CHAPTER TEN
Kari arrived at the Paradise Valley crime scene just after nine-thirty, Maria Santos already waiting by the police tape that cordoned off the sprawling modern home.
Maria looked tired, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail that suggested she'd been called in from home, her expression grim in the strobing red and blue lights.
"Three victims in six days," Maria said by way of greeting. "The department is losing its mind."
Kari ducked under the tape, showing her credentials to the uniformed officer stationed at the perimeter. "Hatathli's still in custody?"
"Still in custody." Maria started walking toward the house. "And now this. Victor Sheridan, construction executive. Shot in his kitchen, probably around eight PM based on body temp. Same MO as the first two—suppressed gunshot to the chest, no signs of forced entry, victim was home alone."
"Which proves Hatathli didn't do it."
"You'd think." Maria's voice carried a bitter edge. "But the chief is already floating theories about accomplices. Says Hatathli might be part of a larger network of environmental extremists."
"That's insane."
"That's politics." Maria held the front door open.
"Welcome back to Phoenix PD, where the pressure from above is only exceeded by the pressure from Paradise Valley residents who are now terrified that some mysterious killer is targeting wealthy people connected to controversial development projects. "
The house's interior was pristine except for the crime scene markers and the forensics team processing evidence.
Kari followed Maria through a spacious living room that looked like it had been staged for a magazine shoot—expensive furniture, carefully curated art, everything positioned for maximum visual impact.
"Victim lived alone?" Kari asked.
"Yeah. Widower, one daughter away at college. Made his money in construction—his company was the general contractor for the Sunset Ridge Resort development." Maria led her into the kitchen. "Same project that destroyed those petroglyphs, same project the other two victims were connected to."
Victor Sheridan lay where he'd fallen, his body now surrounded by evidence markers and the clinical apparatus of death investigation.
Kari studied the scene with the detached focus she'd learned to cultivate—the position of the body, the shattered wine glass, the blood spatter pattern on the tile, the entry wound visible through his torn shirt.
"Single shot, close range," she observed. "He was standing here, probably pouring wine or just having poured it. Killer was close enough to ensure accuracy."
"Very similar to the other two." Maria crouched near the wine glass fragments.
"The other scenes were just as clean. No fingerprints, no DNA besides the victims', no shell casings—the killer's been collecting those.
No security footage either, because apparently wealthy people in Paradise Valley are confident enough in their gates and neighbors that they don't all have cameras. "
Kari walked the perimeter of the kitchen, noting the sightlines, the entrance points, the way the crime scene felt both intimate and coldly efficient. "Tell me about how he was found."
"That's where things take a turn." Maria pulled out her phone and played an audio file. "Anonymous 911 call came in at 8:17 PM."
A woman's voice filled the kitchen, surprisingly calm for the circumstances: "I need to report a death. I just found someone—I think he's been shot. He's not breathing. I'm at 4782 Desert Vista Drive in Paradise Valley."
The dispatcher's response: "Is the shooter still present? Are you in danger?"
"I don't think so. I don't see anyone. I just—I just got here and found him like this."
"Okay, I'm dispatching officers and paramedics to your location now. Can you tell me your name and your relationship to the deceased?"
There was a long silence.
"Ma'am?" the dispatcher asked. "Can you tell me your name?"
"I—"
There was another pause. Then the call ended.
"She hung up before identifying herself," Kari said. "Got scared and ran."
"And we've got nothing on her. No name, no description beyond what we can infer from her voice—female, probably twenties or thirties, educated. She said 'I just got here,' which makes you wonder why she was showing up at Sheridan's house at eight PM on a Tuesday night."
"Maybe that was something she didn't want to explain to police." Kari replayed the woman's words in her mind. "She called him 'someone,' not using his name. Distance, maybe? Or she genuinely didn't want to identify him for some reason."
"Or she was in shock and couldn't think straight." Maria closed the audio file. "We pulled the phone number from the 911 system. It's a mobile number, registered to a prepaid account. No name attached, bought with cash at a convenience store three years ago."
"Smart. Or paranoid. Or both." Kari studied the crime scene again. "Can we track the phone? Get its current location?"
"That's what I'm working on. I've got a call in to a prosecutor about an emergency authorization for location tracking. The argument is that she's either a material witness who might be in danger, or potentially a suspect who fled a crime scene. Either way, we need to locate her."
"How long for the authorization?"
"Could be an hour, could be not until morning.
Judges don't like approving real-time tracking without solid justification.
" Maria looked frustrated. "And even if we get it, she might have ditched the phone by now.
If she's smart enough to use a prepaid account, she's probably smart enough to dump the phone. "
Kari walked through the scenario in her mind.
A woman arrives at Victor Sheridan's house at eight PM.
She has a prepaid phone—suggesting she values privacy or has reasons to avoid leaving a trail.
She finds Sheridan dead, calls 911, gives the address, starts to identify herself, then panics and flees.
The whole sequence took maybe ninety seconds, just enough time to get out before police arrived.
Maria pulled out her notebook. "Sheridan was a widower, lived alone. No girlfriend that we've found so far, no regular visitors that the neighbors mention. He was relatively private, kept to himself, focused on work."
"Did any of the neighbors see her?"
"I've got officers canvassing the neighborhood now.
We're also checking if there are any security cameras on neighboring houses that might have caught something.
" Maria checked her watch. "But this neighborhood is spread out, big properties with lots of space between houses.
It's entirely possible someone could come and go without being noticed. "
Kari studied the wine glass fragments again, the shattered pieces scattered across the floor near Sheridan's body.
It looked like he'd been pouring wine, comfortable and relaxed, when the killer arrived.
No signs of struggle, no defensive wounds visible on his body.
Just like the other two victims—caught off guard.
By a stranger, or by someone they knew?
"Walk me through the timeline again," Kari said. "Sheridan was killed when?"
"Medical examiner estimates time of death between seven-thirty and eight PM, based on body temperature and lividity. The 911 call came in at eight-seventeen. So our mystery woman arrived somewhere in that window, probably closer to eight based on her statement that she 'just got here.'"
"Which means the killer was already gone when she arrived.
Sheridan had been dead for at least fifteen, maybe thirty minutes.
" Kari looked at the blood pooling, the way it had started to dry at the edges.
"The killer shoots him, collects the shell casing, leaves.
Then our witness arrives, finds the body, panics. "
"And now she's out there somewhere, probably terrified, definitely not planning to come forward voluntarily.
" Maria's phone buzzed. She glanced at it and frowned.
"That's the chief. Press conference is confirmed for nine AM tomorrow.
They're going forward with the accomplice theory, asking the public for tips about who might be working with Hatathli. "
"Even though it makes no sense."
"Even though." Maria looked suddenly tired. "The department needs a narrative that doesn't involve admitting we arrested the wrong person. Multiple perpetrators is the only way to maintain Hatathli's involvement while explaining why murders continued while he's in custody."
"So we have until nine AM to find something that changes that narrative."
"Or to at least cast enough doubt to make them delay the press conference." Maria started toward the front door. "Come on. Let's see what the canvas team has found. Maybe someone in this neighborhood actually noticed something useful."
They walked outside together, where patrol officers were systematically working their way down the street, knocking on doors, asking questions.
The night was warm, the kind of Phoenix evening where wealthy residents sat in their air-conditioned homes and rarely ventured outside unless absolutely necessary.
Kari watched the officers work, knowing that most of these interviews would yield nothing useful.
Paradise Valley residents valued their privacy as much as their security, and both tended to make them notoriously poor witnesses.
They didn't watch their neighbors, didn't pay attention to unfamiliar cars, didn't involve themselves in anything that might create complications.
"The woman who called it in," Kari said. "She's our best lead right now. Maybe she knew Sheridan and can lend some insight into his world: his business relationships, his connections to the resort project, things that could point us toward why he was targeted."
"If we can find her." Maria checked her phone again. "Still nothing from the prosecutor on the tracking authorization. I'll keep pushing, but it's going to be tight."
One of the patrol officers approached them, notebook in hand.
"Detective Santos? We've got something. Resident three houses down says she saw a woman leaving Sheridan's property around eight-fifteen, eight-twenty.
Professional-looking, light-colored blazer, dark hair.
Got into a sedan parked on the street—she didn't catch the make or model, just noticed because it's unusual for anyone to park on the street in this neighborhood. Most visitors use the driveways."
"Did she get a plate number?" Maria asked.
"No, sorry. She only noticed because her dog was barking at something and she looked out the window. The car was already pulling away."
It wasn't much, but it was something. Confirmation that their mystery caller had fled on foot to a vehicle parked several houses down—smart, keeping her car away from Sheridan's immediate property.
Combined with the words and tone of the woman on the phone, these details painted a picture of someone who presented herself carefully, who thought about how she appeared to others.
But what was she hiding? Was it something innocent…
Or did she have something to do with Sheridan's murder?