Page 23 of Close By (Kari Blackhorse #1)

Sacred objects held power—that’s what Ruth had always taught Kari. In the right hands, they healed and protected. In the wrong hands, they became weapons. The distinction wasn’t about physical damage but spiritual corruption.

And someone, Kari suspected, had just armed themselves from the display cases of the Museum of Northern Arizona.

The museum stood at the edge of a ponderosa pine forest, its sandstone walls glowing amber in the late afternoon light.

The building itself was a tribute to Southwestern architecture—clean lines, exposed beams, and a courtyard featuring native plants.

To tourists, it represented the harmonious blending of cultures that the Southwest marketed so effectively.

To the indigenous communities whose artifacts lined its display cases, it remained a more complicated symbol—simultaneously preserving and appropriating their heritage.

Kari had visited often as a child, her father pointing out the anthropological significance of each exhibit while her mother quietly noted which items should never have left tribal lands.

That tension had shaped her understanding of cultural preservation long before she had the vocabulary to name it.

Today, however, she wasn’t here to contemplate these complexities. She had more pressing business.

The front desk attendant directed her to the administrative offices in the east wing.

Unlike the carefully curated public spaces, this area betrayed the functional reality of museum operations—fluorescent lighting, beige carpeting worn thin by decades of foot traffic, and the lingering scent of coffee from a break room somewhere nearby.

David Livingston’s office door stood open, revealing a cluttered space that seemed at odds with the meticulous image museums typically projected.

Display cases containing artifacts in various stages of cataloging lined one wall.

The opposite wall featured framed degrees and certificates, prominently displaying Livingston’s credentials from prestigious universities.

His desk was buried under stacks of papers, folders, and what appeared to be grant applications.

The curator himself sat hunched over a laptop, muttering numbers under his breath.

He was younger than Kari had expected—early forties perhaps—with prematurely silver hair cut in an expensive style that contrasted with his rumpled button-down and the dark circles under his eyes.

When he glanced up and saw her standing in the doorway, he quickly closed whatever spreadsheet he’d been reviewing.

“Detective Blackhorse?” He stood, extending his hand. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”

“Mr. Livingston.” Kari shook his hand, noting his firm grip and the expensive watch on his wrist that seemed a bit too flashy for an academic salary. “I’d like to hear about these thefts.”

“Of course.” He gestured to a chair across from his desk, hastily moving a stack of papers to make room. “I must say, I’m troubled by your suggestion that they might be connected to those awful murders, though I admit I suspected as much already.”

Kari took the offered seat. “When exactly did you discover the items were missing?”

Livingston settled back into his chair, running a hand through his silver hair. “Monday morning. We conduct inventory checks every week—standard procedure for museums with collections of cultural significance. Our assistant curator noticed the missing items during her rounds.”

“And what specifically was taken?”

Livingston reached for a folder on his desk, flipping it open to reveal photographs of the stolen items. “A medicine pouch—late nineteenth century, made of buckskin with intricate beadwork. A ceremonial knife with a cedar handle circa 1910. Four bundles of herbs that were part of our protection ritual display—sage, cedar, and so on. A mask used in purification ceremonies…”

Kari studied the photographs, her unease growing. Some of these items might very well be used in the kind of protective ceremonies someone had staged at both murder scenes.

“These were all from the same display?” she asked.

“Yes, our ‘Navajo Ceremonial Practices’ exhibit in the east gallery.” Livingston pointed vaguely toward the public spaces. “It’s one of our permanent installations, though we rotate certain sensitive items periodically.”

“How secure is that area?”

“Reasonably so. We have motion sensors after hours, camera coverage of the main galleries, and case alarms. But—” He hesitated, looking embarrassed.

“We’ve had some budget issues recently. Several of our security cameras have been offline awaiting replacement parts.

Including, unfortunately, the one covering that particular exhibit. ”

“Convenient timing for a thief,” Kari said.

“Indeed.” Livingston grimaced. “Though that information wasn’t public knowledge.”

“Suggesting an inside job, or someone familiar with the museum’s operations.” Kari made a note in her small pad. “What about staff? Anyone with access who raised red flags?”

“We have twenty-six full- and part-time employees, plus a rotating group of volunteers and student interns.” Livingston gestured to a framed staff photo on his wall. “I’ve worked with most of them for years. I can’t imagine any of them being involved in… well, whatever this is.”

“I’ll need that staff list,” Kari said. “Along with volunteers and interns who’ve had access in the past month.”

“Of course,” Livingston agreed, though his expression suggested he found the request distasteful.

“But Detective, many of our volunteers are respected community members—retired professors, Tribal Council liaisons. The suggestion that one of them might be involved in homicides would be extraordinary.”

“Two people are dead, Mr. Livingston. Extraordinary circumstances require extraordinary scrutiny.”

He nodded, chastened. “You’re right, of course. I’ll have my assistant prepare those lists immediately.”

As he reached for his phone, Kari noticed a past-due notice peeking out from beneath a stack of papers—something from a credit card company with an alarming amount of zeros visible on the partially exposed corner. Livingston saw her gaze and casually shifted another folder to cover it.

“Fundraising season,” he said with a strained smile. “Always a challenge to balance the books while maintaining our academic standards. Especially with the construction costs of the new wing.”

Kari made no comment on the obvious deflection. “Do you maintain records of museum visitors?”

“Only those who sign our guest book, which is voluntary. For special events and educational programs, we have registration lists.”

“I’ll need those, too.”

“For how far back?”

“Let’s start with the past month.”

Livingston nodded, instructing his assistant accordingly before turning back to Kari. “Is there anything else you can tell me about how these items might relate to the murders? The staff is understandably concerned, especially given the media coverage.”

“I can’t discuss specifics of an ongoing investigation,” Kari said. “But I’m interested to know who might have knowledge of the way these ceremonial items are used in traditional practices.”

Livingston considered this. “Well, beyond our indigenous staff members, there’s our educational team that conducts workshops on cultural heritage. Several anthropology professors who consult with us…” He trailed off.

Kari took some notes, then looked up. “Would you mind showing me where the items were taken from?”

Livingston led her through the administrative area into the public galleries, past displays of pottery, weaving, and jewelry. The museum was quiet this late in the day, with only a handful of visitors examining the exhibits.

The Navajo ceremonial display occupied a discreet corner of the east gallery, deliberately positioned away from high-traffic areas out of respect for its sensitive content.

The glass case containing the stolen items stood open, a printed notice informing visitors that selected artifacts had been temporarily removed for conservation.

“We didn’t want to draw attention to the theft,” Livingston said. “Bad publicity can affect funding, and we’re already struggling with budget constraints for next fiscal year.”

Kari studied the display, noting the small cards describing each missing item and their ceremonial significance. The remaining artifacts—a wedding basket, a storyteller’s blanket, various tools—created conspicuous gaps where the stolen pieces had been.

“How many people know these specific items were stolen?” she asked.

“Just the senior staff and security team. We told everyone else they’d been removed for conservation work.” Livingston tugged at his collar, which seemed suddenly too tight. “Should we have been more transparent?”

“No, that was the right call,” Kari assured him. “The fewer people who know the specifics, the better our chances of identifying the thief if they attempt to use that knowledge.”

They returned to Livingston’s office, where his assistant had prepared the requested lists. Kari tucked them into her folder, along with the inventory report detailing the stolen items.

“One last question,” she said as she prepared to leave. “Has anyone shown unusual interest in these specific items recently? Asking detailed questions about their ceremonial use, perhaps?”

Livingston considered this, then shook his head. “Not that I recall, but I’m not always on the floor with visitors. Our docents might have noticed something. I can ask them to contact you if they remember anything unusual.”

“Please do.” Kari handed him her card. “And call me immediately if you remember anything else, no matter how insignificant it might seem.”

“Of course.” Livingston escorted her to the door. “I hope you find whoever is responsible for these terrible acts. The misuse of sacred items for violence is… well, it’s an abomination on multiple levels.”

Kari thanked him and left, but as she walked down the corridor toward the exit, she felt a nagging dissatisfaction.

Livingston had been cooperative, yet something about their interaction felt off.

His nervousness could be explained by the connection between museum thefts and murder, but there was an undercurrent she couldn’t quite place—something beyond the obvious concern a curator would have over stolen artifacts.

Halfway to her car, Kari realized she’d forgotten to ask about the museum’s surveillance footage from the days preceding the theft—someone studying the security layout may have visited multiple times to plan their approach. She turned back, retracing her steps through the now-emptying museum.

As she approached Livingston’s office, she heard his voice—tense, hushed, unmistakably urgent.

“It’s under control,” he was saying. “Yes, she just left… I know, I know.”

Kari stilled, not announcing her presence. Something in his tone raised alarm bells. This wasn’t a conversation about museum security.

“But that’s what we signed up for when we started this,” Livingston continued, his voice dropping further. “Just don’t panic—it’ll all work out. Talk later.”

Kari stepped back silently, processing what she’d heard. Livingston hadn’t noticed her, too absorbed in his hushed conversation.

Rather than interrupting now, she retreated to the museum lobby, pretending to examine an exhibit until she saw him emerge from his office, locking the door before heading toward the restrooms.

The museum would be closing soon. On impulse, Kari hurried outside and waited in her Jeep, positioned where she could observe the staff parking lot without being immediately visible. At 7:15, Livingston emerged, glancing nervously around before getting into a sleek Audi.

Following at a discreet distance proved easy in the light evening traffic.

Livingston drove precisely at the speed limit, making no attempt to lose a potential tail—the behavior of someone who had no idea they were being watched.

He headed north, taking the highway for about twenty minutes before turning onto a side road that led to a commercial storage facility—a sprawling complex of identical metal buildings with roll-up doors.

Kari parked across the street, observing as Livingston punched in a code and drove through the automated gate. She could see him park near a unit at the far end of the complex, then retrieve a key from his pocket to unlock the roll-up door.

Livingston began loading plain cardboard boxes into his trunk—half a dozen of them, each sealed with packing tape. His movements were hurried and furtive, the actions of a man who didn’t want to be seen.

Kari was considering her next move—approach directly or continue surveillance—when her phone vibrated. Tsosie’s number flashed on the screen.

“Blackhorse,” she answered quietly, keeping her eyes on Livingston.

“We’ve got another body,” Tsosie said without preamble, his voice tight with urgency.

The words landed like stones in still water, ripples of implication spreading outward. A third victim. The killer escalating, confident enough now to strike again despite the investigation, despite Thomas Begay’s detention. Whatever Livingston was up to, it would have to wait.

“I’m on my way,” Kari said, starting her engine.