CHAPTER TEN
They arrived at the police station to find Lucas still at his workstation, the computer screen casting a blue glow across his face. He looked simultaneously exhausted and triumphant, the expression of someone who had just won a difficult battle.
"You got in?" Kari asked, moving to stand behind him.
"Finally. She used a passphrase instead of a password—fourteen characters, mix of words and numbers. Took some brute force algorithms and educated guessing about what might be significant to her."
Kari tried to contain her excitement. "Show us what you've got."
Lucas took a hesitant breath. "Unfortunately, it's not that easy."
Kari frowned. "I thought you said you figured out the password."
"I did. But there's another layer of defense. She used military-grade encryption on her genealogical research folders. I can see the files, but I can't open them without a secondary password."
Kari felt her brief surge of hope deflate. "How long to crack the encryption?"
"Could be days. Could be never, if she used a truly random password." Lucas pushed his glasses up his nose. "I can keep trying, but I wouldn't count on quick results."
"You could've told me this on the phone," Kari said, annoyed.
"I hadn't found the encrypted files when I called you."
Kari looked at Polacca, who shook her head, looking equally disappointed.
"What about her emails?" Kari asked.
"Those I can access. I've been skimming through them while waiting for you.
There's a lot of correspondence about the genealogical project, but most of it's pretty general—scheduling, logistics, that kind of thing.
" He clicked through several folders. "But there's one email thread that might interest you. "
He pulled up a conversation between Patricia and someone named Robert—presumably Robert Nuvangyaoma. The most recent email was dated five days ago.
Patricia,
I'm concerned about the presentation. The data is explosive—you know it as well as I do.
Some of these findings will fundamentally challenge people's understanding of their heritage and their place in the community.
We need to consider whether the tribal council should review everything before we go public.
Robert
Patricia's response was measured but firm:
Robert,
I understand your concerns, but we agreed from the beginning that this project would be transparent.
People have a right to know their own ancestral histories, even when that information is complicated or challenging.
We've been careful to anonymize specific cases and focus on broad patterns, but the patterns themselves need to be shared.
The presentation is in four weeks. We'll focus on the beauty and complexity of Hopi ancestry, the interconnections between families, the ways that DNA reveals both our distinctiveness and our connections to neighboring peoples. This is healing work, not destructive work.
Patricia
Kari read through the exchange. Robert had been worried about the findings. Patricia had been determined to share them. And both people had wound up dead.
"Print this," Kari said. "And keep looking through her emails. Anything that references specific people, specific findings, conflicts, or threats."
"Will do."
Kari and Polacca left Lucas to his work and stepped outside into the cool night air. It was after ten now, the parking lot nearly empty, the world reduced to pools of light from streetlamps and the vast darkness beyond.
"We need to verify Michael's alibi," Kari said. "Can you make that call first thing tomorrow?"
"Already planning on it." Polacca leaned against her vehicle. "But if his alibi checks out, where does that leave us?"
"With the other names he mentioned. Cultural preservation officers. Craftsmen who create ceremonial items." Kari thought about the conversation with Michael. "He specifically mentioned someone named Jake Honanie. Said he was deeply knowledgeable about traditional practices."
Polacca nodded slowly. "Jake makes ceremonial items. Katsina dolls, pottery, traditional tools. He's been doing it for probably thirty years. Very traditional, very protective of Hopi culture."
"Protective enough to kill over it?"
"I don't know. But he'd have the knowledge. And he'd have access to materials similar to what was used at the crime scenes." Polacca pushed off from the vehicle. "You want to talk to him tomorrow?"
"First thing. But let's verify Michael's alibi first. I don't want to waste time chasing suspects who couldn't have done it."
They arranged to meet at seven the next morning. Then Polacca drove Kari back to the small motel where she'd checked in that afternoon—a modest place on the edge of Hopi territory where a handful of rooms were available for the occasional researcher or government official.
"You did good work today," Polacca said as Kari gathered her things. It was the first real compliment she'd offered, and it caught Kari off guard.
"So did you. We're getting somewhere, I think."
"Maybe." Polacca's expression was unreadable in the dim light. "I'll see you tomorrow, Detective."
Kari watched her drive away, then let herself into the small, clean room that would be home for the foreseeable future. She called Ben to update him, spoke to Captain Yazzie about the day's developments, then collapsed onto the bed, exhausted but unable to sleep.
Two victims. A genealogical project revealing dangerous truths. A killer with deep cultural knowledge using sacred sites as stages for murder. And somewhere in the encrypted files on Patricia's computer, the answers that would make sense of it all.
Kari stared at the ceiling and thought about patterns, about the seventeen unsolved cases her father was reviewing, about deaths at sacred sites explained away with cultural context.
The present and the past aren't separate. They're threads in the same weaving.
Tomorrow, she would talk to Jake Honanie. She would follow the leads where they went. She would keep pushing until something broke.
Sleep finally came, restless and filled with half-formed dreams of ancient sites and modern murders, of secrets buried in genetic code and truths too dangerous to share.
* * *
The next morning began with a phone call to Dr. Nora Namoki, who confirmed that Michael Sekaquaptewa had been with her at the Cultural Preservation Office on the night Robert Nuvangyaoma was killed.
They'd worked together from six PM until nearly midnight, collaborating on a grant proposal.
She was clear, credible, and specific about timing.
Michael was off the suspect list.
Which meant they needed to focus on other possibilities.
Jake Honanie's workshop was located at his home, a traditional-style dwelling on the edge of Second Mesa.
The property was well-maintained, with a separate building that served as his workspace.
As they pulled up, Kari could see traditional pottery drying on racks outside, katsina dolls in various states of completion visible through the workshop windows.
Jake himself emerged from the workshop as they approached. He was in his fifties, stocky and strong, with calloused hands and paint stains on his work apron. His expression was wary as he saw Polacca's uniform, and it didn't improve when he noticed Kari.
"Officer Polacca," he said, his tone neutral. "What can I do for you?"
"This is Detective Blackhorse from Navajo Nation Police. We need to ask you some questions about Patricia Lomahongva and Robert Nuvangyaoma."
Jake's expression hardened. "Terrible what happened to them. But I don't see how I can help."
"Can we come in?" Kari asked.
Jake hesitated, then gestured toward the workshop. "Out here is fine. I've got work to do."
They followed him into the workshop, and Kari felt her pulse quicken as she took in the space.
Shelves lined the walls, filled with ceremonial items in various stages of creation.
Traditional pottery—some pieces looked ancient in style, others clearly modern but following traditional patterns.
Katsina dolls, their features painted with meticulous detail.
And in one corner, laid out on a work table, were items that made Kari's breath catch.
Bone fragments. Stone tools. Pottery shards.
They looked remarkably similar to the items that had been arranged around Patricia's and Robert's bodies.
Jake followed her gaze, and his jaw tightened. "Those are reproductions. For educational purposes. Museums use them, cultural centers. I make them so people can learn without disturbing actual ancient sites."
"You create items that look like artifacts from burial sites?" Kari asked carefully.
"I create items that look like traditional Hopi cultural materials, yes. That's my job. That's how I preserve our heritage—by teaching people what our ancestors made, how they lived." His voice was defensive now. "If you're suggesting—"
"We're not suggesting anything," Polacca interrupted. "We're just trying to understand who has the knowledge and materials to create the scenes we found at the crime sites."
"Half the tribe has that knowledge if they grew up traditionally. And the materials?" Jake gestured at his workshop. "Anyone who's ever visited an ancient site has seen similar items. They're not exactly secret."
"But creating accurate reproductions requires detailed knowledge," Kari pressed. "Knowledge of what items would have been used in burial contexts, how they would have been positioned, what significance each piece would have had."
"Which I have because I've spent thirty years studying our culture, working with elders, learning the old ways." Jake's hands clenched into fists. "But I use that knowledge to preserve and educate, not to... to desecrate."
"Where were you two nights ago?" Kari asked abruptly, hoping to catch him off guard. "Between seven and midnight?"
"Here. Working. Alone." Jake's voice was sharp. "I live alone, work alone. I don't have alibis because I don't need them. I didn't kill anyone."