Outlaw Mountain : A Joanna Brady Mystery (9780061748806)

by Jance, Judith A.

  “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 them 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 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 m
eeting 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 took me a long time 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 r
ight,” 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.”

  Eighteen

  IT WAS high noon when Joanna stepped through the swinging doors into the dim and shabby interior of Clete Rogers’ Grubsteak. The bottle-blond hostess, looking nervous and out of sorts, led Joanna to a table for four, where Jaime Carbajal and Ernie Carpenter were already waiting. Considering the relative distances involved, Joanna should have beaten Ernie there by a good ten minutes. Around the department, the detective was sometimes called “Lead-foot Carpenter,” and for good reason.

  “I can see Ernie didn’t let any grass grow under his steel-belted radials,” she said pointedly as she sat down.