The Night Stalker (18 page)

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 Lonna Wakefield had given.

“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 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.”

“You really think he’d do that?”

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

“Let’s be honest, here.
You
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.

“My guess is, Jimmie and Lonna Wakefield have told everyone in the hospital the good news. It probably leaked out, which means the hospital is swarming with reporters. You’re about to become everyone’s favorite cop.”

“Is that a problem?”

“It all depends on how you handle it. Have you ever held a news conference before?”

Burrell shook her head.

“I’ll give you some pointers. Make sure you have the parents with you, plus the hospital staff. You want smiling faces standing behind you. This is a joyous event. The baby’s fine, the parents are happy, life is wonderful.”

“Make it into a celebration,” Burrell said.

“Exactly. Also make sure that you have the reporters’ credentials checked before you start. There are a lot of nuts out there, and you don’t want someone lobbing a crazy question at you, especially if there are cameras rolling.”

“No nuts.”

“That’s right. Now, here’s the tricky part. How do you talk about Teresa Rizzoli? The reporters will want to know how you plan to prosecute her.”

“Why is that tricky? She stole a baby.”

“You still don’t want to demonize her. There are plenty of women who can’t have children who can empathize with her situation.”

“Don’t speak about her like she’s a criminal.”

“Exactly. Tell them she’s a confused woman, and that police psychologists will be dealing with her. I wouldn’t mention the charges she’s facing, or that she might do hard time.”

“What about her husband pulling the gun on us?”

“I wouldn’t mention that, either.”

“Keep it upbeat, huh?”

“Happy time,” I said.

I pulled into the hospital’s emergency entrance in the back of the building, and threw the Mustang into park. Getting out, I walked around and opened Burrell’s door. She smiled at me with her eyes as she climbed out with the baby.

“One more thing,” I said.

“What’s that?” she said.

Burrell’s detective’s badge was still clipped to her purse. I removed it, shined it on my sleeve, then pinned it on her chest so it was in plain sight.

“Just so everyone knows who’s in charge,” I said.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

I
parked and went inside the hospital. There was a pharmacy on the first floor, and I strapped myself into the free blood pressure machine to check my blood pressure and pulse. I’d had guns pointed in my face before, and I knew how it affected me.

My blood pressure and pulse were both sky high. I went to my car, popped James Taylor’s greatest hits into my tape deck, and started petting my dog. After a while, I started to feel better. Then my cell phone rang.

“I just wrapped up my news conference,” Burrell said. “You should come inside. The Wakefields want to thank you.”

“Tell them I’ll take a rain check,” I said.

“What’s wrong?”

“There’s another little boy who needs to be rescued.”

“I’ll be out in five minutes.”

I drove Burrell to the Village Inn to retrieve my car, and neither of us spoke a word. Then I followed her to police department headquarters on Andrews Avenue. Finding a parking space, I rolled down the windows for my dog.

“I’ve had every detective from Missing Persons tracking down the Armwood hotels in Fort Lauderdale,” Burrell said as we crossed the lot. “I didn’t forget our deal.”

“I know you didn’t,” I said.

Burrell had me cleared at the reception desk, and we headed upstairs to the War Room on the top floor. The War Room was used as a communications center during emergencies like hurricanes and wildfires, and was outfitted with a bank of telephones and a wall of high-resolution TVs. It also had a panoramic view of the county. Although the building was smoke-free, people still occasionally smoked in the War Room, and a recent cigarette lingered in the air as we entered. Standing around an oval table were the six detectives from my old unit.

“Good afternoon,” Burrell said.

They broke out of their huddle. A detective named Tom Manning was holding a remote. He pressed a button, and on every TV appeared a clip of Burrell from the news conference. The detectives broke into applause.

“Thank you very much,” Burrell said. “Now, I’d like to hear what progress you’ve made tracking down Armwood hotels.”

A sunburned detective named Bob Smith stepped forward. Smith was the first detective I’d ever hired, and he knew how to get things done. He pointed at the map of south Florida spread across the oval table. The map was covered in red thumbtacks, and there were a lot of them.

“We were in the process of identifying all the Armwood Guest Suite Hotels in south Florida when you walked in,” he said.

“How many have you found?” I asked.

“Ninety,” Smith replied.

The number gave me pause. Tim Small had indicated there were forty Armwood hotels in south Florida. Searching forty hotels for a kidnapped child was manageable; searching ninety wasn’t.

“I was told there were less,” I said.

“It’s an inflated number,” Smith said.

“What do you mean, inflated?” Burrell asked.

“At one time, Armwood owned forty hotels in south Florida,” Smith explained. “Then their parent company bought another chain of hotels called Leisure Inns, which were quite big. When Armwood got sold, the Armwood properties and Leisure Inns were listed on the bill of sale under the Armwood name. We’re working off the bill of sale, because it’s the only record we could find.”

“So fifty of those thumbtacks are Leisure Inns, only you have no way of knowing which ones,” I said.

“That’s right,” Smith said.

I turned to Burrell. “Can we search all of them?”

“We’ll have to,” she said.

“There’s another problem,” Smith said.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Many of these hotels are welfare houses and crack dens, and are dangerous places,” Smith said. “We’re going to need a small army to properly search them.”

“Define small army,” I said.

“If we’re going to conduct the searches at the same time, which is the best way to go, we’ll need a few hundred people at least,” Smith replied.

“Do we have that kind of manpower available?” I asked Burrell.

“Let me find out,” she said.

While Burrell made some calls, I talked with the detectives from my old unit. I’d had little contact with them since leaving the force. The case that had cost me my job had cast a dark cloud over Missing Persons, and I hadn’t wanted to hurt their careers by staying in touch. But I still cared about them, and always would.

Burrell hung up the phone and came over to where we stood.

“No go,” she said. “Every available cop is searching for Jed Grimes.”

“What about FBI or FDLE agents?” I asked.

“They’re looking for Jed, too,” she said.

It was rare for three different law enforcement agencies to search for a single suspect, and I suspected that Special Agent Whitley had convinced them that Jed was responsible for the bodies in the landfill. Cops worked on priorities, and right now, finding Sampson wasn’t as urgent as finding his father.

Except to me.

I studied the map. The two men who were holding Sampson hostage were known drug enforcers. That made it likely that they would use a crack den as their hideout.

“Which of these hotels are crack dens?” I asked.

Smith pointed out the known crack dens. Lonnie Lowman had said that Sampson was being kept in Fort Lauderdale, so I removed all the thumbtacks on the map except for the known crack dens in Broward. There were seven.

“Sampson is being held in one of these locations,” I said.

“Are you sure?” Burrell asked.

“Positive. The eight of us should be able to find him.”

Burrell looked at the map, then shook her head. “We need to know which hotel Sampson is in. If we raid one, and he’s not there, the drug dealers will get on their cell phones, and alert their friends. We could end up getting ambushed if we’re not careful.”

“What are you suggesting?” I asked.

“We wait until we have more people, then raid them all at once,” Burrell said.

“How long will that be?”

“I wish I could tell you, Jack.”

I tried to imagine Sampson Grimes living in a crack den. The kid was a survivor, but I didn’t see him lasting forever in an environment like that. No one could.

I kicked a trash can across the War Room on my way out the door.