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-
“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
