Chapter 2
“What’s the matter with you?” I asked Jack as he grimaced while chewing on his steak burrito.
We’d grabbed lunch at the Conch Cantina. It was a chill Mexican restaurant with a tropical vibe and great fajitas, of which I made a feast—steak seared and seasoned to perfection, grilled onions, yellow rice, sour cream, guacamole, pico, and dripping with cheese.
“My tooth hurts, and I keep forgetting to not chew on that side,” Jack said.
“I don’t know, just throwing this out there. Maybe you should go see a dentist.”
He sneered at me. “You think?”
I shrugged. “Seems like the logical thing to do.”
“They’re just going to try to sell me some procedure.”
“Maybe you need a procedure,” I replied dryly.
“I don’t need a procedure. I just need to give it time to calm down. Use fluoride or something.”
“That causes brain damage,” I teased.
He sneered at me again. “I’m using nano hydroxyapatite. Supposed to be better. Remineralize the enamel.”
“Is it working?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t been using it long enough.”
“Don’t let it go for too long.”
He gave me a flat look. “I’d rather not be a boat payment for my dentist. I’m beginning to think that’s all we are. Candidates for procedures. When was the last time you went to a doctor who didn’t try to sell you something?”
My phone buzzed with a call from Sheriff Daniels. I swiped the screen and answered. “What’s up?”
“Remember those jackasses that tried to rob the Five Fathoms?”
“How could I forget?”
It was an upscale restaurant that served surf-and-turf. I’d been present during the attempted lunch holdup.
“The accomplice that survived ratted out the getaway driver. Judge Echols signed off on a warrant. Let’s go pick the bastard up. Meet me at the station.”
“We’ll be there shortly,” I replied.
“You learn anything about Kendall Wilson?”
I gave him the scoop.
He groaned. “She’s probably in a dumpster.”
“Stay positive.”
He scoffed. “Around here?”
Don’t get me wrong, Coconut Key was a wonderful place. But something about it attracted every kind of degenerate. The sun, the sea, the endless possibilities. The bikinis.
I ended the call, and we shoveled the last few bites into our mouths. Jack picked up the tab, and we hustled out of the cantina.
We jogged down the sidewalk and hopped into Jack’s 1979 Porsche 911 SC in Light Blue Metallic. He fired up the classic car, put it into gear, and pulled away from the curb.
At the station, we met up with the sheriff and the rest of the tactical team. After a quick mission briefing, we headed over to the Pelican Bay Lofts with deputies Erickson, Faulkner, Robinson, and Mendoza. I think the sheriff was looking for some excuse to get out of the office.
The Pelican Bay Lofts were rundown. When I think of lofts, I think of wide open spaces, large windows, hardwood floors, and exposed brickwork.
These were faded coral cracker boxes on the wrong side of town.
There was no gated parking. Withered palm trees swayed overhead.
The grounds weren’t the worst I've seen, but the landscaping needed a little trimming, and the walkways could use some edging.
We hustled through the complex, weaving down the concrete pathway to Building D, and took the stairs up to unit #204.
Erickson and Faulkner hovered on the ground by the balcony, just in case the perp tried to make a run for it.
JD and I held up on either side of the front door with the sheriff.
I banged a heavy fist and shouted, "Coconut County! We have a warrant."
Mendoza didn't waste any time smashing the door with a battering ram. It swung wide, splintering the jamb, sending debris scattering. The door handle bounced off the foyer wall, leaving a nice hole.
I took point, flooding into the apartment with my pistol in the firing position. "Coconut County!" I shouted again, identifying myself.
I led the tac team down the laminated flooring, past the kitchen on my right, into the living room.
Evan sat on the sofa, watching TV. The kid had just taken a bong hit.
Talk about paranoia.
He just stared at us with wide eyes as we spilled into the living room and surrounded him.
It took him a second to process the situation.
When he did, he launched from the couch and darted to the balcony.
But in his panicked stupor, he forgot the glass door was closed and smacked right into it, face-first. It warbled and knocked his dumb ass to the ground.
By that time, JD and I lorded over him, the barrels of our pistols staring him in the face.
"What the fuck, man!?"
"You're under arrest for armed robbery," I said. "You have the right to remain silent…"
Jack slapped the cuffs around his wrists and yanked him to his feet.
He escorted Evan out of the apartment and down the steps, heading back to a patrol car.
The tray of weed on the coffee table and the bong were reasonable suspicion that there were more drugs in the apartment. He’d be charged for the robbery, but we figured we might as well add as much to it as possible.
In the bedroom closet, I found a trash bag full of weed, which was enough to put the guy away for a considerable amount of time, even if he didn't get convicted on the armed robbery bit. At this point, it was his word against his accomplice.
Evan had sat in the parking lot during the entire robbery, then took off when things went south. The valet had gotten a partial plate and the make of his car. It wasn't too hard to track down. His accomplice ratting him out sealed the deal.
Evan was taken down to the station, processed, printed, and put into an interrogation room. We didn't have to lean on him too hard to get him to crack.
That was case closed.
We filled out after-action reports in the conference room, and the day started to feel somewhat productive.
By the look on his face, Jack's tooth was still bothering him.
"You really ought to call and see about that," I said.
He frowned. “I’m considering it.”
The sheriff poked his head into the conference room. "I've got a job for you two.”
"Sorry. I’m all jobbed up about now," JD said. "Thank you."
The sheriff scowled at him. "This isn't optional."