CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Not exactly what she'd expected for an organization that charged three hundred dollars per entry and attracted runners from around the world.
She tried the phone number listed on the race website. It rang six times, then clicked over to a generic voicemail that didn't identify the business or provide any useful information. She left a message, knowing it probably wouldn't be returned anytime soon.
Dead end. At least for now.
Kari sat in her Jeep and considered her options. Dalton wasn't at his business address, wasn't answering his phone. She could wait, hope he showed up eventually, but that felt like wasting time she didn't have. Three runners were dead, and if the pattern held, the killer wasn't going to stop.
She pulled up the race website on her phone and started digging.
The "About" page had a brief biography of Cedric Dalton: former competitive ultra-runner, fifteen years of race directing experience, passionate advocate for desert running.
No personal details, no home address, nothing that would help her find him.
But the website also had a news section, and the most recent post caught her attention.
It was dated three days ago, announcing that the Sonoran 100 would be holding a "memorial training run" in honor of the runners who had recently died.
The event was scheduled for this afternoon, starting from a trailhead in the McDowell Sonoran Preserve.
Kari checked the time. If she left now, she might catch Dalton before the run started.
The drive took forty-five minutes, the traffic thickening as she approached the Phoenix metro area.
The McDowell Sonoran Preserve occupied thousands of acres of protected desert northeast of the city, a maze of trails and rock formations that drew hikers and runners from across the region.
Kari had been here once before, years ago, on a case that had taken her through the wealthy enclaves surrounding the preserve.
The trailhead parking lot was nearly full when she arrived—dozens of cars, most of them bearing the telltale stickers and decals of serious runners.
Kari spotted bumper stickers for races she'd never heard of, window decals proclaiming "100 Miles Is Just The Beginning," and more than a few vehicles with roof racks carrying enough gear for a small expedition.
A crowd had gathered near the trailhead itself, maybe sixty or seventy people in running clothes, milling around in the afternoon heat.
Some were stretching, others talking in small groups, a few standing alone with the thousand-yard stare of athletes preparing for something difficult.
A folding table had been set up near the trail entrance, covered with water bottles and energy gels and a hand-lettered sign that read "In Memory of Jennifer, Jordan, and Jessica. "
Kari scanned the crowd, looking for someone who might be in charge.
Her eye landed on a man near the table—early fifties, lean and weathered, with the deeply tanned skin of someone who spent most of his life outdoors.
He was talking to a younger woman, gesturing with his hands, his expression tight with what looked like a combination of grief and frustration.
She approached and waited for a break in the conversation. The man glanced at her, did a visible double-take at her badge, and held up a hand to pause the woman he'd been speaking with.
"Can I help you?"
"Cedric Dalton?"
"That's right." His voice was wary now. "What's this about?"
"I'm Detective Kari Blackhorse, Navajo Nation Police. I'm investigating the death of Jessica Ramirez."
Dalton's face went through a complicated series of expressions—surprise, confusion, something that might have been fear. "Navajo Nation? I thought—Jessica was found near Chinle, wasn't she? That's..."
"Within our jurisdiction, yes. I'd like to ask you some questions about the race, about the victims. If you have a few minutes."
"I don't—this isn't really a good time." Dalton gestured at the crowd behind him. "We're about to start the memorial run. These people came from all over to honor their friends. I can't just—"
"Mr. Dalton." Kari held his gaze. "Three people are dead. Three of your registered participants. I understand you have obligations here, but I'm sure you also want to help us find out what happened to them."
Dalton hesitated, clenching his jaw. Then he nodded.
"Of course I want to help. God, of course.
Jennifer, Jordan, and Jessica—they were part of this community.
My community. What happened to them..." He shook his head ruefully.
"It's destroyed us. People are terrified.
Half my registered runners have already withdrawn.
I've got people calling me every day asking if the race is going to be cancelled, if it's safe to train alone, if there's a serial killer targeting ultra-runners. "
"And what do you tell them?"
"I tell them I don't know. Because I don't." Dalton ran a hand through his hair, leaving it disheveled.
"Look, Detective, I want to help. I really do.
But I've got sixty people here who need me to lead this run, who need me to say something meaningful about their friends who died.
Can we talk after? In an hour, maybe two? "
Kari considered pushing harder, but something in Dalton's face stopped her. The grief looked genuine—the red-rimmed eyes, the slight tremor in his hands, the way his voice kept catching on the victims' names.
"I'll wait," she said. "But I need your full attention when you're done."
"Agreed. Thank you." Dalton turned back toward the crowd, then paused. "There's shade by the ranger station, if you want to get out of the sun. This might take a while."
Kari found a spot in the shadow of the ranger station and watched as Dalton gathered the runners into a loose circle.
His voice carried across the parking lot, rough with emotion as he spoke about the three victims: their accomplishments, their passion, the hole their deaths had left in the community.
Several runners were crying openly. Others stood with bowed heads, their lips moving in what might have been prayers.
It was a performance, in a sense. Dalton playing the role of grieving leader, saying the things that needed to be said.
But Kari had seen enough performances in her career to recognize when the emotions behind them were real.
Whatever else Cedric Dalton might be, he seemed to genuinely care about the people who ran his races.
That didn't mean he wasn't involved in the murders, however. Caring and killing weren't mutually exclusive—she'd learned that lesson more times than she wanted to count.
The memorial run lasted nearly two hours.
Kari watched the runners disappear down the trail in small groups, watched Dalton coordinate the logistics with a handful of volunteers, watched the parking lot slowly empty as people finished their runs and headed home.
By the time Dalton approached her again, the sun had dropped toward the horizon and the temperature had finally begun to ease.
"Sorry that took so long." He looked and sounded exhausted. "Some of the slower runners needed more time, and I couldn't just leave them out there alone. Not after everything that's happened."
"I understand." Kari gestured toward a picnic table near the ranger station. "Can we sit?"
They settled across from each other, the table's weathered wood warm beneath Kari's hands. Dalton pulled a water bottle from his pack and drank deeply before setting it aside.
"What do you need to know?"
"I tried to find you earlier today," Kari said. "Went to the address listed for Sonoran Endurance Events. Found a storage unit with a padlock on it."
Dalton winced. "Yeah, that's not—that's just where we keep equipment.
Timing gear, course markers, pop-up tents, medical supplies—everything you need to support a hundred and fifty runners across a hundred miles of desert.
It adds up to a lot of stuff." He took another sip of water.
"The actual office is in a strip mall off Camelback Road.
Small space, nothing fancy, but it's where we handle registration, communications, all the organizational work.
I should have updated the LLC filing years ago, but I set it up when the storage unit was all I had, and I never got around to changing it. "
It was a reasonable explanation. Kari made a mental note of it, nonetheless.
"Tell me about the race," she said, pivoting. "The Sonoran 100. How it works, who participates, how you organize it."
Dalton's face grew thoughtful. "The Sonoran 100 is a hundred-mile ultramarathon through the Sonoran Desert.
It's one of the toughest races in the country extreme heat, limited shade, technical terrain.
We cap registration at 150 runners because the logistics of supporting that many people in such a remote environment are incredibly complex. "
"How do you select participants?"
"It's a qualifying race, so runners need to have completed at least one fifty-mile event within the past two years.
Beyond that, it's first-come, first-served once registration opens.
" Dalton shrugged. "We usually fill up within a few hours.
There's a waitlist of another hundred people hoping someone drops out. "
"And all three victims were registered?"
"Yes. Jennifer, Jordan, and Jessica were all confirmed participants.
" Dalton's voice tightened. "They were also among our strongest runners.
Jennifer was favored to win the women's division.
Jordan had a real shot at top five overall.
And Jessica—she'd been training specifically for this race for two years.
She'd restructured her whole life around it. "
Kari noted the detailed knowledge, filing it away. "How well did you know them personally?"