A Good Day for Chardonnay (Sunshine Vicram #2) by Darynda Jones

“Oh,” he said, steering the conversation away from the topic at hand again, “Anita wants us to stop by the St. Anthony’s Monastery and pick her up some olive oil.”

“Odd request.” She checked the seven texts Carver, her blind date, had sent her. She had no idea the guy was going to be so obnoxious. She would have to let him down easy, but not over text. She’d meet him for coffee when things calmed down. After firing off a quick text telling him she was out of town, then texting Levi for the 275th time, she asked, “Olive oil? Is that a secret code for something?”

“She swears the monastery has some of the best cold-pressed olive oil in the world.”

“Oh. That settles it then. I’ve always wanted to see St. Anthony’s anyway.”

Florence, Arizona, a pretty town sprinkled with palm trees and saguaro cacti, sat surrounded by miles of desert, a gorgeous vineyard, and a world-famous olive orchard. It boasted a population of over 26,000, but about 17,000 of those were residents of the massive Arizona State Prison Complex.

An hour after arriving in the town, Sun and Quincy drove through the first set of gates the prison had to offer. The guard told them where to go and roughly how to get there, but once inside, his directions seemed convoluted. The place was a maze.

“It’s like a small town in here,” Quincy said, leading Sun this direction and that with an index finger. She decided to rename him the Pathfinder. Mostly because he got them totally lost.

“I think we’re lost,” she said. “We may have to make a run for it.”

“If we do, I’m using you for cover.” He pointed to an armed guard in a watchtower looking down at them, sunglasses in place, rifle at the ready.

“At least we’ll go out in a blaze of glory.”

“Well, a blaze at least. I thought New Mexico was hot. This is like the seventh level of hell.”

New Mexico was hot, they just happened to live in one of the cooler areas. Which, while still hot, 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.