The Night Stalker_ A Novel of Suspense - James Swain [69]
“Now I get it,” he said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
A toasted bagel was waiting for me when I slipped into the booth at Village Inn. Burrell had also ordered a pot of coffee, and was pouring herself a fresh mug.
“You remembered,” I said.
“Jack’s rules,” she said. “First one orders.”
I bit into my bagel. Back when I was a cop, I’d established a number of different rules for the detectives in my unit, one of which was that the first person to a restaurant was required to order for everyone else. It was a great time saver and also forced each detective to be familiar with the others’ preferences.
“I would have ordered for your dog, but I don’t know what he likes,” Burrell said.
“That’s easy,” I said. “He likes doggie bags.”
She smiled at my joke. “I want to hear why the woman who apprehended the Wakefield baby is dangerous. You said she probably isn’t a criminal. Arresting someone like that should be easy.”
“Not necessarily,” I said. “She’s been living a lie for the past nine months. That makes her dangerous.”
“What do you mean, living a lie?”
“She plans to keep Martin, and claim him as her own child. Babies don’t fall out of the sky. Nine months ago, she told her husband and friends and her family that she was pregnant. She’s been living that lie ever since.”
“And by arresting her, we’re going to shatter that lie.”
“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 crashing 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.
“Damn 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