"Yeah. Question is what, and whether it connects to the murders."
"You want to dig into her background? See if there's more to the lawsuit story?"
"Yes. Start with court records—see if there were any settlements or agreements filed when she dropped the case. Also check for any complaints or incidents involving Caldwell and the resort project."
Maria unlocked the car and they both got in, the afternoon heat making the interior stifling despite being parked in shade. She started the engine and cranked the air conditioning.
"It's almost five," Maria said, checking the dashboard clock. "I need to get back to the precinct, write up reports before everyone goes home. You want to come or should I drop you somewhere?"
Kari thought about it. "Drop me at my hotel. I need a couple hours to go through everything we've learned, see if I'm missing connections."
"Call me if you find anything. I'll do the same."
As they pulled out of the ASU parking lot, Kari watched the campus slide past—students walking between buildings, normal life continuing while she and Maria tried to untangle a web ofmurder and corruption. Somewhere in all the information they'd gathered, there was a pattern that would point to the real killer.
She just had to see it before it was too late for Thomas Hatathli.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Tessa Crane sat on the edge of the motel bed, watching the parking lot through a gap in the curtains she'd kept closed since checking in eighteen hours ago. The Desert Star Motor Lodge in Casa Grande wasn't the kind of place that asked questions—cash only, rooms by the week, clientele that valued privacy over amenities. Perfect for disappearing.
Not perfect for feeling safe.
She checked her burner phone for the fifteenth time in the past hour. Still nothing from Maya. Her friend had promised to leave Phoenix by three o'clock and said she'd be here by five at the latest. It was now six-thirty, the desert sunset painting the sky in shades of orange and purple, and Tessa's imagination was conjuring increasingly terrible explanations for the delay.
Traffic. Maya hit traffic. That was all.
Or Maya had changed her mind about helping someone who'd fled a murder scene.
Or someone had gotten to Maya first.
Tessa forced herself to breathe slowly, to push back against the panic that had been her constant companion since leaving Victor's house last night. She'd been operating on adrenaline and fear for over twenty-four hours—running on instinct, making snap decisions, trying to stay ahead of something she couldn't quite name but knew was dangerous.
The theory had crystallized during the long, sleepless night in this depressing room with its water-stained ceiling and the constant hum of the air conditioning unit that didn't quite work. She'd replayed every detail of finding Victor's body, every moment leading up to it, trying to make sense of what had happened.
And she kept coming back to the bracelet.
The delicate silver chain with the turquoise stone that she'd found tucked between Victor's couch cushions a week ago. At the time, she'd felt only mild curiosity—Victor seeing someone else wasn't surprising or particularly relevant to their arrangement. But now, knowing he was dead, knowing someone had shot him in his own home, the bracelet took on sinister significance.
Another woman. Someone who'd been in Victor's house, who'd lost her bracelet, who might have felt possessive or jealous or threatened by Tessa's presence in his life. Someone who'd discovered that Victor was seeing an escort and had decided that was grounds for murder.
And if that woman had killed Victor, she might want to eliminate the other woman, too. Tie up loose ends. Make sure no one could identify her or connect her to the crime.
Tessa had googled "crimes of passion" and "jealous lover murders" on her burner phone this morning, reading dozens of articles about women who'd killed unfaithful partners or romantic rivals. The psychology was there—betrayal, rage, the desperate need to eliminate competition. It happened all the time.
So she'd run, driven south to Casa Grande, where no one knew her, and the Desert Star Motor Lodge asked for nothing more than seventy dollars and a fake name.
She'd called Maya from a gas station pay phone—one of the few that still existed—and begged her to come. Maya was the only person Tessa trusted completely, the friend who'd known her since before Phoenix, before the carefully constructed life as a high-end escort, back when they were both theater majors dreaming of Broadway and believing that talent mattered more than luck.
Maya hadn't judged or questioned. She'd just said, "I'll be there. Six hours max."
That had been eight hours ago.
Tessa stood and paced the small room, her feet tracing a pattern in the worn carpet. Ten steps to the bathroom, turn, twelve steps to the door, turn, repeat. The room smelled like cigarettes and industrial cleaner and desperation—the scent of people passing through, leaving no trace except stains and unpaid bills.
She caught her reflection in the mirror above the dresser and barely recognized herself. No makeup, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, wearing the jeans and t-shirt she'd grabbed from her apartment in her panicked packing. She looked younger without the polish, more vulnerable like the girl who'd arrived in Phoenix seven years ago with a theater degree and a suitcase full of dreams.
That girl would have gone straight to the police. Would have trusted the system to protect her, would have believed that truth and innocence were enough.
