CHAPTER FIVE
Kari couldn’t focus on the Honanie file, but it wasn’t for want of trying.
For three hours after Daniels' call she’d sat in the workroom and read witness statements and timeline reconstructions and forensic analyses.
But none of it had stuck. The words moved across the page and through her mind without leaving a mark, because every few minutes her thoughts pulled south, toward wherever they were holding Ben, and the effort of dragging them back was burning through her concentration like fuel she couldn’t afford to waste.
At six o'clock, she gave up, stacked the files neatly, and drove back to the motel.
She bought a sandwich from a gas station and ate half of it sitting on the bed.
The other half went back in the bag. She checked her phone four times in twenty minutes.
Nothing from Daniels. Nothing from Ben—not that he'd be able to call from federal custody, but she checked anyway, the way you check a door you know is locked.
She was in the shower when the phone rang. Getting to it, she nearly pulled the curtain rod off the wall, leaving wet footprints across the carpet.
“What do you have?”
Daniels didn’t waste time on greetings either.
“Whitmore’s body was found yesterday morning in an arroyo about fifteen miles south of Farmington.
Single gunshot wound to the chest, nine-millimeter round.
Ben’s service weapon is a Glock 22—.40 caliber—so it doesn’t match.
But the weapon they’re tying to the murder is Ben’s old backup, a Glock 19. Nine-millimeter.”
Kari sat on the edge of the bed, water dripping from her hair onto her shoulders. "Ben's old backup went missing from the evidence room. The custodian flagged it during an inventory check after the security upgrade."
“He told you that?”
“He mentioned it. Said it had probably been misfiled, or would turn up when someone ran the right form."
“The FBI claims," Daniels said carefully, "that the Glock 19 was recovered at the scene, forty yards from the body, wiped but not thoroughly enough—they found a partial print on the magazine that matches Ben. They also found DNA at the scene. Hair, and what they’re calling biological material consistent with skin cells on a rock near the body. And then there’s the money. A wire transfer of fifty thousand dollars into an account at First Nations Bank in Shiprock, opened two months ago in Ben’s name with his Social Security number.
The deposit came from an offshore account routed through the Cayman Islands. ”
Kari closed her eyes. The frame was exactly what she’d feared—not a crude setup, but an engineered one, built with real materials and real data, designed to survive the first round of scrutiny and probably the second.
“Ben didn’t open that account.”
“Of course he didn’t. But someone had his Social Security number and enough personal information to do it for him. And fifty thousand dollars in a cop’s account, coming from offshore—that’s what a jury remembers. Everything else goes out the window.”
“How did they get his DNA?”
"That's what I'm trying to figure out. The gun I understand—someone with access to the station could have taken it during the security system upgrade last month.
Ben's prints on the magazine make sense if the weapon was his; he would have loaded it at some point.
But planting hair and skin cells at a crime scene…
that takes planning. They either collected biological material from Ben's home, his vehicle, his desk, or they had someone close enough to take it directly. "
The implication sat between them. Someone with access to Ben’s personal space. Someone inside the department, or at least inside his life.
“How’s he doing?” Kari asked.
“I talked to Yazzie. He said Ben walked out of the station like he was heading to lunch. Didn’t say a word, didn’t resist, didn’t react. Yazzie’s exact words were ‘the calmest arrest I’ve ever seen.’”
That sounded like Ben. The worse things got, the quieter he became.
It wasn’t suppression—she’d learned that about him over the years.
It was something closer to compression. He packed everything down into a space small enough to carry, and he just carried it until he could set it down somewhere useful.
“I’m working on getting him a lawyer,” Daniels continued. “Someone outside the usual circuit. I’ve got a name—a tribal attorney out of Window Rock who’s handled federal cases before. Nadine Begaye. She’s supposed to be sharp.”
“I’ve heard the name. Never met her.”
“She’s agreed to take it pro bono. She knows Ben by reputation, and she thinks the frame is prosecutorial overreach at best. She’s filing for a bail hearing first thing in the morning.”
“What are the chances?”
“For bail? Decent. Murder charges in federal court usually mean detention, but the evidence has holes if you know where to look—the timeline, the account, the weapon. A good attorney can make a judge nervous enough to set conditions.” A pause.
“But Kari, getting him out on bail doesn’t solve the problem.
As long as the charge is active, Ben is compromised.
He can’t investigate, he can’t access department resources, and anything he says publicly about Devco looks like a desperate man trying to deflect from a murder charge. ”
“That’s the point.”
“That’s exactly the point.”
Kari got up and paced the small room, phone pressed to her ear. Four steps to the window, four steps back. The curtains were drawn. They were always drawn.
“I need to tell you something,” she said. “The agents who arrested Ben. The lead was someone named Garza.”
“I know. I pulled his file.”
“And?”
“Special Agent Hector Garza. Assigned to the Albuquerque field office, but his caseload doesn’t match a typical field agent’s.
Over the past six years, he’s been attached to a series of investigations that all share a common thread: they involve companies or individuals connected to Devco Holdings’ network of shell corporations.
And every single one of those investigations has ended the same way—charges dropped, evidence ruled insufficient, witnesses recanting. ”
Kari stopped pacing.
“It’s the same pattern as Rivera,” she said.
“Worse than Rivera. Rivera was a gatekeeper—he kept people out of investigations. Garza is a closer. He comes in at the end and makes sure nothing sticks.” Daniels' voice dropped. “Kari, this isn’t one corrupt agent. This is a unit. Maybe unofficial, maybe not even a formal structure—just a group of people inside the Bureau who’ve been protecting Devco’s interests for years, and who get activated when something threatens the operation.
Rivera shuts down the Naalnish case. Garza frames Ben.
Different agents, different offices, same result. ”
“Can you prove it?”
“Not yet. But I’m building a pattern analysis. Financial disclosures, case assignments, travel records. If these agents are connected—and I believe they are—the paper trail will show it. It’ll take time.”
“Time is what we don’t have. Ben’s sitting in a cell.”
“Ben’s sitting in a cell because they want you to panic and make mistakes.
Don’t give them that.” Daniels let the silence hold for a moment before continuing.
“I spoke to your father. He’s driving up from Flagstaff tomorrow.
He and I are going to start pulling apart the Whitmore case—who he was, who he worked for, why he was killed.
If we can establish that Whitmore was a threat to Devco, and that the same financial infrastructure used to frame Ben has been used for other operations, we can build a counter-narrative that’ll hold up when the time comes. ”
“When the time comes.”
“When we’re ready. Not before.”
Kari stood at the window with her hand on the curtain, feeling the heat of the glass against her fingers.
Somewhere out there—across three hundred miles of desert and reservation and the complicated geography of federal jurisdiction—Ben was in a holding cell, being processed into a system designed to grind him up.
“Tell Nadine Begaye to call me,” Kari said. “I want to know what she needs from me for the bail hearing. Anything about Ben’s character, his record, his history—whatever helps.”
“I’ll pass it along.”
“And Paul—find out who Nathan Whitmore was. Not just the name on the warrant. Who he was. What he did. Why Devco needed him dead badly enough to burn a frame on it.”
“Already on it.”
She hung up and sat on the bed in the quiet room. The sandwich bag sat on the nightstand, the uneaten half going stale. Her hair was still wet, dripping cold lines down her back, and she realized she’d been standing in a towel for the entire conversation.
She got dressed. She set her alarm for five-thirty—early enough to drive to the field office before Marshall’s team arrived, early enough to get an hour with the files before anyone asked her questions she didn’t want to answer.
Two cases. Two timelines. One running on the clock of a killer’s obsession, the other on the slower, colder machinery of a conspiracy that had been operating for decades.
Twelve days since Raymond Honanie disappeared. Every hour she spent thinking about Ben was an hour Honanie didn’t have.
She turned off the light. She didn’t sleep for a long time.