Part 27 (1/2)

”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.”