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 amp; 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 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.
“I gave him his meds at noon,” she said. “He’s not due again until four. I used to be a physician’s assistant. 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.”
