She saw their latest blasphemer out, then locked herself in her office to make a call. To make the call.
After being transferred, put on hold, and transferred again, a female came onto the line with a short, to-the-point, “Danforth speaking.”
“Yeah,” Sun said, lowering her voice, “I was wondering if you’re naked.”
A high-pitched squeal nigh burst her eardrum. “Sunshine! Is it really you?”
“It is if you’re naked.”
“Oh, my God, how are you? How’s the sticks? How’s Auri? Is she willing to cut off her hair so I can make a wig out of it yet?”
Sun laughed. “Not yet, but I think I’m wearing her down.”
“Holy shit, it’s good to hear your voice.”
Nancy Danforth was a hot mess who’d gotten Sun into more trouble than she had a right to back in the day. She’d started at the forensics lab at the New Mexico Department of Public Safety around the same time Sun started with Santa Fe PD. After a particularly brutal reaming they’d both received concerning a tainted blood sample—an incident that turned out to be neither of their faults—they’d bonded over a glass of wine and a case of Thin Mints.
Not a box. A case.
And they’d been close ever since.
“What did I do to finally warrant a call from you? I was beginning to think you’d lost your voice, what with all the texts I get.”
Sun cringed. “I’m sorry, Nancy. Turns out, sheriffing is a full-time gig. Who knew?”
“I’m so proud of you, Sun.”
“Thanks, love. But you and I both know I didn’t do a thing.” Nancy was one of the few people Sun had trusted enough to tell the truth about the election.
“Doesn’t make it any less awesome. Oh!” she said before lowering her voice and asking, “Is this about the you-know-what?”
Sun took a swig of coffee for courage, and said, “Yes, it is. Have you had a chance—”
“I have.”
Normally Sun’s stomach was made of stouter stuff, but it lurched at the thought of what was about to be revealed. “And … was there a match?”
“There was.”
Sun fought a wave of dizziness and chalked it up to her hangover when really it had more to do with the fact that Wynn was lying. He had to be. Somehow, he knew all—or most—of the sordid details of that night fifteen years ago, but the more Sun thought about it, the less she believed him.
If he really did know Kubrick’s accomplice, he could’ve gotten everything from him. And with Levi’s ID bracelet clutched in Kubrick Ravinder’s hand, there was almost no way Levi was not involved. She just didn’t know to what degree. Nor to what end.
Nancy rustled some papers, then asked, “Are you ready for this?”
“As I’ll ever be.” She held her breath as Nancy spoke.
“You were right. The blood on Kubrick Ravinder’s jacket belonged to another Ravinder.”
Sun’s lids drifted shut.
“His brother. Wynn Ravinder.”
Sun sat silent for a solid minute, blinking back the encroaching darkness. He hadn’t been lying.
When she didn’t respond, Nancy continued. “Seems he’s an inmate in the Arizona State Pen. Do you know him?”
She sank against the back of her chair. “We’ve only recently become acquainted.”
“Well, there’s about a gallon of blood that places him at that crime scene.”
“And …and you’re sure?” Sun asked.
“Admittedly, DNA evidence is not as exact a science as the public would believe, but yeah. He’s your guy, Sun. No doubt.”
“Holy shit.”
“Holy shit, indeed. I’ll get this report to you today. When are you coming to see me?”
She fought through another wave of disbelief, then teased her with, “Call me when you’re naked.”
Nancy giggled and hung up.
Sun walked through a cloud of euphoria and into the bullpen.
“I’m winning!” Salazar said to her. “Confession number fourteen puts me on top.”
Both Salazar and Zee had come in while she was on the phone. Zee cast them both a saucy grin, as though she knew something no one else in the station did.
That fact didn’t faze Sun. Somehow she made it to Quincy’s desk, but her BFF—whom she now knew every inch of—was watching Rojas as he walked to the front door to meet his tia Darlene.
Quincy depressed the TALK button on his radio and said, “Poetry is in motion. Repeat, Poetry is in motion.” He chuckled and turned to Sun. “I’ve been waiting for days to say that.” When he got a look at her, however, he sobered and jumped to his feet. “What’s up, boss?”
Darlene Tapia, Poetry Rojas’s honorary aunt, had brought a basket of homemade breakfast burritos for him and the gang. She handed it over, wrapped the uniformed deputy in her arms, and said, “I am so proud of you, mijo.” She set him back, licked her fingers, and tried to tame a recalcitrant cowlick with her spit.
“Tia,” he said, feigning embarrassment, but he loved it. He adored the woman. Even though she’d only been a neighbor, not a blood relation, she’d practically raised him and his twin brother.
“Boss?” Quincy repeated.
“They got a match.”
His face morphed into a grim expression. “Ravinder?”
“Yes, but not the one we expected.”
“No way.”
She shook her head, still in disbelief. Why? Why would Wynn Ravinder come to her rescue? Why would he kill his own brother trying to save her, if that was what really happened?
He sank back into his chair. “He was telling the truth.”
“Looks like it.”
Quincy stabbed her with a glare. “Then he was in on it. Your abduction. He had to be. Things went south and he and Kubrick fought. You can’t tell me he went there to save you.”
“I don’t know, Quince. None of it makes any sense. There is a part of him that seems …almost noble.”
“You keep saying that, but nobility in that family borders on psychopathic.”
A knock on the front window sounded. Sun and Quincy looked over at Carver. The exterminator waved enthusiastically and pointed to his phone.
Sun lifted hers to read a text from him, inviting her to lunch. She groaned.
Quincy read it over his shoulder. “He’s persistent.”
She typed back, Huge case. Rain check? She hit SEND then waved back at him.
He read it and his manic expression faded. After texting her a thumbs-up, he waved goodbye, a sad, dejected thing.
Rojas walked up. “Want me to take him out?”
“Someone needs to,” Quincy said. “He clearly hasn’t gone out with anyone since the aughts. Is that how he dressed on your date?” he asked Sun.
“What? No. That’s his uniform.”
The guy had been wearing a pair of stained gray overalls with his signature four Cs on an embroidered patch and carrying an aluminum spray can and nozzle.
“What’s up, Rojas?” she asked Poetry when he continued to linger.
“I’ve gone over the footage from the Quick-Mart and it’s impossible to get an ID on the man our victim was arguing with.