As soon as Kristin had left her office, Joanna picked up the phone and dialed Butch. “How’s it going?” she asked when he answered.
“Slowly,” he replied. “Very slowly. Junior slept so much in the car that by the time we made it home, he was wide awake and wired. Now he’s asleep again, and I wish I were, too. But I’ve got to get going today. I’ve spent days without touching my computer, and it’s time to get back on the horse. If I’m ever going to finish my book, I’ve got to sit down and work. Otherwise, I’m going to remain what Marliss Shackleford calls unemployed forever. The word’s out that unpublished novelists are worth a dime a dozen.”
Joanna had worried that leaving Junior with Butch was imposing on the man’s good nature. Now she felt certain those worries were justified. Junior’s presence was most likely ex-acerbating an already raging case of writer’s block.
“Maybe I could bring Junior to the office for the day,” she suggested. “He’d probably get a kick out of it. At least it would give you some time to work.”
“He’d get a kick out of it right up until you got called out on a case,” Butch replied, “on something where he couldn’t go along. He’d end up being stuck in your office all by himself. No, that’s already happened to him once, and it’s not going to happen again, not if I can help it.”
“Speaking of that,” Joanna said, “you’ll be happy to know that Frank Montoya is tracking the South Dakota connection.”
“Good.”
“And I’m sitting here admiring my ring,” she continued. “I still can’t quite believe it, Butch. I said ‘yes.’ We are actually engaged.”
“I’ll believe it more when 1 can corral you into setting a date,” Butch replied. “But don’t get me wrong,” he added quickly. “I’m not pushing.”
Joanna laughed. “The hell you’re not. I’m going to work now. You do the same. I’ll let you know the second Frank hears something.”
Without even putting down the phone, Joanna dialed her in-laws. When Eva Lou Brady answered the phone, Joanna had to pause momentarily and gather her nerve before she spoke. “Good morning,” she said.
“Good morning yourself,” Eva Lou returned. “How are you today?”
“Engaged,” Joanna said with a gulp. She had already sampled Jim Bob’s reaction, but Eva Lou was Andy’s mother. Would she manage the same kind of grace and generosity in the face of what she might well regard as her daughter-in-law’s defection?
“Did you think I didn’t know? Jim Bob and I had already discussed it with Jenny, and then Eleanor was on the phone to us last night, probably before the door closed behind you. I’m pleased at the news, Joanna, pleased for all of you. I really am. It means that Jenny’s going to have a daddy after all. From the sound of things, I think she needs one. Maybe Butch will be able to teach her not to fight all the time. Eleanor is all bent out of shape because she doesn’t think fighting is ladylike, which, of course, it isn’t. I’m more worried that one of these times Jenny’s going to pick a fight with the wrong bully and end up getting hurt.”
Now that word was out, Joanna breathed a little easier. “Speaking of the little truant, how is she this morning?”
“Fine as frog’s hair. She and Jim Bob are out back raking leaves.”
“Has she told you about Junior?” Joanna asked.
“She certainly has. Bubbling over with it. She seems to like him a lot. And it’s so nice of Butch to lend a hand that way. Most men wouldn’t.”
“But it is keeping him from doing any of his own work,” Joanna said. “And I was wondering if…”
“If we’d take him for a while?” Eva Lou asked. “Of course. I know Jenny gets bored hanging around with just us old folks. And with all the kids in school…”
“I believe that’s the whole idea of a school suspension,” Joanna observed. “She’s supposed to be bored. And miserable.”
“Well, I still think having Junior for the day will be fine. I’ll call Butch a little later and make arrangements. Come to think of it, maybe the whole bunch of you could come to sup-per tonight. I might even ask George and Eleanor. We could have a little engagement celebration. It’ll give me a chance to see your ring.”
Joanna’s breath caught. She had been able to pass off the ring as new with her own mother, but not with Andy’s. “You’ve already seen it, Eva Lou,” Joanna said quietly. “It’s the same one Andy gave m e for our anniversary, just below he died. Since I already have a ring that I love, it just didn’t make sense to have to go out and buy another one.”
“What a perfectly lovely thing to do,” Eva Lou said at once. “I know Andy paid an armload for that ring. Of course I understood why you put it away, but it seemed like such a waste to me to have a beautiful piece of jewelry like that hid den away in a dresser drawer. This makes far better sense.”
“You don’t mind then?” Joanna asked. “You don’t think I’m being disloyal to Andy’s memory?”
“Disloyal? The only way you could be disloyal to Andy, Joanna, is to not go on with your own life. He loved you. All he ever wanted was for you and Jenny to be happy. If Butch Dixon makes you happy, he’s exactly what Andy would wan(for you too. And he’d be delighted that you didn’t have to go out and spend money on a ring when you already had one that was bought and paid for.”
“Thank you for saying that,” Joanna murmured. “‘Thank you so much.”
“Don’t mention it,” Eva Lou said. “I’m hanging up now. I need to call Butch and let him know about dinner. I’ll also find out when he wants Jim Bob and Jenny to come by and pick up Junior.”
“One more thing,” Joanna said hurriedly before lava Lou could hang up.
“What’s that?”
“Don’t tell my mother where the ring came from. She’ll never understand.”
“She’ll never know then, will she?” Eva Lou said. “At least not from me.”
Holding the receiver after ending that call, Joanna knew there was one more that she needed to make. It was after nine by then-time enough for Hank Lazier to have shown up at his office in the Pima County Sheriff’s Department.
“Joanna Brady here,” she said when he answered.
There was a noticeable chill in his voice when he replied. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Pleasure, my foot! Joanna thought. Knowing there was no love lost between them, she dispensed with the usual pleasantries. “I’m calling about the crime lab results,” she said briskly. “Any hits on the fingerprints from the insulin vial?”
“None,” he replied.
“You ran them through AFIS?”
“Sure did.”
That meant Farley Adams’ prints weren’t there, because they would have come up with a hit. That also held true for the three young men still sitting in the Nogales, Sonora, jail, as well as for Joaquin Morales, the boy who had aided searchers in finding Alice Rogers’ body.
Sitting on his end of the telephone line, Detective Lazier must have been reading Joanna’s thoughts. “The lack of fingerprints means nothing,” he said. “When we searched the Buick, we didn’t find any gloves, but they could have used them and then ditched them somewhere between Houghton Road and Nogales.”
“It could mean they didn’t do it,” Joanna pointed out. “It could mean you and Detective Hemming are barking up the wrong tree.”
“Right this minute, Detective Hemming is out tracking down some search warrants.” Lazier told her. “We’ve ID’d the three suspects now and we’ll be executing those warrants as soon as we have them. In the meantime, stop sticking your nose in where it isn’t wanted or needed.”
“You have a nice day, too,” Joanna returned pleasantly.
But it was too late. By then Hank Lazier had already slammed the phone down in her ear.
Joanna’s first and second cups of coffee disappeared along with the stack of mail. Next, Joanna went to work on the duty rosters. As she tried in vain to make sense of the complicated graph Dick Voland had devised to create shift schedules, Kristin buzzed Joanna’s intercom. “Someone to see you, Sheriff Brady,” she announced.
“Who is it?”
“Monica Childers,” Kristin said. “She’s Mark Childers’ wife.”
Widow, Joanna thought. She said, “Ernie Carpenter is in charge of that case. I’m sure he’s the one she needs to see.”
“I told her that already,” Kristin said. “She insists on seeing you.”
“All right,” Joanna agreed, shoving the graph aside. “Send her in.”
The door to Joanna’s office swung open and a tall woman strode into the room. At nearly six feet, Monica Childers was an imposing yet slim forty-five-year-old with fair skin and startlingly blue eyes. Her gray hair was cut short enough to resemble a crew cut. She was wearing jeans, a flannel work shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and a pair of dusty work boots. She stopped in front of Joanna’s desk.
“How long is that detective of yours going to keep us shut down?” Monica demanded.
“Pardon me?” Joanna asked. “I’m not sure I understand what’s going on.”
“That makes two of us,” Monica said. Uninvited, she sank into a chair. “My work crew showed up this morning. A deputy met them at the gate and sent them packing, which means I have to pay at least an hour’s worth of show-up time, even though I didn’t get a lick of work out of them. The deputy claimed your office isn’t finished investigating yet. Lewis Flores shot Mark and then he shot himself. They’re both dead. This isn’t rocket science, Sheriff Brady. How much investigation can it take?”
“You’re talking about the Oak Vista work crew?”
“Of course. What else?”
“First off, your husband wasn’t shot. He died of a heart attack. And secondly, investigations take as long as they take. When it comes to crime scenes, I encourage my people to take all the time they need.”
“Whatever,” Monica said dismissively. “All I know is, two of the Porta Potties are plugged full of holes. If the detectives need to, have them pack ‘em up, put ‘em on a flatbed, and haul them away to wherever you take stuff to hold as evidence. But let my crew come back to work. We lost all of yesterday, and now today, too. I can’t afford it, Sheriff Brady. Delays like this are going to throw the whole project behind schedule.”
“Mrs. Childers, does this mean that you’re taking over as project manager in place of your husband?”
“Ex-husband,” Monica Childers corrected. “Or at least he would have been ex in a matter of weeks. And you’re damned right I’m taking over. It was my father’s company long before it was Mark’s. I watched Daddy run it for twenty-five years, but he wasn’t willing to leave it to me. No, it was sort of like that lady at the Washington Post-the one whose father turned the newspaper over to her husband even though she had worked there for years. The same thing happened to me.
“Before Mark came along, I spent fifteen years handling the books and doing the paperwork for Foster Construction. But when the time came for my father to bow out of the business, he was far more willing to hand the company over to my husband than to me. The two of then put my name on the paperwork, but only when affirmative action came along and they thought that would help corner the market on some of those minority contracts. That was back in the old days, of course, when we were still struggling. Once things really started to click and Mark didn’t need me anymore, he went looking for greener pastures. Ever since then, he’s been doing his best to cheat me out of what’s rightfully mine.”
“When you say greener pastures, do you mean someone like Karen Brainard?” Joanna asked.
“Meaning any number of Karen Brainards,” Monica Childers replied bitterly. “A whole string of them. When we got married, I was considered a ‘trophy wife.’ Over the years, Mark worked his way down the food chain. Karen wouldn’t even qualify as a brass plaque. If I’d had guts enough, I would have taken a potshot at the man myself. But now that Lewis Flores has done my dirty work for me, I intend to make the most of it. Mark swore he was going to make a ton of money out of the Oak Vista project. All he would have owed me is whatever pittance Dena could have wrangled out of the property settlement. Now I end up with the whole shebang.”
“Dena?” Joanna interrupted. “Do you mean Dena Hogan, by any chance?”
“Yes,” Monica answered. “She’s my attorney. The one who was handling my divorce. Do you know her?”
“Not personally,” Joanna said. “But I’ve heard the name. Go on.”
“She’s a good friend of mine. We went to school together. Anyway, luckily for me, the divorce wasn’t final yet, which means that now the company passes to me right along with the ongoing projects, Oak Vista included. Believe me, I intend to make it work. I’m also going to meet those deadlines if it kills me. The first models are due to be open by the middle of January. I intend to see to it that they are.”
“Mrs. Childers,” Joanna began.
“Call me Monica Foster,” the other woman corrected. “I’m done with being Monica Childers. I’ve decided to go back to using my maiden name.”
“Ms. Foster then,” Joanna corrected. “I can see why you’d be eager to get the Oak Vista project back under way, but there are certain investigative steps that must be taken. Furthermore, I’m not sure you’re aware of what all happened out at the construction site in the past few days. There were protesters-”
“I know all about the protesters,” Monica interjected. “They won’t be back.”
“I don’t know how you can be sure of that. Just because your husband-your former husband-is dead doesn’t mean the protesters won’t make trouble for you.”
“They’ll stop all right,” Monica Foster said confidently. “I just won’t pay them anymore. Not one of them is so committed to saving the world that he’ll show up for nothing.”
“Wait a minute,” Joanna said. “You mean you’re the one who was paying them?”
“Who else?” Monica returned. “I was prepared to do anything that would make Mark’s life miserable. Having protesters screw up and delay his project was the least I could do. Now that it’s my project, however, protesters are no longer necessary and delays aren’t acceptable.”
Joanna crossed her arms. “What’s unacceptable is faking protests and deliberately creating situations where my officers could have been in danger,” Joanna shot back. “My department had to pull patrol officers away from other sectors in order to deal with what was going on at Oak Vista. That left whole areas of the county without any law enforcement coverage at all. Not only that, your husband’s attorney called yesterday and said they would be suing my department for negligence due to the damage caused by the alleged protesters.”
“Things did get a little out of hand,” Monica Childers admitted. “Some of my hired help may have been a bit too enthusiastic. But believe me, there won’t be any lawsuit. All I want to know is when my crew will be able to go back to work.”
“The plain answer is, I don’t know,” Joanna said. “And I’m not about to give you the go-ahead without checking with my detectives first. And speaking of your work crew, that reminds me. I was out at your job site the other day and had a run-in with one of your workers-a fellow by the name of Rob Evans. He came to work armed. In fact, I’m holding his twenty-two revolver right here in my desk. I told him he can have it back as soon as he shows up with either a holster to carry it in or else a concealed-weapons permit. So far he hasn’t turned up with either one.”
“I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you,” Monica observed. “For him to come pick it up, I mean.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s long gone. I fired his ass. First thing yesterday morning. In fact, that was my first official duty upon as assuming command. I can’t tell you how much pleasure it gave me.”
“Why?” Joanna asked.
“Why did I fire him or why did it give me such pleasure?”
“Both,” Joanna said.
“Rob was a jerk,” Monica replied, “and no more of a construction foreman than my Aunt Betsy. He never should have been given that job in the first place.”
“Why was he?”
“Probably as a favor to one of Mark’s drug-dealing cronies. That would be my first guess anyway.”
“So you knew about the drugs?”
“I knew about all of it,” Monica returned darkly. “I made it my business to find out. That worm thought he was just going to dump me and walk away whole, taking the contracting company and the development companies with him. He thought Sierra Vista was a small enough town that I’d just shut up, go quietly, and spare myself the humiliation. He thought I’d be too embarrassed to stand up and fight. When he found out otherwise, it must have come as a bit of a shock.”
“How did you do that?”
“Fight him?” Monica shrugged. “My attorney hired a PI to get the goods on him and his collection of heroin-sniffing honeys. And she subpoenaed all his financial records. By the time we were scheduled to go to court, Dena swore she would know more about Mark’s financial dealings than he did himself.”
Joanna was still trying to listen, but she found herself hung up on one particular word. “Did you say heroin-sniffing?” she asked.
Monica gave a short, mirthless laugh. “You don’t think Mark would inject the filthy stuff, do you? Into his beautiful body? None of them do. They’re all far too good-looking for that. And too upstanding. They’re all part of the country-club set. They may party like hell on Friday and Saturday, but they shape up and go to church on Sundays, attend Rotary on Tuesdays, and show up for their Chamber of Commerce meeting first thing Wednesday mornings. Needle tracks wouldn’t go over very well with the Chamber of Commerce. So they import top-quality Mexican heroin-pure stuff-and sniff it the way some people used to sniff cocaine. It look me a long line to figure out that a big chunk of our money was going straight up Mark’s nose. Call me a slow learner, but I finally wised up.”
When Monica Foster fell silent, Joanna Brady stayed that way. She had been in several filthy and impoverished crack houses. She had donned Haz-Mat gear to walk through the moldering ruins of a mobile home turned meth-lab. For her, drug addicts existed in a lawless, shadowy, and poverty-stricken world. She didn’t want to hear that Cochise County harbored an invisible collection of high-flying, well-connected heroin users. That unwelcome news was enough to leave her shaken.
“Can you give me names?” Joanna asked at last.
“I can’t,” Monica answered. “I wasn’t part of the gang. Karen Brainard was.”
“You’re saying Karen Brainard uses heroin?”
“Why don’t you ask her? In fact, I’m tempted to ask her myself. Poor baby. She and Mark were an item for a good six months. I’d guess she’s pretty broken up about now.”
“Which you’re not,” Joanna observed.
Monica Foster’s bright blue eyes hardened to flint. “No, I’m not,” she agreed. “I did my grieving a long time ago-before I filed for a divorce. Back then I kept hoping something would happen so I wouldn’t have to go through with it. Maybe Mark would die, or else I would. And now that he’s dead, I don’t feel anything but alive, goddammit! I’m alive and getting on with my life and nobody’s going to stand in my way! Which brings me back to why I came to see you this morning, Sheriff Brady. I need to know what to tell my crew. Should they come to work tomorrow morning or not?”
“As I said,” Joanna assured her. “I have to check with my detective first. As soon as I do, I’ll get back to you. Can you leave me a number?”
Reaching out, Monica Foster snagged a yellow Post-it pad from Joanna’s desk and scribbled a series of phone numbers on it-home, work, and cell phone.
“What about your husband’s financial records, the ones your attorney has?” Joanna asked. “Before Lewis Flores killed himself, he claimed that your husband-your soon-to-be former husband-and Karen Brainard were mixed up in some kind of payoff scheme. I don’t know whether or not any money actually changed hands. If we could get a look at his records, we might be able to-”
“Talk to Dena,” Monica said. “I’ll put her number down here too. Tell her I told you to see her.”
“Because of attorney-client privilege, she may not agree to talk with me,” Joanna said.
“I don’t see why not,” Monica said. “I haven’t committed any crime, and I don’t have anything to hide. And Mark is dead, so it shouldn’t matter to him. But if she needs my permission to release the records, she can always call me and check.”
Monica pushed the notepad filled with phone numbers across the desk to Joanna, then she stood up. “I guess I’ll be going then,” she said.
“No,” Joanna said. “Wait just a minute.” Since Monica Foster seemed more than willing to help, Joanna decided to try returning the favor.
She picked up the phone. “Kristin,” she said. “Have Dispatch put me through to Ernie Carpenter.”
Smiling slightly, Monica Foster settled back in her chair. It took several long minutes before Ernie Carpenter finally came on the line. “What’s up?” he asked.
“How long before you’ll be ready to release the crime scene at Oak Vista? Monica Foster, Mark Childers’ widow, is here in my office. She needs to know when her construction crew can get back to work.”
“Her again!” Ernie exclaimed. “That woman’s nothing but trouble. She was out here this morning raising hell with the deputy I left at the gate. I told her these things take time, but obviously she’s gone over my head and is raising hell with you.”
“In a manner of speaking,” Joanna said. “But she’s also given us some important information. If her permits are all in order, I think we should cut her some slack.”
“All right, all right. We’re pretty much finished up now. Tell her she can have her work crew in here first thing tomorrow morning.”
“If you’re almost finished now, why does she have to wait until tomorrow?” Joanna asked.
“Well,” Ernie said. “To tell you the truth, I was hoping to hang around long enough to see if we could get another shot at those damned tree-huggers. If I were in their shoes and wanted to damage a whole bunch of construction equipment, this is exactly the time I’d show up-when no one is here working.”
“I don’t think you need to worry about that,” Joanna said. “I’m relatively sure the demonstrators won’t be back.”
“What are they doing, broadcasting their scheduled stops on NPR?”
Joanna laughed. “I think we’ve got a case of domestic environmentalists.”
“No news there. Whoever said they were foreigners?”
“Not that kind of domestic, Ernie. As in hotly contested D-I-V-O-R-C-E I have it on good authority that the Oak Vista tree-huggers-for-hire were on Childers’ ex-wife’s payroll. Now that she’s running the company, she’s called off the dogs.” Joanna glanced at Monica Foster, who nodded.
“Nice lady,” Ernie observed. “That being the case, I suppose we can release the crime scene anytime. By the way, was Lewis Flores on her payroll, too?”
“I don’t think so, but we’ll talk more about that later,” Joanna said. “In fact, I’ll probably be out that way before long. Where will you be?”
“When I leave here, Jaime and I had planned to rendezvous at Clete Rogers’ place in Tombstone at noon to finish up our paperwork and figure out what the hell to do next.”
“Sounds like a good idea,” Joanna said. “Maybe I’ll join you. Then we’ll all be able to get a handle on what’s going on.”
Joanna put down the phone and turned back to Monica Foster. “Your crew will be able to go back to work this afternoon-if you can find them, that is.”
“I can locate most of them,” Monica said, as she stood to leave. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”
“Thank you, too,” Joanna returned. “You’ve been a big help. We’ll be in touch with your attorney and with Karen Brainard as well.”
At the mention of Karen Brainard’s name, Monica winced visibly. “Maybe I should send the bitch a sympathy card.”
There was a catch in the woman’s throat when she said the words. The sound of it was enough to make Joanna realize that underneath all of Monica Foster’s hard-nosed bravado was a soft center of residual hurt. Monica may have been divorcing Mark Childers, but she was a long way from being over him. And despite the fact that Joanna was still angry by the trouble caused by Monica Foster’s hired protesters, she couldn’t help feeling sorry for her.
“Let it go,” Joanna advised. “Who’s doing the funeral arrangements?”
“Wetherby’s out in Sierra Vista,” Monica replied. “‘They handled both my folks’ funerals. I know they’ll do a good job.”
In other words, Monica still cared enough to send the very best-to want her philandering husband’s funeral arrangements to be dignified.
“I’m sorry,” Joanna said. “This must be terribly painful for you.”
For the first time, Monica Foster softened. Her eyes welled with tears. “It is,” she said. “It hurts like hell.” And then she was gone.
As soon as Joanna was left alone, she picked up the phone and dialed Dena Hogan’s number. A receptionist answered, “Dena Hogan, Attorney at Law.”
“This is Joanna Brady, Sheriff Joanna Brady,” Joanna said. “I was wondering if it would be possible for me to see Ms. Hogan early this afternoon. Say between one-thirty and two?”
“Sure,” the receptionist said. “I can pencil you in, but I don’t have access to her official calendar. There could be a conflict that I don’t know about.”
“That’s all right,” Joanna said. “Since I’m coming out that direction anyway, I can afford to take my chances.”
Just then Joanna’s call waiting sounded, telling her there was another caller on the line. “Hello.”
“Joanna? Fran Daly here. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“No. What’s going on?”
“I just had a call back from Al Paxton, the computer nerd at Holloway/Rimblatt Pharmaceuticals.”
“And?”
“We are, if you’ll pardon the expression, a couple of smart cookies. That particular numbered batch of insulin went first to a distributor in L.A. who ships to drugstores all over the Southwest. From there it went to the O.K. Pharmacy in Tombstone, Arizona, where Cletus Rogers just happens to have his insulin prescription filled on a regular basis.”
“How very interesting,” Joanna said. “I’ll have one of my detectives go have a chat with Hizzoner the Mayor. Do you suppose Detective Lazier would be interested in being in on that interview?”
“Wait just a minute,” Fran Daly complained. “I no sooner finish telling you you’re smart when you start acting like a complete fool. You don’t mean that, do you?”
“No, I don’t mean it at all,” Joanna said with a laugh. “I was just checking to see if it would get a rise out of you. And it worked.”
“I’ll say,” Fran agreed. “That man bugs the daylights out of me. Don’t you dare invite him along.”
“Believe me,” Joanna said. “I wouldn’t think of it.”