Jack paid the tab, and we hustled out of the bar. I knew the sheriff would be calling soon. We jogged to the Porsche, hopped in, and sped over to Sandpiper Point.
Lights from emergency vehicles flashed and flickered. EMTs and paramedics were on scene, triaging Darrell. A crowd of curious onlookers had gathered.
JD found a place to park. We hopped out of the Porsche and hustled down the dock to the gruesome scene.
Off-camera, Paris still jittered with nerves.
The cameraman filmed as emergency responders attempted to save Darrell's life.
"Are you okay?" I asked Paris.
She nodded.
"Did you get a look at the assailant?"
"It was Sarah Sweet's father, Jacob.”
"Are you sure about that?”
"Positive. He was wearing a hoodie and a bandanna over his face, but I saw his eyes. It was him. He has that tattoo of her name on his inside right wrist."
The sheriff had arrived. He put a BOLO out on Mr. Sweet.
The EMTs managed to stabilize Darrell. They transferred him to a gurney and hustled him down the dock to the ambulance. They loaded him into the back of the meat wagon, closed the doors, and blasted the sirens as they rolled out of the parking lot.
Of course, Paris didn't miss the opportunity to get on camera and say a few words with flashing lights in the background. "We just witnessed the shocking attempted murder of Darrell York. He is currently en route to Coconut General. We will update you on his condition as the situation develops. I’m Paris Delaney, and you heard it from me first."
She and her crew followed us to the station and made sworn affidavits. We were able to get an arrest warrant for Jacob Sweet.
We put together a tactical team and headed over to his house. He lived with his wife in Papaya Park. It was a quaint little cottage home with mint green siding, white trim, and a well-manicured lawn with a picket fence.
Jack pulled to the curb, and squad cars parked behind us. We all hopped out, stormed through the gate, and marched to the front porch. Decked out in tactical gear with bulletproof vests and AR-15s, it might've been overkill for Jacob. But we weren't taking any chances. Jacob was armed and had proven himself dangerous.
Mendoza and Robinson covered the front porch with us while Erickson and Faulkner made their way around to the rear of the house.
I banged on the door and shouted, "Coconut County! We have a warrant!"
With a heave of the battering ram, the jamb splintered, and the door swung wide.
The tac team flooded into the house, weapons shouldered. I announced our presence once again. We entered the foyer, cleared the parlor, and advanced to the living room.
Mrs. Sweet launched from the couch and shrieked in horror.
"Hands in the air! Now!”
With angry barrels staring her down, she complied.
The large flatscreen TV was tuned to a news channel, replaying the events of the shooting. I wondered if she knew her husband was the man on TV. Did she know what he intended to do? Was she part of the conspiracy?
“Where’s your husband?” I demanded.
She stammered, “I don’t know.”
The rest of the team flooded through the house, clearing bedrooms and bathrooms. They rejoined us in the living room.
Mendoza shook his head. "He's not here."
"Where's Jacob?" I asked his wife again.
