The Night Stalker_ A Novel Of Suspense Part 27

"That's right. Based upon past experience, she'll probably lose it when we arrest her. We have to make sure she doesn't harm the child when that happens. We also have to make sure her husband or boyfriend doesn't go ballistic on us. She's sucked him into this lie, and he probably thinks that Martin is his son."

The sounds of cras.h.i.+ng waves filled the air. It was the ring tone to Burrell's cell phone, and she answered it. Moments later she had a pen out, and was scribbling on a napkin. She said, "Got it," and ended the call.

"A woman named Teresa Rizzoli reported a home birth to her doctor this morning," Burrell said. "This same woman also filed a prescription for albuterol and theophylline at the pharmacy in her neighborhood. Now here's the clincher. The detective who called me ran a background check, and discovered this same woman got arrested for shoplifting last month. Guess what she got caught stealing?"

"Baby clothes," I said.

Burrell yelped so loudly it made the people in the next booth jump.

"d.a.m.n it, can't I get anything by you?" she asked.

Teresa Rizzoli lived in a development called Weston. We decided to take one car, and Burrell drove her Mustang across the clogged lanes of 595 and down the pitched exit ramp. Burrell had called for backup before leaving the restaurant, and I looked for a cruiser as we neared Rizzoli's apartment building.

In Fort Lauderdale, a good parking place had everything to do with shade. Burrell parked in a cool spot next to Rizzoli's building, and we both got out. The air was still, and we stood beneath the building's canopy. Burrell checked her watch.

"Where's a cop when you need one?" she asked half-jokingly.

"I'll be your backup," I said.

"Are you armed?"

"Yes."

Burrell considered it. "All right, but don't draw your weapon unless I do. While I'm arresting Rizzoli, I want you to find little Martin Wakefield and get him safely out of the apartment. I'll deal with the rest."

"You're the boss."

"And watch your dog. I don't want him biting anyone."

Buster was glued to my leg, and I looked down at him.

"Hear that, boy?" I said. "No biting."

"You're a funny guy, Jack."

Burrell clipped her badge to her purse, and I followed her down a breezeway filled with bikes and baby carriages. She stopped at apartment 78, and banged on the door with her fist. Next to the door was a window with curtains draped across it. The curtains stirred, and a woman's face appeared. I moved my body to block Burrell from her view.

"Teresa Rizzoli?" I asked.

The woman looked at me suspiciously. Italian with a pleasantly plain face, she fit the description Lonna Wakefield had given.

"Who are you?" she asked through the gla.s.s.

"Suns.h.i.+ne Florists. I've got a delivery of flowers for Teresa Rizzoli."

Her face melted into a dreamy smile. "Really?"

"Yes, ma'am. Two dozen red roses for Teresa Rizzoli. They're going to wilt if you don't get them into some cold water."

Rizzoli pulled away from the window, and we listened as the deadbolt on the front door was thrown, and several security chains pulled back.

"That was mean," Burrell whispered.

"Mean works," I replied.

Rizzoli opened the door expecting something wonderful. What she got instead was a detective's badge shoved in her face, and Burrell informing her that she was under arrest for the kidnapping of Martin Wakefield. Rizzoli backed up into the living room of her apartment. She wore a black s.h.i.+ft that hung to her ankles, no makeup, and was barefoot. Her eyes s.h.i.+fted between Burrell and me.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she protested.

Burrell removed handcuffs from her purse. "Put your hands where I can see them."

"You're making a mistake," Rizzoli said.

A baby's cries came from the back of the apartment, and my dog took off. I started to follow, and Rizzoli sprang toward me with her hands extended like claws. I ducked just in time to save my eyes from being gouged, and wrestled her to the couch. I got her arms behind her back, and Burrell cuffed her.

"Get the baby," Burrell said.

I followed the cries down a hallway to a bedroom and halted in the doorway. The bedroom's walls were painted sky blue, and contained dancing unicorns and fire-breathing dragons straight out of a fairy tale. The floor was a minefield of baby toys, and I hopped over them to reach the crib in the corner.

"Hey, kiddo," I said.

Martin Wakefield lay in the crib, punching the air with his tiny fists. He didn't weigh more than five pounds, and had expressive eyes and a head full of dark hair. As I lifted him into my arms, Buster sniffed his diaper and whined approvingly.

I held Martin against my chest and started down the hall. A door in front of me opened, and a s.h.i.+rtless guy with a beer belly came into the hall. He looked half-asleep, and his eyes went wide in disbelief.

"What are you doing with my son?" he asked.

"I can explain," I said.

"Like h.e.l.l you can."

He ducked back into the room. Seconds later he reappeared holding a.38 Smith & Wesson, which he aimed at my head.

"Give me my son," he said.

Guns frighten me as much as anyone else. The trick was not to show it.

"Are you Teresa Rizzoli's husband?" I asked.

"What if I am?"

"I'm with the police," I said. "There's a detective in the living room with your wife. She'll explain everything to you."

"Give me my son or I'll shoot you."

"Please don't do that. You might hurt Martin."

"Who the h.e.l.l is Martin?"

I looked down at the baby cradled in my arms. "His name is Martin Wakefield. He was born at Broward General Medical Center a few days ago. A woman matching Teresa Rizzoli's description stole him from his mother this morning."

His face twisted in confusion. Like he'd known something wasn't right. Like he'd known something wasn't right. Without another word, he moved backward down the hall, then sideways into the living room. Without another word, he moved backward down the hall, then sideways into the living room.

"Police! Drop your gun!" a pair of voices rang out.

I ran down the hallway clutching Martin to my chest, and halted at the entrance to the living room. Two of Broward County's finest stood by the front door, pointing their guns at Teresa Rizzoli's husband, who had not complied with their warning.

"No!" I yelled out.

Burrell had wrestled Teresa to the floor, and was sitting on her.

"Don't shoot him," Burrell said.

Rizzoli's husband stood in the center of the living room with a dazed expression on his face. I came into his line of sight, and held my hand out for his gun. I was taking a huge risk, but I didn't want to see him die because the woman he loved had lied to him.

"Give me your weapon," I said.

His face twisted in shock and his chin sagged.

"Did you steal this little baby, Teresa?" he asked his wife. "You gotta tell me the truth."

"Yes," Teresa said, still lying on the floor. Teresa said, still lying on the floor.

"He's not ours?"

"No."

"Oh, sweet Jesus," he said.

He dropped his gun into my hand. The uniforms rushed across the living room, and shoved him against the wall. I laid the gun on the couch, and took Martin into the breezeway. The baby had started to cry, and I rocked him against my chest.

"Welcome to the world," I said.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN.

I remained in the breezeway with Martin while the police arrested Teresa Rizzoli and her husband, and read them their rights. As the police led the Rizzolis past me, Teresa stopped to look lovingly at the child she'd tried to make her own. remained in the breezeway with Martin while the police arrested Teresa Rizzoli and her husband, and read them their rights. As the police led the Rizzolis past me, Teresa stopped to look lovingly at the child she'd tried to make her own.

"I gave him his meds at noon," she said. "He's not due again until four. I used to be a physician's a.s.sistant. I know what I'm doing."

"How was his coughing?" I asked.

"It was okay. I was going to take him to a doctor this afternoon."

One of the cops pushed Teresa down the breezeway, and I went into the apartment. Burrell was talking to Martin's real mother on her cell phone. She placed the phone next to the baby, and I tickled Martin's belly and made him giggle. Through the phone I heard Lonna Wakefield laugh and cry at the same time. Burrell lifted the phone to her face.

"We're bringing your baby back to the hospital. See you soon."

"Thank you, thank you!" Lonna Wakefield shouted through the phone.

Burrell folded her phone. "Let's go."

"Not so fast. He's got a smelly diaper."

"We'll lower the windows."

"Great. I'll drive and you hold him."

"On second thought, let's change his diaper."

We went to the baby's bedroom, where I laid Martin on a changing table and began to undress him. When Jessie was born, I stayed home for two weeks and got to know my kid. I hadn't lost my touch at changing a diaper, and Martin was soon good to go. As I picked him up, Burrell's cell phone rang. She looked at the caller ID and groaned.

"The mayor?" I asked.

"Who else?" Burrell said.

"Don't talk to him."

"Why not? I've finally got some good news to share."

"He'll go to the hospital, and steal your thunder."

"You really think he'd do that?"

"Absolutely. You rescued this baby and deserve the credit, not him."

"Let's be honest, here. You You rescued him, Jack." rescued him, Jack."

I handed Burrell the baby. "The official version of events is that you found him. I was along for the ride. Got it?"

Burrell shot me a funny look. She was honest to a fault, which could be a real character flaw when you were rising up the ranks of the police department.

"Whatever you say," she said.

I drove Burrell's Mustang to Broward General Medical Center with Burrell in the backseat cradling Martin. I normally paid scant attention to the insane traffic that defined Broward's highways, but today there was more at stake, and I put Burrell's flasher on the dash and turned it on. The spinning blue light had a magical effect, with cars slowing down to safe and normal speeds. A block from the hospital, I glanced at Burrell in the mirror.

"You ready?" I asked.

"For what?" she replied.