At the City's Edge by Marcus Sakey Page A

breakfast.’
    There was a long pause. Then Galway said, ‘You and he, you’re not –’
    ‘No.’ She spoke fast. ‘Definitely not.’
    ‘So what is this?’
    ‘I don’t know. Sounds like something is seriously chapping his ass. I gotta tell you, breakfast with him is about the only
     thing sounds worse than the data entry I was doing.’

    ‘I hear you.’ He sucked air through his teeth. ‘Look, be careful, all right? Things are bad enough for you as is. Don’t need
     Captain Hollywood messing with your head.’
    ‘Sergeant Galway,’ she said, smiling. ‘Are you trying to protect me?’
    ‘Hell no. I just don’t want to have to listen to you whine anymore than I have to.’
    Cruz laughed. ‘Who says chivalry is dead?’
    The restaurant off the lobby of the Peninsula Hotel was done rustic European style, like the kitchen of somebody’s grandma,
     provided Gramms lived in a five-hundred-dollar-a-night hotel. Donlan looked right at home, sitting at the antique table in
     a tailored suit and knockoff Rolex.
    ‘Elena,’ he said, flashing teeth like a Crest commercial. ‘Good to see you.’
    She felt that weird ripple, remnants of attraction mingling with anger and shame. They had agreed to be adult about the whole
     situation, which meant that she usually felt anything but. ‘Morning, Chief. How’s your family?’ She sat carefully, straightening
     her skirt and her smile.
    He looked like he was deciding whether she was insulting him. ‘When it’s just the two of us, you can still call me James.’
    ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
    ‘Why not?’
    She was saved from answering by the waitress. They
ordered, a danish for him, a quiche for her, the closest she was getting to huevos rancheros this morning.
    She’d come to Donlan’s attention six years ago. An offender had been strangling prostitutes, leaving the bodies in burned-out
     buildings and abandoned parks. Whore murders were notoriously hard to solve: no fixed address, few close relationships, plenty
     of opportunity. Nobody else was excited about the case, but she’d seen it as a chance to make her name. Worked it off the
     clock for months, finally catching a break when a Forty-seventh Street ’tute she’d given a card called with the license plate
     of a suspicious john. Cruz had asked what she meant by ‘suspicious.’
    ‘White,’ the girl had replied.
    ‘Lots of white johns.’
    ‘Not on Forty-seventh Street, sugar.’
    When they busted him, Cruz had earned her first newspaper ink, a commendation for her file, and the friendly interest of then-Lieutenant
     James Donlan. He was a politician, with a spotless record and a bright future, and Cruz knew the score. As a Hispanic woman,
     every success of hers translated into good PR for him. In return, he could give a little guidance, a reference when she needed
     one. In the CPD, it never hurt to have friends in high places. Everything was clean and above board.
    For a while.
    ‘How have you been?’ His voice soft.
    ‘Fine, Chief. Just fine. You?’
    ‘You don’t sound fine.’

    ‘How do I sound?’
    He shook his head. Brushed a piece of dust off his shirt, starched white broadcloth that shone like armor. ‘What are you working
     now?’
    She picked up her coffee, leaned back. Through the haze of steam, his features warped and shifted. ‘You don’t know?’
    ‘I asked, didn’t I?’ He spread his hands in exasperation. ‘Can’t we just have breakfast?’
    No
.
No, we cannot
. Adult, she reminded herself. They were going to be adult. She sighed. ‘I’m the official typist of Gang Intelligence.’ She
     told him about IAD’s investigation, about getting pulled off the street to work the database.
    He winced. ‘I heard about the IAD thing, but not about the demotion. I’m sorry.’
    ‘Me too.’
    ‘Anything I can do?’
    ‘No.’ At this point, nothing could hurt worse than help from him. She sighed. ‘You know the frustrating thing? I just want
     to do the