A Good Day for Chardonnay (Sunshine Vicram #2) - Darynda Jones Page 0,30

was not Southern Arizona hot.

They retraced their steps and followed the guard’s directions again. This time they ended up at the level three facility. Precisely where they needed to be. Concrete gray buildings formed the prison units with huge, hangarlike structures surrounding a massive yard. Chain-link and razor wire completed the décor, adding an industrial feel to the already military-like establishment.

The inmates were starting to file out, so the count was over.

“I like it,” Quincy said, scanning the area. “It’s homey.”

Sun threw the cruiser into park. “I agree. A few curtains, a good desk lamp, I’d live here.”

“You seem nervous,” he said.

She lifted a shoulder. “More curious than nervous. But, yeah, nervous, too.”

“Because of the venue?”

“Nah. I’m just anxious about what Wynn knows. Or, more likely, doesn’t know.”

They got out and walked up to the speaker, their IDs at the ready.

“I’ve never met Wynn Ravinder,” he said.

“You and I were in middle school when he went inside the first time.”

“What’s he in for?”

With all the sleeping on the road and lack of small talk over breakfast, they hadn’t really discussed the particulars of Wynn or their expectations.

“Murder,” she said. “Though he swears he didn’t do it.”

“Don’t they all. Still, he’s in level three. Must be a model prisoner.”

“Let’s hope so. If he’s anything like his brother Clay, we are packing up and heading home. I’m not putting up with any shit.”

“Agreed.”

She pushed the button and began the process of entry anew, the sweltering heat and her anxiety making her light-headed.

Half an hour later, they’d secured their sidearms and were shown to a small interview room. Gray with a steel door and a metal table bolted to the floor, the barren space offered nothing a prisoner could use as a makeshift weapon. A guard stood in the open doorway while they waited.

“What do you know about this guy?” he asked them.

The kid looked too young to be a prison guard. Too chubby and fresh-faced, but he was built like a sumo wrestler, minus a hundred pounds or so. Sun had little doubt he knew how to handle himself.

“Ravinder?” she asked. “Just that he’s served eleven years of a life sentence without the possibility of parole for first-degree murder, and yet he’s managed to earn his way into a level-three facility.” Most inmates with more than thirty years left on their sentence were in a maximum facility. Level four or five, depending on the prison.

“Exactly.” The guard nodded while checking his phone. “Be careful.” He looked up at them. “To the untrained eye, Ravinder’s a model prisoner. Well-liked, even by the guards. He’s also an electrician, which helped get him bumped to level three. But just so you know, he’s the shot caller.”

“A shot caller?” she asked, surprised.

Judging by Quincy’s expression, he concurred. Inmates doing time for murder who’d earned the title of shot caller didn’t often fall into the model-prisoner category.

“Let me reiterate,” the guard said. “He’s the shot caller.”

Sun had done her research, but criminal records rarely listed little things like the fact that a prisoner might be a shot caller. Or, apparently, the shot caller. She’d need to see his prison jacket for information like that.

The fact that Wynn held such a lofty position meant the other inmates either respected or feared him. Most likely both. That kind of role was rarely earned through niceties and good manners. Wynn Ravinder could be ruthlessly violent when he needed to be and probably had a cruel streak.

Having never been to prison, Sun couldn’t blame the guy for doing anything to survive in such a hostile environment, but rising to the position of a shot caller in a prison of over 17,000 inmates took a lot more than just surviving.

She leaned closer to Quince and spoke quietly. “He’s starting to look more and more like his brother Clay than I’d hoped.”

“You think this is bullshit?”

“It’s starting to look that way, but first, what does he want? And second, if he’s dying, why aren’t we in the medical ward?”

“Well, fuck,” Quincy whispered. “He played us.”

“Maybe. Let’s see what he has to say and try to get a peek at his jacket.”

“Until then …” Quincy looked at the guard. “I want a stab vest for the sheriff.”

“What?” she said. “Don’t be ridiculous, Quince. It’s not like we’re going out into the yard.”

He bent closer. “Sunny, maybe he’s called you here to find out what you know about your abduction. Not the other way around. Do you know how easily a shot caller can get