“Okay. I’ll give you that.” She sighed, swirling her brandy. “My experience is more that guys like you join the NSA, CIA, or DIA, whatever is federal—they don’t go civil. I feel like there’s a—”
“Gigantic class division between federal, state, and local law enforcement? Yes.” He nodded slowly. “But it doesn’t change unless you change it,” he said, gesturing at himself. “I believe in justice. I genuinely believe that we’re all responsible for the parts we play in this great democratic republic of ours. Mine is law enforcement.” He drained his brandy and leaned in toward her conspiratorially. “I might be getting the sense that you don’t find the police to be totally effective,” he said a bit archly.
Cat laughed. “You’re the only policeman I’ve ever met who’s impressed me, and let’s be honest—you have the instincts of a journalist. Police work is just bloated, macho bureaucracy. People who can think critically are probably just as qualified as the police to solve crimes, if not more so.”
“You think you could solve a crime?” he asked.
“Sure,” Cat said. “I’m a good researcher.”
“It’s not really about critical thinking, though; that’s what I’m saying. It’s about drudgery, just drilling down on cases, grinding down on every piece of evidence without accidentally shooting someone along the way. It’s about patience. It’s not enough to know who did it—you have to be able to send them to jail and keep them there.”
“You need to be able to prosecute, you mean.”
He nodded. “That’s the magic word. The people I work with may not have gone to graduate school—hell, half of them didn’t even go to college—but most are smart enough to know how important the rules are.” He reached over and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Beautiful girls like to take shortcuts.”
Cat swatted his hand away. “I don’t take shortcuts,” she insisted, pointing to herself. “I could be very good at being a cop. I’m very detail-oriented; I love to waste time; I love drinking coffee and filling out paperwork. I just happen to do something else, which I don’t think you understand.”
Hutton didn’t give up. “So explain it to me,” he flirted.
“You know what? No!” Cat laughed. “No. We were talking about you. Don’t change the subject.”
“Okay, okay. You want to know something else?”
“What?” Cat bit her lip.
Before he could respond, Birdie and Helen crashed on the floor next to them, crying “Timber!” Birdie’s giggles were verging on turning into sobs.
“I think we’re too drunk to drive,” said Helen. “Can you take us home, Mr. Officer?”
“We’re bad girls. We need a police escort,” Birdie chimed in.
Sigrid stepped in. “Don’t listen to these idiots. We can walk home just fine, it’s all of one block.”
“No, I’d be happy to,” he said. “Let’s go.”
“I’ve got to order a car,” Cat said. “It’s almost two—I have to be in at ten.” She pulled out her phone and summoned a car service. He looked incredulous.
“Ten? Man, you magazine girls really have the gravy hours.”
“I’m not a magazine girl, thank you.” Cat’s tone came out a little bit defensive and sharp.
“Oh boy,” he replied. “My bad.”
“I…” Cat stammered, trying to be nice. “RAGE is more than that. It’s…important.”
Sigrid, halfway out the door and towing Birdie and Helen behind her, yelled, “We’re walking now! Thanks, neighbor. Byeee!”
The elevator doors opened and they piled inside, leaving Cat abruptly behind in the apartment. Hutton waved good-bye and shut the front door.
“How long until your car gets here?” he asked, moving closer.
“Three minutes,” she said. “I should head out front, I guess.”
“I’ll walk you.”
She retrieved her handbag from the bar. Hutton had turned off most of the apartment’s lights and was waiting for her in half-shadow, keys in hand. He held open the door, and they took the elevator down to the elaborate art deco lobby in silence, where the car was waiting outside. Cat climbed into its cavernous backseat. After closing the door, she rolled down the window to say good night. He crouched down and leaned on the door, refusing to let the driver pull away. Cat’s heartbeat picked up.
“You’re interesting,” he said decisively, his face just an inch or two away from hers. “And your friends are nice.”
“I like to think so.”
The driver coughed loudly and shifted into gear.
“Okay, honey, where we going?” he asked in a thick Puerto Rican accent.
“Can I call you?” Hutton asked. “I have some more questions, but I won’t come to your office again, I promise. We can make it very unofficial.”
Cat nodded. “Unofficial works for me,” she said with a smile.
Hutton winked, let go of the car, and strode back to the curb. Cat waved good-bye, then hit the button to roll up the tinted glass.
“It’s 239 Moore Street in Bushwick, please, between Bogart and White. You can take Bedford to—”
“To Flushing. I know, I know. I’m gonna get you there, don’t worry. So you gonna go out with him or what?” He hit the gas. “I think you should. He looks like a nice guy.”
She looked out the back window and saw Hutton standing on the curb, watching them drive away.
“He is nice, but he’s a cop,” she replied. The car veered around the corner. Hutton disappeared from her view. “What do you think about cops?”
“It’s a good man who does a job like that. They make a nice living, too, but it can be dangerous,” he said. “You make sure when you get married that he gets a desk job. Better than FDNY, they never get the desk jobs. But good for retirement.”
Cat suddenly remembered Hillary’s drops sitting at the bottom of her purse. Shit. Maybe she should’ve told Hutton about the bottle. They’d been too busy flirting and talking about him, about his life. Sigrid hadn’t even mentioned that Hillary had lived at 170 Ocean, but then again, she wouldn’t have—Sig was in full wingman mode all night, dragging them over to his place, bringing booze, leaving Cat alone with Hutton at the right moment. You’ve got the best group of friends, Cat, she thought to herself. Hillary deserves your loyalty. Even if the police won’t really do anything…don’t let this go.
She fell into a deep sleep as soon as she got home, dreaming about Hutton in flashes throughout the night. Now, as she walked toward her office through the maze of RAGE’s black cubicles, all she could remember of the dream’s plot was an impression that he’d tied her up against a wall, somehow immobilizing both her ankles and her wrists. She had fleeting memories of a man’s leather belt tightening around her arms; of Hutton’s face floating over her; of his skin, so close to her when they’d sat on Sigrid’s stoop. How will I possibly get any work done today?
She opened her phone and composed a text to the number from his business card before coming to her senses and deleting it totally.