Dalton's eyes narrowed."Financial problems," he repeated."You've been looking into my finances."
"We've been looking into everything, Mr.Dalton."
He stared at her for a long moment, and she watched the calculation happening behind his eyes—the realization that this had moved beyond routine questions."I think I need a lawyer."
"That's your right," Maria said."But understand that the more cooperative you are, the faster we can determine whether you're a victim of someone using your resources, or..."She trailed off, leaving the rest unfinished.
Dalton nodded slowly, but didn't commit to anything.Kari could see him retreating behind the walls people built when they realized they were in serious trouble—whether guilty or innocent, the effect was the same.
"We'll need that list by end of business today," Kari said."Everyone who had access to the vehicle, everyone who volunteers with your organization.The sooner we can start eliminating people, the sooner we can find who's actually responsible."
"I'll get it to you," Dalton said quietly.
Kari and Maria were halfway to the parking lot when Maria's phone rang.She glanced at the screen, frowned, and answered."Detective Santos."
Kari watched Maria's expression change—the subtle tightening around her eyes that meant bad news.Her own stomach dropped in anticipation.She knew that look.She'd worn it herself too many times.
"When?"Maria asked.Then, "How long?"A pause."We're on our way."
She ended the call and met Kari's eyes."That was dispatch.A runner's wife just reported her husband missing.He left for a training run in the McDowell Mountains early this morning and never came back.His GPS watch shows his last location in a remote area of the preserve."
Kari's throat tightened."Who?"
"Silas Hartman.Forty-two years old, experienced ultra-marathon runner."Maria's voice was grim."Registered for the Sonoran 100."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Kari crouched beside the weathered trail marker, studying the scuff marks in the dirt where Silas Hartman had apparently stopped.The sun hammered down with an intensity that made her grateful for the wide-brimmed hat she'd grabbed from her truck, though it did nothing to stop the sweat from trickling down her spine.
"His GPS puts him starting here at 6:47 this morning," Maria said, checking her phone for the fifth time in as many minutes.She stood a few feet away, her own face flushed from the heat and the rapid hike up from the trailhead parking area."Wife says he was planning a twenty-mile loop through the backcountry.Should have been back by ten, ten-thirty at the latest."
It was nearly two in the afternoon now.
Kari straightened, scanning the landscape with the practiced eye of someone who'd grown up learning to read terrain the way other kids learned to read books.The McDowell Mountains rose around them in layers of rust and gold, creosote and palo verde clinging to slopes that looked deceptively gentle from a distance but turned brutal up close.
Beautiful country.Deadly country, if you didn't respect it.
"The loop he planned would take him northeast along this ridge, then down into Bear Canyon before swinging back west."Maria traced the route on her phone's mapping app."But his last GPS ping was here—" she pointed to a location about three miles into the planned route "—and it hasn't moved in over six hours."
Six hours.In this heat, with limited water, even an experienced runner would be in serious trouble by now.And if Hartman had encountered the same person who'd killed Hayes, Rodriguez, and Ramirez, trouble was an understatement.
"Any update from search and rescue?"Kari asked, knowing Maria had called them during the drive over.
"Phoenix PD is sending two teams.Should be here within the hour."Maria wiped sweat from her forehead."But we can't wait an hour.We need to start moving toward his last position now."
Kari nodded.She needed no convincing.
They'd come prepared—both wearing tactical gear suitable for desert hiking, both carrying emergency water and first aid supplies.Kari had even brought rope and a trauma kit, knowing that one couldn't come over-prepared to reservation backcountry where help might be hours away.
The trail Hartman had been following was well-marked for the first mile, a popular route that saw regular traffic from day hikers and trail runners.But as they pushed deeper into the mountains, the path became less defined, splitting into smaller trails that required constant attention to avoid getting turned around.Kari found herself falling into the rhythm of tracking—watching for footprints, disturbed rocks, broken vegetation.Any sign that someone had passed this way recently.
"There," she said, pointing to a patch of loose gravel where a running shoe had left a clear imprint.The tread pattern was fresh, no wind-blown sand filling the grooves yet."He came through here."
Maria photographed the print with her phone, documenting everything they found.Good investigative practice, even in the middle of a search and rescue operation.If this turned into a crime scene, whenit turned into a crime scene, Kari's instincts told her—they'd need evidence of Hartman's route and anything that might point to his pursuer.
They pushed on, the temperature climbing as the afternoon wore on.Kari's shirt was soaked through with sweat, and she forced herself to drink water regularly despite the urge to conserve it.Dehydration would make her useless, and they needed to be sharp.If he'd veered off the path, and they missed it, the mistake could cost him his life.
The terrain grew more challenging as they climbed, rocky slopes giving way to steep washes filled with loose stone that shifted treacherously underfoot.This was technical country, the kind that punished mistakes.Kari thought about the GPS data from the previous victims—those zigzagging patterns that suggested desperate evasion.If someone was chasing Hartman through terrain like this, pushing him off established trails into rough country, he'd be burning through energy at an unsustainable rate.
