Sybil clapped into the phone, her excitement infectious.
9
If you sometimes look at people and think,
“Really? That’s the sperm that won?”
we have a whiskey sour with your name on it.
—SIGN AT THE ROADHOUSE
Quincy stomped into Sun’s office, his face redder than usual, his chest heaving. She’d been poring over the security footage from the hospital, trying to figure out what vehicle Wynn and his accomplice got into, but nothing was coming up. Either they’d changed into a disguise somewhere along their route, or they never left the hospital.
“How’s Cruz?” she asked before he could vent.
He pointed toward the locker room and said from between clenched teeth, “He took the extra shirt I had hanging outside my locker.”
“Cruz?” she asked, teasing him. She knew full well he was referring to a certain adorable masked bandit named Randy. At the moment, the shirt interested her more.
“What? No. Cruz is good. He’s asleep.”
“Okay, then why was your shirt hanging outside your locker?”
“It was drying. I swerved to avoid a squirrel this morning and had a run-in with a mocha latte. I had to change into my spare before we went to see Doug.”
Sun shook her head and tsk-tsked her chief deputy. “Raccoons. Squirrels. Mocha lattes. Is there anything you haven’t pissed off?”
“Whatever. Why would he take my shirt?”
“Maybe because it tasted like a mocha latte.”
He let out an aggravated breath. “Okay, where would he take my shirt? Where is that little shit?”
“Well, the last time Randy and I sat down for a one-on-one—”
“Never mind.” He started to stomp off, but Sun called out to him.
“Sit down, Chief,” she said, adding an edge to her voice. Not a particularly sharp one, but it worked.
Quincy walked back and took a seat across from her desk, slumping down like a kid in the principal’s office. Not that Sun would know anything about that. “What is going on with you?”
He edged up in the chair. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve been in a mood for three days. I know it can’t be about Levi stealing your cruiser.”
“So, you admit he stole it,” he said, his face practically screaming Gotcha.
Damn it. “No. And you’re deflecting.”
“Am not.”
“Are too.”
“Am not.”
She grabbed her letter opener to threaten him, but was interrupted. Probably for the best.
“Boss?”
They both looked over to see Poetry Rojas standing in the doorway.
“I hate to interrupt this stimulating conversation.”
“It’s okay.” She waved him in with the letter opener. “Why are you still here?”
“Trying to make a good impression.”
“Well, you are succeeding, mister.” She looked at Quincy and hooked a thumb toward Rojas, impressed.
“Also, Tía Darlene keeps trying to set me up with the new waitress at the diner, so I’m avoiding going home.”
“Figures. What’s up?”
He walked in and handed her a printout. “This is how you create a heart attack.”
She scanned the article he’d hunted down on a type of drug called digitalis. Rojas had been in prison, doing time in his twin brother’s stead after the authorities had accidentally arrested him. He knew how things worked at the big house, and anytime she needed info on the goings-on behind bars, for better or for worse, she went to him.
“So, heart attacks can be faked.”
“Not so much faked as induced,” he said. “According to his records, he did have a cardiac event. He had a specific enzyme in his blood that only occurs with a real heart attack.”
She gaped up at him. “You mean he gave himself a real heart attack?”
“I can’t say for certain, but I had a cellmate that did it once knowing he was on the Aryans’ hit list. Not to mention the precision in how the escape was coordinated, it just seems like a lot to organize at the last minute. How would he get word to his accomplice that quickly?”
“This is crazy,” she said, now angry at Wynn Ravinder. She hated to admit a fondness for the guy, but he was actively trying to take the blame for a death Levi caused, even though it was in self-defense while saving her seventeen-year-old ass. An ass she would kill for now that she’d gotten older.
“But how would he get his hands on this kind of medication?” Quincy asked, taking the printout she handed him.
“Clearly, you’ve never been to prison.”
“And neither have you,” Sun said, giving Rojas a conspiratorial wink. “On that note, however, you’re saying he could’ve gotten this drug somehow?”
“Rather easily. Smugglers can get almost anything into a prison. They’re very creative.”
“Wonderful.” She knew prisons were notorious for all kinds of contraband, but a drug that induces heart attacks?
“Thank you for this.”
“Sure thing.”
Someone rang at the security door. “Your dad,” he said. “I’ll let him in.”
“Sweet,” Quincy said. “Dinner.”
Sun pointed the letter opener at him. “Hold up there, Mr. Cooper.”
“Mr. Cooper? What’d I do now?”
“You have thirty seconds. What’s up?”
He sank down in the chair again, like a schoolboy being chastised. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Oh, my god, this must be good.” She leaned forward, so full of anticipation her stomach fluttered.
“Sun—”
“Don’t even.” She waved the letter opener in negation. “What’s bothering you?”
He sank even further into the chair and scrubbed his face. “I can’t talk about it here.”
This must be serious. “Does this have anything to do with the fact that one of your best friends died and you are now the caretaker for his teenaged son?”
“No.” He stood and started pacing. “Maybe a little. I don’t know.”
“Wait. Is this about Hailey Ravinder?”
“No. Not really. I don’t know. It’s just … It’s everything.”
“Quincy, if you are rethinking Cruz living with you—”
“No!” he said, turning toward her. “Not at all. That kid is amazing.”
“I agree, but it’s still a lot to take on.”
“I know. That’s not the issue.”
“Well, you’ve been out of sorts since before we found out about the poem he wrote, so I don’t think it’s that.”
“It’s not. It’s just…”
“Hey, Sunny.” Her dad walked in with an insulated bag. “Your mother sent over some vittles for you two. But there’s plenty if Deputy Rojas wants some.”
“Thanks, Dad. Why don’t you take that to the break room, Quince, while I have a word with my father. I’ll be there in a sec.”
“Sure thing,” he said, a curious glint in his eyes.