Page 12 of Close By (Kari Blackhorse #1)

Dawn arrived with reluctance, the morning sun struggling against a thin layer of clouds that turned the eastern sky a muted orange-gray.

Kari had woken before her alarm—the remnants of her dream still clinging to her consciousness like spiderwebs.

Her mother’s face, the words she couldn’t quite hear, the stone fingers of Monster’s Hand reaching toward a star-filled sky.

After a quick shower and stronger-than-usual coffee, she’d headed to the station earlier than necessary. The quiet drive had given her time to mentally prepare for her meeting with her father—a reunion she both needed professionally and dreaded personally.

That preparation evaporated the moment she walked through the station doors.

“Well, look who’s all grown up and carrying a badge.”

The familiar voice stopped Kari in her tracks.

Paul Daniels leaned against the reception desk, a paper cup of coffee in one hand, looking for all the world like he owned the place.

At fifty-six, he was leaner than she remembered, his once-black hair now salt-and-pepper, but the confident stance and penetrating gaze remained unchanged.

“Agent Daniels,” she said, her tone carefully neutral. “You’re here early.”

“When a professor gets murdered on reservation land, schedules have a way of accelerating.” He smiled warmly, though there was something calculating in his gaze. “It’s good to see you, Kari. Jim always said you’d make detective.”

The mention of her father made Kari uneasy.

Once, Paul Daniels had been Uncle Paul, her father’s partner and friend, the man who’d brought her FBI sweatshirts and taught her to fire her first gun.

He’d been her inspiration during those teenage years when she’d dreamed of following her father into the Bureau.

But she’d never worked with him professionally, not to mention from across the aisle. In theory, Navajo Police and federal agents ought to work together to advance justice. In reality, though, it often became a tug-of-war, each side trying to wrest control of the case from the other.

How would “Uncle Paul” handle things?

“Captain Yazzie in his office?” she asked, sidestepping the personal connection.

“Just finished briefing him.” Daniels sipped his coffee. “We’ll need to talk after you get settled. The Bureau has an interest in this one.”

“I’m sure it does,” Kari said, smiling thinly. “Excuse me.”

She moved past him, feeling his eyes follow her down the hall. The sensation was familiar—Daniels had always had an evaluative gaze, assessing everything and everyone. As a child, she’d found it fascinating.

Now, it made her uneasy. She felt vulnerable toward him in a way she didn’t like—vulnerable because she had once looked up to him like an uncle. She just hoped he would be able to treat her like an equal, not a child.

Rather than going directly to the captain, Kari decided to stop by Tsosie’s office first. She found him at his desk, two takeout coffee cups in front of him. He pushed one toward her as she approached.

“Figured you could use this after your grandmother’s tea last night,” he said.

The gesture caught her off guard. “How did you know I visited my grandmother?”

“Small reservation,” Tsosie said with a shrug. “My cousin’s wife’s brother lives down the road from Ruth. Said he saw your Jeep parked there late.”

Of course. The reliable reservation intelligence network, faster than any police database.

“Thanks,” she said, taking the coffee. It was still hot, which meant he’d gotten it recently. Had he timed it for her arrival? The thought created a strange flutter of confusion. Three weeks of professional distance, and now coffee?

“You’ve met our FBI visitor,” Tsosie said, nodding toward the hallway where Daniels was now on his phone.

“We’ve known each other since I was a kid,” Kari said, settling into her chair.

Tsosie’s expression remained carefully neutral. “Will his having been your father’s partner complicate things?”

“I can do my job.” She took a long sip of coffee. “What did I miss?”

“Verified Natoni’s alibi, like I said.” Tsosie slid a folder across to her. “Credit card was used at a gas station in Scottsdale at 11:42 PM the night Harrington was killed. Security footage confirms it was him.”

Kari reviewed the grainy image from the gas station camera. It showed Natoni pumping gas, his features clear enough for identification.

“Scottsdale’s a three-hour drive from Canyon de Chelly,” she said, thinking aloud. “So even if he drove straight back after getting gas, he couldn’t have reached the canyon before 2:30 or 3 AM.”

“And the ME now puts time of death between 11 PM and 1 AM,” Tsosie said. “Makes him an unlikely suspect, especially when added to the multiple witnesses who saw him at the ceremony preparations until midnight.”

Kari nodded. Natoni remained a person of interest, but no longer their prime suspect. “What else?”

“Dr. Hatathli completed the full autopsy.” Tsosie opened another folder. “Confirmed cause of death as cervical fracture, but noted something unusual about the force required. Said it would take exceptional strength to snap the neck so completely—described it as ‘beyond typical human capability.’”

“Meaning what? Our killer is a bodybuilder? Military trained?”

“Or extremely angry,” Tsosie said. “Adrenaline can produce remarkable strength.”

Kari remembered Natoni’s words about the ceremonial arrangement: To protect everything else from what killed him. She hesitated, then shared what Ruth had told her about the herbs and positioning.

“My grandmother said the same thing as Natoni. That the arrangement wasn’t right—like someone trying to contain something dangerous, but doing it incorrectly. Mixing up elements from different ceremonies.”

Tsosie looked surprised, then thoughtful. “Your grandmother would know. She’s respected for her knowledge of the old ways.”

The absence of skepticism in his response was refreshing. In Phoenix, mentioning her grandmother’s spiritual insights would have earned eye rolls at best.

“What do you make of it?” she asked.

“That our killer knows enough about Navajo ceremonies to attempt one, but not enough to do it correctly.” Tsosie leaned forward. “That narrows our suspect pool considerably.”

“Someone with academic knowledge rather than lived knowledge,” Kari suggested.

“Exactly. Someone who’s studied our ways but doesn’t practice them. An academic, maybe, or just someone who’s read a few books.”

“What about an anthropologist? Or a professor studying Southwest cultures?”

“Someone like those academics at the Museum of Northern Arizona,” Tsosie said, warming to the idea. “They’re always documenting ceremonies without fully understanding them.”

Kari frowned. “My father works there, but he wouldn’t—” She stopped herself, realizing Tsosie hadn’t been implying her father was the killer. “Sorry. Defensive reflex.”

“I didn’t mean your father specifically,” Tsosie clarified, looking slightly uncomfortable. “Just that type of academic approach to sacred knowledge.”

Kari nodded, embarrassed by her quick assumption. “I’m meeting with him this morning to see if he might have insights into what the professor was looking for.”

“What time?”

She hesitated. “I’m not sure yet.”

“You haven’t reached out to him, have you?”

Kari felt her cheeks coloring. “Not yet.” The truth being that trying to navigate the complexities of her relationship with her father alongside this equally complex case was the last thing she wanted to do.

“Be careful when you do talk to him,” Tsosie advised. “Personal connections can cloud judgment.”

Before Kari could respond, a shadow fell across their desks. Paul Daniels stood there, his FBI windbreaker now fully zipped, a tablet computer in hand.

“Detectives,” he said with a nod to Tsosie before focusing on Kari. “Captain Yazzie tells me you’re taking point on the Harrington case.”

“That’s right,” Kari said, straightening in her chair.

“I’ll need full access to your case files, witness statements, and evidence logs.” Daniels’s tone had shifted to pure business. “This falls under federal jurisdiction given the location and victim profile.”

“With respect, Agent Daniels,” Kari said, keeping her voice level, “this is still our investigation. Tribal PD has primary jurisdiction until formally superseded.”

A flicker of surprise crossed Daniels’s face—perhaps at her formality, perhaps at her pushback. For years, he’d been “Uncle Paul,” the man who’d brought her birthday presents and taught her to play poker. Now she was asserting professional boundaries, and it clearly caught him off guard.

“Come on, Kari,” he said, softening his approach. “You know how this works. White academic murdered on federal land—FBI will be taking lead sooner or later. Let’s skip the territorial dance.”

“Canyon de Chelly is co-managed by the Navajo Nation,” she said. “And we’ve already developed significant leads.”

Daniels shook his head. “Kari, we need to be clear here. This isn’t Phoenix PD, where you were making a name for yourself.

This is a federal case now.” Daniels’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“Your father always said you were stubborn. Good quality in a detective, less helpful in interagency cooperation.”

The reference to her father felt deliberately manipulative. “My father isn’t involved in this investigation,” she said coolly.

“Isn’t he?” Daniels raised an eyebrow. “I understand he was consulting on Harrington’s research. That makes him a person of interest at minimum.”

How did he know that? Had he spoken with her father?

Kari felt her jaw tighten. “We’ll interview all relevant witnesses, Agent Daniels. Without prejudice or personal considerations.”

“See that you do.” He held her gaze for a long moment. “I heard that your mother passed recently. I’m sorry to hear that, Kari. Anna was a remarkable woman.”

The shift to personal condolences felt calculated rather than genuine. “Thank you,” she said stiffly.

Daniels studied her a few seconds longer. “Well, I’ll let you two get back to work. I’ll be setting up in the conference room if you need me.”

As he walked away, Tsosie leaned forward. “You two really do go way back, huh?”

“In theory,” Kari said. “I’m not sure it’s going to make any difference in how Daniels approaches this case. It’s certainly not going to make any difference to me.”

“We’ll have to keep an eye on him.”

Kari’s phone rang, offering a welcome distraction. “Detective Blackhorse,” she answered.

The voice on the other end was that of Officer Nez, sounding tense. “Detectives, we’ve got another body. Female, mid-forties. Hiker found her about twenty minutes ago near the boundary of reservation land and a mining claim. It’s… it’s bad.”

“Location?” Kari asked, already reaching for her jacket.

“Red Rock Canyon, north side. About three miles from where you found Harrington.”

Kari felt a chill. “Any ID on the victim?”

“Wallet was still in her pocket. Driver’s license says Rachel Delgado. Some kind of environmental activist, according to the business cards in her wallet. Looks like she was documenting something—camera equipment scattered around.”

“Secure the scene,” Kari instructed. “We’re on our way. And Nez—keep this quiet for now.”

She hung up and met Tsosie’s gaze. “Another body. Three miles from Harrington.”

“Same MO?”

“Nez didn’t say, but close enough to be connected.” Kari stood, gathering her notes. “We need to move.”

Daniels appeared at the end of the hallway as if summoned. “Problem, Detectives?”

Kari hesitated, then decided transparency was the better approach. “Another body’s been found near the Harrington site. We’re heading there now.”

“I’ll join you,” Daniels said, not a request but a statement of fact.

Kari wanted to refuse but knew it would only delay the inevitable. “Fine. But this is still our investigation, Agent Daniels. You’re there as an observer.”

“Of course,” he agreed with a smile that suggested otherwise.

As they headed for the parking lot, Kari felt the case shifting beneath her feet like desert sand. One death could be an isolated incident. Two deaths in the same area, within days of each other, suggested a pattern—possibly a serial killer.

Or something else entirely. Something her grandmother might understand better than her years of police training ever could.

Ruth’s words echoed in her mind again: Not all killers leave footprints. Maybe so. But Kari desperately hoped this one had.