CLOSE TO HOME, page 8
Especially to a relationship that had meant a great deal to her for a long time.
"Nothing," she said, clearing her throat. "We should probably get going." She climbed into her Jeep without waiting for a response from Maria.
Hoping, now, that Maria wasn't as suspicious of her as she was of Maria
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Sunburst Energy field office looked like it was under siege. A crowd of at least fifty protesters had gathered outside the chain-link fence, their signs reading "Sacred Land Not Corporate Profit" and "Blood Pipeline" and "Respect the Ancestors." The morning's news coverage had clearly struck a nerve, transforming what might otherwise have been a handful of regular demonstrators into an angry mob.
"Shit," Maria muttered as they approached. "Renfrew's article really stirred things up."
Kari felt the weight of responsibility settles on her shoulders like a physical burden. She'd given Renfrew the information, tried to control the narrative, and instead had poured gasoline on an already volatile situation. The headline still burned in her memory: "Ritual Killer Targets Pipeline Route—Ancient Ceremonies Twisted for Murder." Not at all what she'd intended when she'd made that deal.
Someone in the crowd spotted their approaching vehicles and shouted, "Cops! The cops are here!"
The crowd's energy shifted immediately, becoming more aggressive. Chants of "Justice for the sacred land!" filled the air as Kari and Maria parked in the designated visitor spots. The security guards, two uniformed men in their fifties, seemingly more suited to checking badges than managing civil unrest, were trying to maintain a buffer zone between the protesters and the building entrance, and looking overwhelmed.
"Keep your head down and move fast," Maria said as they exited their vehicles.
They walked quickly toward the entrance, trying to project authority without provocation. But the crowd pressed closer to the fence, voices rising to a crescendo that made individual words blur into a wall of anger.
"You protecting the killers?" someone shouted.
"Corporate puppets!"
"The spirits will have justice!"
A woman near the front held a sign with Monroe's and Webb's photos beneath the words "Blood Sacrifice for Greed." The image hit Kari like a punch—these victims had already been transformed from people into symbols, their deaths co-opted for political purposes before their families had even finished making funeral arrangements.
Kari kept her expression neutral, but each accusation stung. These were her people, her community, and they saw her as the enemy. All because she'd tried to prevent exactly this kind of reaction. The irony tasted bitter—her attempt at damage control had instead created more damage than Renfrew's original inflammatory headline would have.
A young woman pressed against the fence, her face twisted with anger. She couldn't have been more than twenty-five, with traditional jewelry and a University of Arizona t-shirt. "My cousin worked on preserving those petroglyph sites! Now they're crime scenes because of Sunburst's greed!"
An older man beside her added, "The real crime here is what that corporation plans to do. At least now people are taking notice."
"We hear your concerns," Kari said, knowing she shouldn't engage but unable to help herself. "But violence isn't—"
"You think we're the violent ones?" The young woman's voice rose to a shriek. "What do you call destroying sacred sites? What do you call poisoning our water table? That's not violence?"
Before Kari could respond, Maria touched her elbow, urging her forward. They made it through the security checkpoint and into the building, the crowd's anger muffled but not silenced by the walls. The air conditioning felt arctic after the heat outside, but Kari found herself shivering for reasons that had nothing to do with temperature.
"That was rough," Maria said as they checked in at reception.
"It's going to get worse," Kari replied, signing the visitor log with hands that weren't quite steady. "Renfrew's article was just the beginning. Once national media picks this up..."
She trailed off, imagining news vans and reporters who'd never set foot on the reservation before suddenly becoming experts on Navajo culture and the pipeline conflict. The thought made her stomach turn.
The receptionist, the same nervous young woman from their visit to see Hutchins, led them down a corridor lined with geological surveys and pipeline maps. These maps would have infuriated the protesters outside—neat lines drawn across landscapes that had been home to Kari's ancestors for generations, reducing sacred sites to mere topographical obstacles.
"Ms. Rodriguez's office is just here," the receptionist said, knocking softly on a corner door. "Ma'am? The detectives are here."
They entered to find Elena Rodriguez standing at her window, watching the crowd below. She turned as they entered, and Kari's first impression was of controlled anxiety. Rodriguez was in her early forties and wore a crisp blazer despite the heat, her dark hair pulled back except for a single lock that dangled beside her right eye.
"Detectives," she said, gesturing to chairs across from her desk. "I've been expecting you."
Her handshake was firm but her palm slightly damp, and Kari noticed how she immediately wiped her hand on her skirt afterward—a tell that suggested deeper nervousness than her composed expression indicated.
"Ms. Rodriguez," Maria began, settling into her chair with the relaxed confidence of someone who'd conducted a thousand interviews. "We understand you're Sunburst's liaison with the tribal council."
"For the past two years, yes." Rodriguez sat down, her hands clasped tightly on the desk. Kari noticed her nails were bitten down to the quick. "I've heard about Jake Monroe and Patricia Webb. Terrible losses."
"You knew them?" Kari asked, watching Rodriguez's face carefully.
"Knew of them, certainly. Monroe was one of our surveyors, though I never met him personally. His reports crossed my desk—very thorough, very professional." She paused, seeming to choose her words carefully. "Webb... Webb was on the other side of the table during negotiations, but we never interacted directly. She preferred to work through intermediaries."
"Why was that?" Maria asked.
Rodriguez shifted. "Patricia Webb had a reputation for being... confrontational. She once called me a 'cultural traitor' in an email that was accidentally sent to our entire negotiation team instead of just her colleagues."
"That must have been uncomfortable," Kari observed.
"It was enlightening," Rodriguez said with a bitter smile. "It showed me how she really felt beneath the professional courtesy. But I didn't hold it against her. This pipeline brings out strong emotions in people."
"Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm them?" Maria asked, pulling out her notebook.
Rodriguez gave a short, bitter laugh. "You've seen the crowd outside. Half the reservation wants to harm anyone connected to this pipeline. The other half is angry that we're not moving fast enough to bring jobs and revenue. Though, of course, that doesn't explain why someone would target both of them..." She trailed off, rubbing her temples.
Kari cleared her throat. "We're looking for someone with knowledge of traditional ceremonies, access to the victims, and views extreme enough to commit murder. Does that sound like anyone you know?"
Rodriguez stood abruptly, pacing to a filing cabinet and back—nervous energy that needed an outlet. "I wish I could give you names," she said, her fingers twisting together. "But honestly? I'm more concerned about who might be next."
"Why's that?" Maria leaned forward.
Rodriguez looked between them, seeming to weigh her words. The afternoon light through her window cast harsh shadows across her face, aging her. "Because I think I might be a target."
The office fell silent except for the muffled chanting from outside. Kari studied Rodriguez's face, noting the fear beneath the professional veneer. Her eyes darted to the window, then the door, as if calculating escape routes.
"What makes you think that?" Kari asked.
"I've been receiving threats. More than usual, I mean." Rodriguez returned to her desk but didn't sit, instead gripping the back of her chair. "Messages about being a traitor to my heritage, selling out sacred land. That kind of thing."
"Could we see these threats?" Maria asked.
Rodriguez shook her head, looking embarrassed. "I... I deleted them. They were too disturbing to keep."
"All of them?" Kari couldn't hide her skepticism. "You deleted all of them?"
"I know how that sounds," Rodriguez said defensively, finally sitting down. "But I get dozens of angry messages every week. Emails, texts, even letters slipped under my apartment door. I started deleting the worst ones for my own mental health. My therapist said I was giving them power by keeping them."
"Your therapist knows about the threats?" Maria asked.
"In general terms. She said I was internalizing the conflict, making myself a lightning rod for everyone's anger." Rodriguez laughed shakily. "Guess she was more right than she knew."
"What about the senders?" Maria pressed. "Email addresses, phone numbers?"
"Anonymous mostly. Throwaway email accounts, blocked numbers. One person created a fake profile online using my dead mother's name just to send me messages about how ashamed she'd be of me." Rodriguez's voice cracked. "That one I did report to the platform, but they said it didn't violate community standards."
"When did your mother pass?" Kari asked gently.
"Five years ago. Cancer." Rodriguez stared at her hands. "She was proud when I got this job. Said I could be a bridge between worlds. Some bridge—both sides want to burn it down. With me on it."
"We can arrange protection," Maria offered, her tone softening. "Increase security at your home, escort to and from work."
"I appreciate that, but I'm leaving town this afternoon," Rodriguez said. "Pre-planned trip to visit sites in Texas. Part of a comparative study for the environmental impact assessment."
"Given the circumstances, perhaps you should postpone," Kari suggested.
"I can't. These meetings have been scheduled for months. The Texas Railroad Commission doesn't reschedule for anyone." Rodriguez stood again, clearly agitated. "Besides, getting out of town might be the safest option right now. You saw that crowd—you think they'll stay behind that fence forever?"
She had a point. The anger outside was palpable, and it wouldn't take much for someone to decide that signs and chants weren't enough.
"Ms. Rodriguez," Kari said, also standing. "We need more than generalized threats. Can you think of anyone specific who might have the knowledge and motivation for these killings? Anyone who's stood out from the usual protesters?"
Rodriguez paced to the window again, looking out at the crowd. She stood there for a long moment, and Kari could see her reflection in the glass—fear and calculation warring across her features.
"There are so many," she finally said. "The tribal council meetings have been... intense. People screaming, crying, begging. One elder collapsed during public comment, and while the paramedics were working on him, someone yelled that his heart was breaking from the land's pain."
She paused, then added, "Though there was one man who stood out. After the June meeting, when everyone was filing out. Older, long gray hair, had a scar on his left hand. He cornered me by the side exit, said I was betraying my heritage. The way he looked at me..." She shuddered. "Security was nearby, so he backed off, but I saw him again at the July meeting, just watching me from across the room."
"Did you report this to anyone?" Kari asked.
"What was there to report? An angry look?" Rodriguez shook her head. "Half the people at those meetings feel the same way about me."
A knock at the door interrupted them. The receptionist peered in nervously. "Ms. Rodriguez? Mr. Ashcroft is on line two. He says it's urgent—something about tomorrow's security arrangements."
"Thank you, Bethany. Tell him I'll call him back in five minutes." Rodriguez turned back to the detectives. "I'm sorry I can't be more helpful. If I think of anything else, I'll call you immediately."
They exchanged cards and prepared to leave. As they reached the door, Rodriguez called out, "Detectives? Be careful. Whatever's happening here, it feels bigger than just anger about a pipeline. It feels... older. Like something that's been waiting for an excuse to surface."
***
The tribal council building's security office was a cramped space filled with monitors and outdated equipment that looked like it had been state-of-the-art sometime in the previous century. The security supervisor, an older man named Tom Watchman, grumbled as he searched through archived footage on a system that seemed held together by duct tape and prayer.
"June meeting was a circus," he muttered, clicking through files with the speed of someone who'd dealt with antiquated technology for too long. "Biggest crowd we'd had in years. Standing room only, people lined up outside listening through the windows. You're looking for something that happened after the forum ended?"
"Someone who approached Elena Rodriguez," Maria said with a nod. "Older man, long gray hair, scar on his left hand."
"That narrows it down to about twenty people," Tom said dryly. "Half the elders on the rez have scars from ranch work or construction." But he continued scrolling through footage, occasionally pausing to check specific moments.
The office was stifling—a single fan moved hot air around without providing relief, and the monitors added their own heat to the mix. Kari found herself sympathizing with Tom, who probably spent eight hours a day in this electronic sauna.
"Here's the main room clearing out," Tom said, pointing to one monitor. "See, this is the problem. Once the meeting ends, people scatter. A lot of conversations happen in the hallways, the parking lot, places we don't have good coverage."
They watched the grainy footage, seeing crowds of people milling about, some clearly agitated, others exhausted from the three-hour meeting. Kari spotted Rodriguez in the crowd, her professional attire making her stand out among the mix of traditional dress and casual western wear.
"There." Maria pointed. "She's moving toward the side exit."
Tom switched to another camera angle, but Rodriguez moved out of frame just as an older man appeared to approach her. They could see the edge of his profile—long gray hair as described—but the image was too poor to make out features or any hand scarring.
"That's all?" Kari asked after Tom cycled through several more clips.
"Problem is, the cameras are focused on the main areas—entrance, hallways, meeting room. The side conversations after the meeting? Most happened in blind spots." Tom leaned back, his chair creaking ominously. "Could put in a request for the parking lot cameras, but that's a different system. Managed by the county, not us. Take a few days to get approval, maybe a week to get the footage."
"A week?" Maria asked, frustrated.
"County moves at its own pace," Tom said with a shrug. "Could try to expedite it, but that usually makes them move slower out of spite."
They thanked him and left, another potential lead evaporating like morning dew in the desert. The late afternoon sun hit them hard as they exited the building, the heat radiating off the asphalt in visible waves.
In the parking lot, Maria kicked a loose stone in frustration, sending it skittering across the pavement. "Every lead turns into smoke. Rodriguez's convenient memory gaps, deleted threats, vague descriptions."
"You thinking Rodriguez isn't what she seems?" Kari asked, shielding her eyes from the sun.
"I'm thinking everyone in this case has secrets." Maria's tone carried an edge that made Kari wonder if she was speaking generally or specifically. "Rodriguez happens to have the exact background needed for her job, happens to receive threats she can't prove, happens to be leaving town just as we start investigating."
"Could be a coincidence," Kari said, though her tone suggested she didn't believe it.
"Coincidences in murder cases are about as common as a snowstorm around here." Maria walked to her car, then turned back. "Want to grab coffee? We need to regroup, figure out our next move."
Kari nodded, though caffeine felt like a poor substitute for actual progress. As they drove away from the council building, she couldn't shake the image of Rodriguez's frightened face, or the nagging feeling that they were missing something obvious.
The afternoon sun beat down mercilessly, casting sharp shadows that seemed to hide more than they revealed. Somewhere in those shadows, a killer was likely choosing their next victim, preparing ceremonial tools for another message written in flesh and ancient symbols.
And Kari feared they were running out of time to decode it
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Roadrunner Café occupied a corner spot in downtown Flagstaff, far enough from the reservation to feel neutral but close enough to be convenient. The lunch rush had passed, leaving Kari and Maria with their choice of tables and the attention of a bored waitress who kept refilling their coffee cups without being asked.
Kari picked at the remains of her green chile stew while Maria finished her sandwich, both of them staring at notes spread across the table like tea leaves that refused to reveal the future. The café's air conditioning struggled against the afternoon heat, creating pockets of cool air that shifted unpredictably.
"Rodriguez's fear felt real," Kari said, pushing her bowl aside. The spices that normally comforted her had turned bitter in her mouth. "But something about her story doesn't sit right."
"The conveniently deleted threats?" Maria suggested, wiping her hands on a paper napkin. "Or the perfectly timed out-of-town trip?"
"Both. Plus that detail about studying indigenous cultures." Kari tapped her pen against her notebook, a nervous habit she'd developed during long stake-outs. "She dropped it so casually, like an afterthought. But it directly relates to our case."
_preview.jpg)
