Tod Goldberg - Gangsterland

Jeff thought Senior Special Agent Biglione, a man he’d known for the better part of five years, a man he’d gone fishing with the previous winter, a man who once confided in Jeff that what he really wanted to do with his life was become a pastry chef, took far too much joy playing the tape of Hopper telling Jennifer Cupertine that her husband was alive. “Is that your voice?” Biglione asked him when the tape concluded.

“You know it is,” Jeff said.

“This is unacceptable behavior,” Biglione said. “You’re aware of that, I would imagine?”

“Just give me the form,” Jeff said.

It took less than fifteen minutes, including the time it took the woman from Human Resources to give her speech about how he’d retain his full benefits but that he’d need to surrender his gun, his company laptop, his company cell phone, and his keys.

Jeff got into his Ford Explorer and tried to stifle a laugh. He was certain that someone, somewhere, was watching him (particularly since the parking lot was circled with cameras), and it just wouldn’t look right for him to be caught on film giggling after being put on paid administrative leave. All things being equal, this was the best possible turn of events for Jeff — he’d spent most of Thanksgiving copying the rest of the relevant materials from the files — and he could now look for Sal Cupertine without the burden of being an FBI agent. He’d find Sal Cupertine — and then what?

He didn’t even want revenge. He had no intention of killing Cupertine if he found him, though he had the sense that Cupertine wasn’t the kind of guy who would throw up his hands and say, “You got me!” if and when the time came. He simply wanted justice and to clear his name, not that he thought he could clear his name with the FBI — that ship had sailed, hit an iceberg, and sunk to the bottom of the ocean — but with Cupertine himself. The idea that Cupertine thought Jeff was a fool, was so stupid as to leave his own name on the bill, and that he surely thought he’d killed Jeff — either by shooting him in the face or choking the life out of him, face-to-face, Cupertine’s own saliva on the man’s forehead — enraged Jeff, kept him awake for three months, and wasn’t letting him rest even now.

Not that the FBI gave a shit. They had their body. They had their continuing investigation into the Family. No one other than Jeff was losing sleep.

Jeff pulled out onto Roosevelt and glanced over to the berm where he used to spend his lunches. There was so much to do, so many things to get started on, but the first thing was that he needed to get home and sweep out all the bugs. Probably sweep the car, too. Might as well yank the phone from the wall and do everything on the cell. . though, he’d need to get one of those, too. He had a gun, that wasn’t a problem. He had some money saved up, about twenty grand.

It wasn’t until Jeff Hopper turned down Morgan Street and saw the university dusted in the first significant snow of the season, saw the few students who were walking into the library on a holiday weekend, that he realized Matthew Drew had probably been fired.

Matthew Drew lived on the seventh floor of an apartment building in the Medical District, just a few miles from the FBI offices and down the street from the university, but it took Jeff an hour to figure that out. The FBI was good about hiding the addresses of their agents, so Jeff had to go about things the old-fashioned way: He had to try to remember the name of Matthew’s wife. He thought it was. . Sarah? Gina? Something like that. He spent thirty minutes outside on a campus pay phone, freezing his ass off, calling 411 and asking for different women’s names with the last name Drew. He’d then ask for the addresses, hoping to find one that was within a few miles of the offices, since he recalled that Matthew was able to get back and forth to the office within thirty minutes. He had two good leads — Trina Drew, that sounded right, and Nancy Drew, which couldn’t be possible, but the operator said someone with that name did in fact live in greater Chicago, and as an FBI agent he almost had to check that one out — before he decided to ask for information on Nina Drew and came up with an address just blocks away. That had to be it, he decided, and sure enough when he got to the apartment building and scrolled through the names on the security keypad he found it to be the home of both Matthew and Nina Drew.

He tapped in 713 and waited beside the intercom. There was a camera pointed directly at the door, which probably meant all the tenants had closed-circuit access. It was amazing to Jeff that things that were spy technology ten or fifteen years earlier were now regular amenities at middle-class apartment complexes. It also meant Matthew could decide whether or not he wanted to answer the door.

“Yes?” It was a young woman’s voice on the intercom. Nina, presumably.

“Yes, uh,” Jeff said, “this is Special Agent Hopper. I’m here to see, um, Agent Drew?”

“You should have been here yesterday then,” she said. That answered that. “Come on up,” she said, and then front door buzzed open.

Jeff spent the elevator ride trying to think of what he’d say to Matthew’s wife, and yet, when he knocked on their door and a young woman opened it, he found he had absolutely nothing to say. Part of this was because he still hadn’t settled on the exact words of his apology, and part of this owed to the fact that the young woman who opened the door looked very young. Eighteen, no older. Even though it was freezing outside, she had on only a white V-neck T-shirt and pink shorts, no socks or shoes. “Are you Nina?” Jeff said.

“Yeah,” she said, “come on in. Matt is in the shower.”

Jeff stepped into the apartment and looked around. There was a leather sofa pushed against one wall, a coffee table in front of it stacked with textbooks— Introduction to Western Civilizations, The Norton Anthology of Contemporary Fiction , a thesaurus — and two dirty plates. On the other side of the room was a papasan chair covered in magazines, a treadmill with dry cleaning, still in the bag, hanging from the hand bars, and a muted television, which sat on the floor. There was a VCR perched precariously atop the television and a Nintendo system on the floor beside it, along with a stack of games. On the TV was an old Harrison Ford movie, though Jeff couldn’t tell which one. He was either chasing someone or being chased, but with the sound off, it was impossible to tell.

There was a small galley kitchen and then two bedrooms separated by what Jeff presumed was the bathroom. He could hear a shower coming from the general vicinity. There was no evidence of any children.

“So,” Jeff said, “you’re Matthew’s. . wife?”

“Yuck, no,” Nina said. She plopped herself down on the leather sofa and picked up the Western Civilizations book. “I’m his sister.”

“Right,” Jeff said. “Where do you go to school?”

“UIC,” she said. “I just started, and it’s kicking my ass.”

“It gets easier,” Jeff said.

“You went there?”

“Graduate school,” Jeff said.

“Yeah, it’s totally different undergrad,” she said. “Everyone says the first two years are cake, that it’s just basic retard stuff — history, math, comp — and that when you get into your major, that’s when people jump out of buildings from the pressure and all that. So. Yeah. Not looking forward to that if I’m already underwater.”

A small bookshelf by the sofa was filled with books on criminology, forensic investigation, and counterinsurgency methods, and it also held framed photos of Matthew and Nina with their parents from a cruise, everyone posed in front of the ship’s bow. There were also photos of both kids playing lacrosse.