The Apostle. J. Kerley A.

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       9

      I was crossing the parking lot when my phone rang: Belafonte.

      “Can we speak?” she said.

      “We are.”

      “I mean … meet somewhere? I really need to talk to you, hopefully today.”

      “Where are you?”

      “Flagami, tracking down information on Kylie.”

      “Gimme an address. Preferably a bar where I can get a decent beer.”

      “I’m, uh, in uniform.”

      “Go home,” I told her. “And await further instructions.”

      I hung up and pressed the fifth number down on my speed dial. Three rings.

      “Carson, what’s up?” Vince Delmara. He sounded beat.

      “What did you do to me, Vince?”

      “Belafonte? She’s all I could find, Carson. Really. Every detective or soon-to-be detective is beating the streets on Menendez. Did you see any news show last night? All they talked about was lack of progress. We’re in crash-and-burn mode here.”

      I sighed. “OK, Vince. But I gotta problem with Officer B.”

      “I figured. She’s smart like a whip, but I think she was born with a broomstick up her—”

      “Not that. She’s in uniform.”

      It took a second for Vince’s frazzled mind to grasp. “Shit, of course. I’ll get her reclassified as undercover. Anything else?”

      “Call and tell her when it’s done. I’m not sure she likes the sound of my voice.”

      Twenty minutes later my phone rang, Belafonte. “Detective Delmara just phoned. He said—”

      “I know. Jump into street clothes and let’s reconvene near a beer tap.”

      I drove over and parked outside a decent-looking place in West Buena Vista named the Sea Breeze – something of a stretch, since the bay was about fifteen blocks distant, but perhaps they meant during hurricanes. Belafonte pulled in two minutes later, driving a venerable Crown Victoria, a former cruiser, given that I could see the logo beneath the fading paint job supposed to cover the previous usage. I stepped out as she did, finding she’d transformed from officer to female, the creased brown uni now blue slacks and a white safari shirt buttoned to the top. Both the slacks and shirt had been pressed rigid. Her shoes were pumps with a two-inch heel. She looked like an advertisement for Sears, except Sears models tended to look happy.

      I passed by the bar, the woman behind it offering a smile and a “What you folks need? I’ll bring it over.”

      I glanced at the taps and I ordered an Eldorado IPA from the local Wynwood Brewing Co. Belafonte said, “A glass of water, Pellegrino if possible.”

      The joint was mostly empty and I angled toward a booth in a far corner, sat as Belafonte followed suit. I stared at her and offered my widest smile, receiving only an anxious look.

      “There’s something I wanted to say, Detective Ryder.”

      I stuck my fingers in my ears.

      “What are you doing?” she said.

      “I can’t hear you. My fingers are in my ears.”

      “Have you gone daft?”

      “I’m not going to listen until you order a freaking drink, Belafonte. Unless you’re a confirmed teetotaler or a recovering alcoholic, we’re going to sit here like two standard-issue cops and sip an honest and refreshing beverage while we talk.”

      “It’s not professional to drink during duty,” she said.

      “You’re now plainclothes, Officer Belafonte. It’s not professional to get drunk on duty, or otherwise impaired. I expect this case to take us to some pretty low places. We can’t go into a joint where people are banging down whiskey shots and order Pellegrino.”

      The big eyes challenged me as the waitress arrived with one beer, one fizzy Italian H₂0. “Will that be all?” she asked.

      “I’ve changed my mind,” Belafonte said, the eyes holding on me. “Please be so kind as to bring me a Rum Collins, light.”

      “Atta girl,” I said. “Now, didn’t you have something to discuss?”

      The big eyes dropped, came back up. “I should have gone with you to the procedure, Detective Ryder. I know nothing of autopsies. And never will unless I attend one.”

      “Stop by the morgue any day and tell Dr Davanelle I sent you. Now, what do you know about Kylie? Did she have a pimp?”

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