She got off at Lincoln Road.
He got out, too, following her at a deliberate distance as she exited right, then turned left at the corner. He crossed to the other side of Ocean, ducking behind the park’s stone barrier when she climbed the steps of a large and immaculate limestone, gold paint over the door reading 170 Ocean Avenue. She disappeared inside using her own key.
He sat on the first bench he found, only a block or so from his own apartment building at 60 Ocean; in fact, his car was just a few feet away. He knew this house, even though he’d been in the neighborhood only two months. Everyone knew this house. There seemed to be an effervescent fountain of youth within, hiccupping out an unending stream of stylish women onto Ocean Avenue every morning. It was noticeable even from within the running trails in the park, which was where he’d first spied what the barista at the nearby coffee shop called the “Honey Pot.”
Hutton smiled to himself. Of course she is connected to the Honey Pot. He briefly wondered how many other men had sat on this exact park bench, watching that exact door, then considered his options. It was after eight and she’d had a Whole Foods bag: probably dinner. There was time. He walked to the Lefferts Tavern, ordering a plate of enchiladas and sipping a Lagunitas as he leafed back through the Whitney file.
Hillary’s credit report listed only one previous address where she had resided from 2002 to 2011: 170 Ocean Avenue, the building Cat had just walked into. No apartment number, just the building. He pulled out his phone and searched the address. Google identified the last recorded sale in 1990 for $92K. It must be worth millions now, he thought.
RAGE had certainly been an aesthetically overwhelming environment, but the employees seemed productive and rational. Catherine Ono had left work at a normal-ish hour that evening, clearly had a social life, and appeared to be in good health, if a little pale. Cooper’s tense environment wasn’t a good enough explanation for Hillary Whitney’s stress-induced heart attack, not to mention the postcard with a cryptic note sent the same day she died. There had to be something he was missing.
He finished his enchiladas, dropped a twenty on the table, and walked back out to the park, keeping his distance from the sidewalk as three women lurched out of a Bentley limousine that had pulled up in front of 170 Ocean. After a few tries they managed to unlock the front door. He sat down on a bench, slightly farther away than his previous perch, and waited. Later a thin, white-haired man emerged from the basement apartment holding a bottle of wine. He, too, unlocked the large front door with his own key. Multiple tenants of the same gender and age range on the upper floor in what appeared to be a single unit; an elderly man in a lower unit. It wasn’t unusual to see so many people occupying the same space, not in New York, not now; but for women like Catherine Ono and Hillary Whitney to live all the way out here, in this house on the bad side of the park, as long ago as 2002, though they likely had the money to live elsewhere…he didn’t understand, which meant there had to be something he was missing. Hutton considered his options. Realistically, what could be resolved by camping out here? He took out his notebook and jotted down 170 Ocean, no sale since 1990? (confirm rec.), keys owned by Catherine Ono, girl with afro, white-haired man in basement. known as honey pot, ask around, H.W. resident 02–11.
Hutton pulled out a pack of Camels and lit one, taking a long drag. What would Catherine do next? Take a car service home, probably—he couldn’t think of an easy subway route to Bushwick from here. He could contrive to run into her on the street, but it was probably already too late and too dark for that to work. There was no reasonable explanation for him to be on that part of the block; his apartment was in the other direction from the subway. Scaring her wouldn’t help.
Hutton already had more information than he’d had three hours ago. Time to give up. He walked home, nodded to the doorman, and took the elevator up to his apartment. After flicking on the light switch in the foyer, he threaded his way through the half-empty-box maze left behind by his apathetic, single-serving attempt at unpacking, and settled down on the living room sofa, an extra-long sectional he’d picked blindly out of a catalog after determining it was long enough to sleep on and dark enough to spill beer on.
Hutton opened his laptop and loaded an old episode from season three of The X-Files, content to fall asleep there. He didn’t care whether he slept in his bed, on the sofa, or upright in a chair; it was all the same to him.
But two episodes later he was still awake. He reached for his gym bag to pull on his running shorts and shoes before taking a whiff of his rancid T-shirt. The smell was perverse, unwearable. He balled it up and threw it in the corner.
Hutton told himself that he’d just hit the park loop once and then go to sleep. But after a mere five hundred feet of jogging, he saw that the parlor lights at 170 Ocean were still on, shadows crossing and filtering weakly through the frail wooden shutters.
The house beckoned.
His Volvo parked across the street, Hutton couldn’t stop himself. He walked to the car, opened the door, adjusted his rearview mirror, and waited.
When the door of 170 Ocean opened at twelve thirty, he was bent across the seats pretending to rifle through his glove box, one long, muscular leg half out of the car. He retrieved a sheet of paper before stepping out and locking the door, then turned around to find five wide-eyed women staring at him from the stoop.
When the plates had finally migrated to the dishwasher, and Matt had long since returned to his garden-level studio, Cat checked the time.
“Does anyone want to have a cigarette on the stoop? I should call a car,” she’d asked the group.
“I’m too tired,” said Lottie, “but you guys go ahead. I’ll see you later.” She draped her body over Cat and Bess in a kind of hug, then wearily climbed the stairs.
When the women of 170 Ocean opened the front door, the old Volvo sedan across the street contained a very tall, mostly naked man. Clad in running shoes and shorts, he appeared to be rooting around in his glove compartment.
The women leered in unison at his back muscles, dramatically shadowed by the Volvo’s weak interior lighting. One of his long legs stretched into the street—a smooth, perfectly shaped calf, twitching as he stretched farther across the car. His shorts rode up to expose the bottom half of his left butt cheek.
When the mystery exhibitionist closed up his car and turned around, Cat recognized him immediately. He started to cross to their side of the road, then looked up—just in time to catch the women staring with their mouths open. Startled, he stopped in the street, like an animal caught in the headlights of a moving bus.