“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 upon 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.
