At the City's Edge by Marcus Sakey Page A

body equaled homicide. Which meant she had no place here. Technically, her job was just to babysit
     Palmer until the detectives arrived, at which point they’d tell her to head back to the station and work on her damn database.
    On the other hand, if this was a gang matter, no one could say it wasn’t her case.
    ‘You mentioned gangbangers.’ She jerked a thumb at a JJ Fish across the street. ‘Why don’t you let me buy you lunch, tell
     me about them?’
    ‘I…’ He paused, looked back toward a storefront extensions place. ‘No, I can’t. My nephew is here, and I’m worried.’
    She said, ‘You know how I made it sound like a choice?’
    He said, ‘Yeah?’
    She said, ‘It’s not.’
    ‘This is the name of a doctor at UC Hospital, the ER.’ Cruz wrote on the back of her business card. ‘Tell him I sent you,
     he’ll make time for your nephew today.’

    Jason reached across the table for it. ‘Thanks.’
    ‘No problem. You mentioned someone named “Soul Patch”?’
    ‘That’s not his name. I mean, I don’t know his name. That’s just what I called him.’
    ‘Who is he?’
    ‘I don’t know. Some sort of gang member. Gangbanger, I guess you call them.’
    ‘How do you know him?’
    ‘Yesterday he tried to kidnap me.’
    She sat quiet as he told the story, how he was jogging when a banger came at him with a gun, had tried to force Palmer into
     the car. How he’d gotten clear, and then come to make sure his big brother was okay. ‘You a martial-arts guy, take a lot of
     self-defense classes, that kind of thing?’
    ‘Huh?’
    ‘Well, I mean, you scuffle with two men, both of them armed, you get away…’
    ‘I’m a soldier.’ His voice steady and maybe a little proud.
    ‘What did these guys look like?’
    ‘Black,’ he said, not African-American, and she liked that he didn’t try to put on a show of how racially sensitive he was
     to impress the Latina. ‘One was maybe five and a half, stocky, weighed one-eighty or so. Wore a lot of gold. The one I called
     Soul Patch was about two inches shorter than me, and thin. He had tattoos on his arms and, well, a soul patch,’ holding his
     thumb and forefinger up to pinch his chin.

    Which, between the two, described about half the boys in the Gang Intelligence files. ‘Anything notable about the tattoos?’
    ‘I didn’t get that good a look. A star with letters inside, maybe “GD”?’
    Gangster Disciples. She felt a quickening in her stomach. She had pictures of a lot of them. If he could ID the men who came
     for him, she could shut this thing fast, maybe earn her way off the database and back on the street. Plus get a little justice
     for Michael Palmer, with his good kid and his good handshake. ‘Would you recognize them?’
    He nodded, looked out the window at the fire investigators picking through the ruins of the bar, lawnmowering back and forth
     like they were searching for a lost contact lens. ‘I never expected to see this again.’ His voice low and soft, like he didn’t
     realize he was speaking.
    ‘Again?’ She looked up.
    ‘I was in Afghanistan, and then Iraq.’ He picked up a fry, swirled it in ketchup like he was mixing paint on a palette. ‘When
     I first got there, I couldn’t believe the destruction. Whole blocks of apartment complexes where the walls had been knocked
     out, you could see right into people’s homes, their kitchens. A lot of the Humvees have mounted Mark-19s, that’s a grenade
     launcher, and they just demo the shit out of a building. And these beautiful mosques. Once the insurgents figured out we were
     trying not to damage mosques, they started sniping at us from the towers.
So we had to light them up too.’ He shook his head. Dropped the fry, picked up another, poked listlessly at the pile. ‘Everywhere
     you went there were these piles of rock and ash. Something was always burning. Always. IEDs, insurgent mortars, trash fires.’
     His eyes seemed clouded. ‘I expected everyone