Whitmore described a meeting with his supervisor in which he’d raised concerns about the project’s legality—specifically, whether the survey work was being conducted with proper permits and whether the land ownership was legitimate.The supervisor had told him to focus on his job and stop asking questions.Two days later, Whitmore arrived at the survey site to find that his access badge no longer worked.A security guard he’d never seen before told him the site was temporarily closed for “environmental review.”
He’d been frozen out.But he still had his samples, his photographs, and his records.And he’d started looking for someone outside the company to tell.
The last entry was a single paragraph:
Contacted a journalist today.Won’t say who or where, not in writing.She seemed interested but careful.I told her I have physical evidence—samples, photos, documents—showing illegal mineral extraction on contested land near the Navajo reservation.She said she’d need to verify independently before her paper would touch it.I gave her enough to start.If something happens to me, the rest is here.This laptop is the only copy.Amy doesn’t know about any of this and I want to keep it that way.She’s safe as long as she doesn’t know.
Paul closed the laptop and sat back.The kitchen was silent except for the refrigerator’s hum and the faint creak of the house settling in the afternoon heat.
“He was protecting her,” James said quietly.“The way Anna tried to protect us.”
It was the first time James had drawn the parallel aloud, and Paul let it sit.Anna Chee had spent years building a case against the same conspiracy, documenting the same pattern of death and deception, and she'd kept her family at a distance because she believed ignorance was a form of safety.It hadn't saved her.It wouldn't have saved Whitmore's girlfriend either if Devco had known about the laptop.
“The journalist,” Paul said.“He contacted someone.A woman, based on the pronoun.And his timeline—three weeks before he died—matches when I was trying to place the story.If it’s the same journalist...”
“Sandra Reyes.”
“If Whitmore contacted Reyes independently, and Devco found out about it the same way they found out about our approach—through surveillance or a source at the paper—then Whitmore’s death and Ben’s frame-up aren’t just retaliation against us.They’re part of a broader cleanup.Devco is eliminating everyone who’s getting close, from every direction, simultaneously.”
James took off his glasses and cleaned them on his shirt, a habit he defaulted to when his hands needed something to do.“So what do we have now, total?Anna’s research.The financial documentation.Ben’s testimony.And Whitmore’s independent geological confirmation with photographs, samples, and a contemporaneous written record.”
“We have a case,” Paul said.“Not a perfect one.The chain of custody on this laptop is messy—Trujillo gave it to us voluntarily, but we’re not law enforcement in any capacity that a court would recognize for this particular matter.The core samples Whitmore sent to the Denver lab are stronger—independent analysis, professional chain of custody, verifiable results.”
“But.”
“But none of it changes the fundamental problem.We still don’t have proof that Devco killed anyone.We have proof they’re mining illegally.We have proof the deposit exists.We have a financial network that connects to Ben’s frame-up.What we don’t have is a body on a table with Devco’s fingerprints on it.”Paul looked at the closed laptop.“We need the physical site.We need to get onto that land, document the active operation, collect samples that we control from start to finish, and if possible, find evidence that connects Devco’s security apparatus to the murders.”
“Including Anna’s.”
“Including Anna’s.”
They sat with that for a while.Outside, the sun was dropping toward the western horizon, the light going gold and long through the kitchen window.A truck passed on the road, its engine fading into the distance.
“Ben’s out,” James said.“Nadine Begaye got him bail this morning.Ankle monitor, travel restrictions, the usual conditions.He’ll be here by tonight.”
“Good.We’re going to need him.”
“For what?”
Paul looked at James across the table, covered in printouts and legal pads, and the closed laptop that held a dead man's last testament."For what comes next."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Alzheimer's diagnosis gave them the why.It didn't give them the how.
Kari sat in Marshall’s office the morning after Soto’s report and laid it out.Gregory Ashford, sixty-seven, retired pharmaceutical executive, diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s eighteen months ago.Aggressive art purchases beginning roughly two years ago—before the formal diagnosis, but consistent with the behavioral changes that typically precede it.Multiple eyewitness descriptions matching the same man across galleries and studios in Santa Fe.Tremoring hands.Tears.A need that went beyond collecting into something more desperate.
Marshall listened with her arms crossed and her expression unreadable in the way of someone who was reading everything and showing nothing.When Kari finished, Marshall uncrossed her arms and leaned forward.
“It fits.But fitting isn’t evidence.What connects him to the murders?”
“Nothing direct.Not yet.We have six witnesses who describe a man matching Ashford’s general profile—older, white, well-dressed, tremor—visiting galleries and studios where the victims showed their work.We have auction records showing he purchased pieces by all three artists at above-market prices.And we have Sheffield’s account that Linda Tafoya was approached directly by a man matching the description, who wanted to buy her entire body of work and became agitated when she refused.”
“Sheffield also said he mentioned Ashford’s name to the FBI in his first interview.”
“He did.It was noted and not pursued.”
Marshall’s jaw tightened—not at Kari, but at the paperwork.“That’s on us.I’ll deal with it internally.What do you need?”
