CHAPTER THREE
The drive to the Hopi reservation took Kari and Ben through landscape that shifted subtly as they traveled—high desert giving way to mesas and buttes that rose from the earth like ancient sentinels.
Kari kept her eyes on the road while Ben navigated from the passenger seat, though they both knew the route well enough. The Hopi reservation was an island entirely surrounded by Navajo Nation land, a geographic reality that had shaped centuries of complex relations between their peoples.
"I appreciate you bringing me into this," Ben said, breaking the silence that had stretched for the first twenty minutes of the drive. "It's been pretty quiet around the precinct, and I can only rearrange the items on my desk so many times."
"I just wish we had some idea what to expect," Kari said.
"I don't think a Hopi chief requests help from Navajo Nation PD unless the situation is desperate. And if he specifically wants you, there must be a reason. Community politics, maybe. My guess is he's concerned about perception."
"Yeah, but whose?"
"His own people's, maybe. The tribal council. Elders who remember the land disputes."
"That's pretty old history."
"Not for everyone." Ben was quiet for a moment, then said, "My grandfather used to tell me about the partition.
Not the legal details—I learned those in school.
But what it felt like. Having federal bureaucrats draw lines on a map and tell families they were on the wrong side, that they had to move.
Some Hopi families living on what got designated Navajo land.
Navajo families living on what got designated Hopi land.
The government solution was to force relocations. "
Kari had heard similar stories from her own family, though from the other perspective.
The Navajo-Hopi land dispute had been a wound that never fully healed, a source of resentment and pain on both sides.
Federal law had attempted to resolve competing claims to the same territory, but the solution—dividing the land and requiring thousands of people to relocate—had satisfied no one and created new grievances.
"Ruth told me about families she knew who had to leave land they'd lived on for generations," Kari said. "She said it broke something in people. Not just losing their homes, but being told their connection to the land wasn't valid anymore. That someone else's claim was more legitimate."
"Same thing happened to Hopi families," Ben said. "It wasn't one-sided. Both peoples lost something."
The road curved around a mesa, and in the distance, Kari could see the edge of the Hopi reservation proper—the mesas where villages had stood for nearly a thousand years, some of the oldest continuously inhabited settlements in North America.
It was a landscape of deep time and deeper memory, where every rock formation had a story and every spring had a name in a language that predated European contact by centuries.
"I studied some of this at ASU," Kari said.
"The anthropological perspective. My mother used to say that academics loved to analyze the conflict, write papers about competing land use patterns and cultural differences, but they rarely acknowledged the human cost. The actual people caught in the middle. "
"Your mother was Navajo, though. Did she ever work with Hopi communities?"
"Sometimes. She tried to approach her research with respect for all the tribes in the region.
But yeah, she was conscious of her own position, her own biases.
" Kari thought about the files in the archives, about Anna's investigation that had crossed tribal boundaries.
"She believed that the artificial divisions between tribes—the hard borders, the enrollment rules—those were colonial constructs.
That historically, there was more fluidity, more connection. "
"There was also conflict," Ben said. "Long before any Europeans showed up. Different peoples, different territories, competition for resources. It wasn't all peaceful coexistence."
"No, but it was different. More like..." Kari searched for the right words.
"Like family feuds, maybe. Arguments between people who knew each other, who sometimes intermarried, and who shared trading relationships.
Not the formalized, legalistic hostility that the federal government created with its partition lines. "
They passed a sign marking the boundary of the Hopi reservation.
The landscape didn't change—it was the same red earth, the same sparse vegetation—but Kari felt the weight of crossing into a different jurisdiction, a different authority.
She was a guest here now, not a law enforcement officer with inherent power.
"You ever work a case in Hopi territory before?" Ben asked.
"No. I've coordinated with their police on a few things—information sharing, tracking someone who crossed boundaries. But never actually investigating on their land." She felt the unfamiliarity as a low-level tension in her shoulders. "You?"
"Once, about five years ago. Missing person case where the victim's car was found on the rez, but there was evidence he'd been traveling through Hopi land. Their officers were helpful, but there was always a coolness, a sense that we were outsiders who needed permission for everything."
"Because we are," Kari said. "And we do."
The Hopi Tribal Police headquarters came into view—a low, modern building that contrasted with the ancient villages visible on the mesas beyond. A few vehicles were parked outside, including one marked unit. Kari pulled into a visitor spot and turned off the engine.
They got out of the vehicle and approached the building.
The April sun was warm but not oppressive, and the air carried the clean smell of sage and juniper.
Kari was conscious of her appearance—her Navajo Nation Police uniform, her badge, the Glock on her hip.
She was marked clearly as an outsider, as someone from the tribe that had its own complicated history with this place.
The front entrance was locked, but there was an intercom. Kari pressed the button and identified herself. After a moment, a buzz indicated the door was open.
Inside, they found a small reception area, offices visible down a hallway, and the standard institutional feel of a police station anywhere.
But the walls held photographs of Hopi villages, ceremonial dances, cultural events that reminded visitors this was not just law enforcement but the protection of an entire way of life.
A woman in her forties emerged from one of the offices. She wore a Hopi Tribal Police uniform and regarded Kari and Ben with an expression that was not unfriendly, but not quite warm either.
"Detective Blackhorse?" she asked.
"Yes. And this is my partner, Detective Tsosie. We're here to see Chief Lomayesva."
The woman's eyes looked Ben over quickly, as if unsure what to make of his arrival.
After all, Kari hadn't specifically told the chief that she was bringing her partner.
But she had learned to rely on Ben, and she knew she could trust him with her life.
She would be a lot more comfortable working this case with him.
"He's expecting you," the woman finally said. "This way." She led them down the hallway without further conversation. She knocked on a door marked with the chief's name, then opened it. "Chief, the Navajo detectives are here."
The description stung a bit—reducing them to their tribal affiliation rather than their professional role—but Kari understood it. They were Navajo first here, law enforcement second.
Chief Raymond Lomayesva stood as they entered.
He was a man in his late fifties, his face weathered by sun and responsibility, his hair still predominantly black with threads of gray at the temples.
He wore his uniform with the bearing of someone who had served in law enforcement for decades, but his eyes showed the strain of whatever had brought him to request outside help.
"Detective Blackhorse," he said, extending his hand. His grip was firm but not aggressive. "Thank you for coming so quickly."
"Chief Lomayesva. This is my partner, Detective Ben Tsosie." Kari watched as the two men shook hands, noting the slight tension in both their postures. "I wasn't sure if you wanted both of us or just me."
"I appreciate you bringing backup," Lomayesva said carefully. "But I think, for now, it would be best if Detective Blackhorse and I spoke privately. No offense intended, Detective Tsosie."
Ben nodded, his expression neutral. "None taken. I'll wait with your officer."
Kari wanted to protest, but before she could do so, the woman who had escorted them in gestured for Ben to follow her, and the two of them left the office.
When the door closed, Lomayesva gestured to a chair facing his desk.
Kari sat, and the chief returned to his own seat, though he looked like a man who'd rather be pacing.
"I'm grateful you agreed to come," he began. "And I'm aware this is an unusual request. Under normal circumstances, we would handle our own cases. But these circumstances..." He paused, seeming to struggle with how to continue. "They're not normal."
"I understand you're dealing with something sensitive," Kari said. "Something that requires discretion."
"More than discretion. It requires someone who can see with fresh eyes. Someone who isn't..." He gestured vaguely. "Someone who isn't so close to it that they can't be objective."
"Your own officers are too connected?"