CHAPTER SEVENTEEN #2
"He's about five-ten, lean build, dark hair. He might be using a different name." Kari pulled out her phone and showed him Martin's booking photo. "Have you seen this man?"
Ramon barely glanced at the screen. "Nope. Sorry."
"We're not trying to cause trouble," Polacca said. "We just need to talk to him. If you know where he is, you'd be helping him by telling us."
"Can't help you with someone I've never seen." Ramon turned back to the engine he'd been working on, a clear dismissal.
They couldn't compel him to talk, couldn't search the property without a warrant. But Kari's instincts told her Ramon knew something. The man's body language screamed dishonesty.
They walked back toward their vehicles, but Kari paused at the edge of the lot, looking at the small apartment above the garage. A curtain moved in one of the windows—just a flicker, easily missed. Someone was up there, watching them.
"See that?" she asked Polacca quietly.
"Yeah. Someone's home."
They moved their vehicles farther down the street, out of sight of the window. Then they waited, sitting in Kari's Jeep with a clear view of the building. If Martin was in that apartment, he'd have to come out eventually. They could wait.
An hour passed. Then another. The afternoon heat made the interior of the vehicle stifling despite the windows being cracked. Kari's patience was wearing thin when the apartment door finally opened.
A man emerged—lean, dark-haired, cautious. He looked left and right, then started down the exterior stairs.
"That's him," Polacca said, comparing his face to the booking photo on her phone. "That's Martin Kooyahoema."
They were out of the Jeep immediately, moving to intercept him before he could disappear again.
"Martin Kooyahoema?" Kari called out.
The man froze halfway down the stairs. For a moment, Kari thought he might bolt, might try to run back up to the apartment or jump the railing and take off across the lot. His body language was pure flight response—tense, coiled, ready to move.
But then something in his posture shifted. His shoulders slumped, as if he'd been expecting this and had finally accepted the inevitable.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "That's me."
"We need to talk to you about a knife. One that was used in an attack last night." Kari kept her distance, her hand near her weapon but not on it. She didn't want to spook him. "Can you come down here, please?"
"I don't know anything about an attack." Martin's voice was tight, defensive.
"Your DNA says otherwise," Polacca said. "It was found on the knife used to attack Emma Talayesva. We need you to explain how it got there."
Martin came down the rest of the stairs slowly, his movements careful. When he reached the ground, he stopped several feet away from them, his hands visible at his sides.
"Who?" he asked.
"Emma. Emma Talayesva."
He paused. Then: "I want a lawyer."
The words hung in the air between them. It was his right, absolutely legal, and the smart thing to do. But it also meant any hope of getting quick answers had just evaporated.
"That's your choice," Kari said, keeping her voice neutral despite the frustration churning in her gut. "But we're going to need you to come to the station with us. We have questions about your connection to a violent crime, and your DNA places you at the scene."
"I'm not going anywhere without a lawyer." Martin's jaw was set, his eyes hard. "I've been down this road before. I know how it works. You think you've got me, think my DNA means I'm guilty. But I'm not saying a word until I've got representation."
"You're not under arrest," Polacca said carefully. "We're just asking you to come in voluntarily, answer some questions."
"And if I say no?"
"Then we'll have to consider you a flight risk and take you into custody for questioning." Kari met his eyes steadily. "Either way, you're coming to the station. The question is whether you walk in on your own or in handcuffs. Your choice."
Martin looked between them, clearly weighing his options. He had to know that running would only make things worse. But cooperation without a lawyer could be equally dangerous.
"Fine," he said finally. "I'll come to the station. But I'm not answering any questions without a lawyer present. And I'm not riding in your car—I'll drive myself."
"That's not going to work," Kari said. "If you're coming in for questioning, you're coming with us."
"Then I guess you're arresting me after all." Martin's voice was bitter. "Just say it. Say I'm under arrest so we can stop pretending this is voluntary."
Kari exchanged a glance with Polacca. They had enough for a detention—his DNA on the murder weapon, his evasive behavior, his attempts to avoid contact with law enforcement. But without formal charges, they were limited in how long they could hold him.
"Martin Kooyahoema," Kari said formally, "you're being detained for questioning in connection with an assault. You're not under arrest at this time, but you're not free to leave. Do you understand?"
"I understand I need a lawyer." Martin held out his hands, wrists together. "Let's get this over with."