“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.”