"I'm just speculating. But major development projects involve lots of permits, approvals, environmental assessments. Sometimes corners get cut. Sometimes people look the other way. If those three knew about practices that weren't entirely legal, that's a motive beyond just revenge for the petroglyphs." Reid stood. "But that's your investigation, not mine. I just provide security and try to keep everyone safe."
They walked Reid out, Kari's mind racing through what he'd said and what he'd left unsaid. He'd been cooperative, even helpful with his suggestion about investigating irregularities in the project approval process.
But she couldn't shake the feeling that he'd been performing, giving them exactly what he thought they wanted to hear.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Maria spent the next twenty minutes on the phone with Reid's assistant while Kari pulled up everything she could find about his background. Reid's military record was impressive but largely classified—special operations work rarely made it into public documents.
His contracting work was easier to trace through news articles and company records. Jasper Reid had been involved in some of the most dangerous operations in Iraq and Afghanistan, providing security for diplomats and high-value targets, training local forces, conducting surveillance on insurgent networks.
The psychological operations training was particularly interesting. PsyOps specialists were trained to influence perceptions, manipulate information, shape narratives. Exactly the kind of skills needed to frame someone for murder while keeping yourself clear of suspicion.
"Alibis are checking out so far," Maria said, ending another call. "I've got three witnesses who confirm Reid was at the petroglyph site when Garrison was killed. Two security guards who worked with him and one protester who was there daily and remembers seeing him."
"What about the other murders?"
"Working on it. But his calendar documentation is detailed—times, locations, even weather conditions. Either he's actually maintaining this level of security oversight, or he's creating an elaborate false record."
Kari thought about that. "We should visit the site ourselves. See what it looks like, verify that Reid's presence there would actually be noticed and remembered."
"It's about forty minutes from here, out in the desert past Scottsdale." Maria checked her watch—nine-forty-five. "We'realready past the press conference. Chief's narrative is out there. At this point, even if we find something on Reid, we're fighting uphill against the accomplice theory."
"Then let's not waste time." Kari stood. "I want to see these petroglyphs that started all this. Understand what Hatathli and the protesters were actually fighting for."
They took Maria's car, driving east through Scottsdale and into the desert beyond. The landscape shifted from urban sprawl to open space, saguaro cacti dotting the hillsides, the mountains rising in the distance. This was the Arizona that tourists imagined: vast, harsh, beautiful in its severity.
The Sunset Ridge Resort site was impossible to miss. A massive development carved into the desert, construction equipment sitting idle, half-finished structures surrounded by fencing and security barriers. And in the center of it all, protected now by police tape and additional fencing, was the area where the petroglyphs had been.
A small group of protesters maintained a vigil near the entrance, maybe a dozen people with signs about cultural genocide and corporate greed, a table with water and information pamphlets, a banner reading "Remember What Was Lost." They watched with hostility as Maria's unmarked police car pulled up.
"Phoenix PD," Maria called out, showing her badge. "We're investigating the recent murders. Not here to interfere with your protest."
A woman in her fifties separated from the group, her gray hair pulled back in a long braid, her sun-weathered face showing both determination and exhaustion. "You mean the murders they're trying to blame on Thomas Hatathli? We all know he didn't do it. Thomas might have a temper, but he's not a killer."
"We're investigating all possibilities," Kari said carefully. "I'm Detective Blackhorse, Navajo Nation Police. Can we ask you a few questions about security here at the site?"
The woman's expression softened. "You're Navajo? Then you understand what was destroyed here. I'm Patricia Kabotie, Hopi. I've been protesting this development since they first announced it."
Kari felt the weight of that shared cultural context. Patricia would judge her based not just on her badge but on her actions, her respect for what had been lost. "I'd like to see the petroglyphs. What remains of them."
Patricia nodded and led them toward the cordoned-off area. The other protesters watched but didn't interfere, though their expressions made it clear they didn't trust police regardless of cultural background.
The destroyed petroglyph site was worse than Kari had imagined. Someone had attempted to preserve what remained—rock faces covered with protective sheeting, markers indicating where specific images had been—but the damage was extensive. Heavy machinery had carved through ancient stone, obliterating art that had survived for centuries. What remained were fragments, partial images, the ghosts of what had been whole.
Kari felt a deep anger looking at it. This wasn't just property damage or cultural insensitivity. This was erasure, the deliberate destruction of indigenous history for profit.
"They knew the petroglyphs were here," Patricia said quietly. "The archaeologists documented them, filed reports, tried to get the site protected. But money talks louder than history. The developer paid off the right people, got the permits approved, and by the time the lawsuits were filed it was too late. The bulldozers were already here."
"Archaeologists?" Kari asked. "Who documented the site?"
"Dr. Jennifer Caldwell, mainly. She's been fighting this development since the beginning, tried everything to save these petroglyphs. Even filed a lawsuit to stop construction. She still comes by sometimes, still documents what's happening."
Patricia pointed to several spots where the petroglyphs had been most concentrated. "There were hunting scenes here, astronomical markers there, family lineages and stories that went back hundreds of years. Now it's just broken rock and corporate greed."
"Tell me about the security presence," Maria said. "There's a man named Jasper Reid who manages it. How often is he here?"
"Reid? He's here almost every day, sometimes twice a day. Walks the perimeter, checks on his guards, makes sure we're not crossing any lines." Patricia's tone carried grudging respect. "He's professional about it, I'll give him that. Never gets aggressive, never threatens us. Just maintains his presence and makes sure we know we're being watched."
