The Night Stalker_ A Novel of Suspense - James Swain [70]
“Who are you?” she asked through the glass.
“Sunshine 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 shift that hung to her ankles, no makeup, and was barefoot. Her eyes shifted 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 shirtless 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 hell 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 hell 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. 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