instead of what everyone wants to be there."
They stood in silence for a moment, the sounds of the bar muted by distance. Kari thought about the path that had brought her back to Phoenix, about her mother's research and Evan Naalnish and the pattern of murders disguised as accidents.About how power worked to protect itself, to bury inconvenient truths, to sacrifice convenient scapegoats.
Thomas Hatathli was being sacrificed. Not because he was guilty, but because his guilt served the right people's interests. The development company could resume construction, the city could collect its revenue, and Phoenix PD could close a high-profile case with minimal effort.
