Free Cop Job by Chris Knopf

the floor. How would you know where it came from?” she said, then added, “It’s a download. A copy. They can’t know you’re rummaging around in the attic. Just stay off the web while you rummage.”
    “Why’s that?”
    “I don’t know. Ask Randall.”
    I looked at the drive, pausing over my work piece.
    “What’re we looking for?” I asked.
    “You’ll know it when you see it.”
    “You really don’t know.”
    “I don’t. I could do this all by myself, but four eyeballs are better than two.”
    She left the flash drive on the workbench on her way out. I ignored it for the rest of the day, concentrating as best I could on the cherry china cabinet.
    After freshening up in the outside shower, I walked across our common lawn to Amanda’s house—a creamy stucco- and blue-trimmed deal that looked like it’d been airlifted in from Provence. Amanda was out on her patio reading a thick, glossy publication issued by one of the bigger real estate agencies.
    “Scouting the competition,” she said, as I loaded up at the wet bar.
    “How do you stack up?”
    “Well in the running, buddy, if you filter out lovers of bad taste and ostentation.”
    “That covers a lot of territory.”
    “How was the woodshop?”
    “Productive, despite an appearance by Jackie Swaitkowski.”
    “More on Alfie Aldergreen?”
    “Sort of. Do you know how to work one of these things?” I asked, holding up the flash drive.
    “I do. What’s on it?”
    “Dossiers on confidential informants, past and present. Illegally obtained.”
    “Eek.”
    “I’d rather not make you an accomplice after the fact, but I don’t have a computer.”
    “I thought being an accomplice was the centerpiece of our relationship?”
    “Let’s boot it up.”
    We retired to her business office, an airy space with glass-topped furniture and white walls, darkened only by a shelf full of catalogs for building materials and household appliances.
    “Jackie said to stay off the Internet when you’re downloading or accessing this information,” I told her as she plugged the flash drive into a CPU on the floor.
    “How come?”
    “Some sort of security alchemy.”
    “That’s comforting.”
    After starting the machine and clicking around folders and files, she stood up and offered me the mouse.
    “Why don’t you drive the car,” she said.
    It took a moment to remember how to use the mouse and navigate the file structures, but I got there. Like riding a bicycle.
    “This isn’t so hard,” I said. “What’s everybody talking about?”
    “They aren’t.”
    The first layer of the file structure was by date. Within that, it was broken out by police jurisdiction, a complicated thing in New York State where geopolitical bureaucracies are configured like a Russian nesting doll—Southampton Village inside Southampton Town, inside Suffolk County, inside New York State. I went into Southampton Town, started on current investigations, and burrowed down from there.
    Two hours later, long after she’d wandered away, Amanda came into the office to announce dinner. I must have looked reluctant to move.
    “You have to eat, darling. Your fingers need their strength.”
    After a tasty, but nearly silent meal—my mind being too cluttered with police procedure and jargon to manage a coherent conversation—I went back to the computer.
    I was no stranger to the addictive properties of computer-aided research, but even I was surprised by how seductive it could be to rifle through utterly forbidden information. Another two hours passed before Amanda visited again, this time holding a big glass of vodka.
    “I’m trying to knock you out so you’ll abandon your new love and come to bed with me.”
    I looked up at her.
    “I need another couple hours.”
    “Wake me up,” she said, drifting back out of the room.
    I could see why CIs could be such a crucial resource. Joey Wentworth, like Lilly Fremouth, was a fountain of insider information on the shipping, handling, and