Cat didn’t say anything when he motioned her through the door—not even “Hi”—and he found himself sweating nervously as he led her down the Plexiglas-walled hallway to one of their interrogation rooms. He held open the door for her, and as she swept through it, a gust of sea-scented wind invaded his personal space. Hutton glimpsed a hole in the side of her dress and a streak of what looked like gold body paint. Trouble. This woman is nothing but trouble.
Cat sat down in one of the interrogation room’s steel chairs and put her arms on the table, running her fingers over the handcuff loops embedded in the surface. Hutton picked up her handbag, took out her cellphone, pocketed it, then placed his recorder faceup in front of her.
“I need you to give a complete statement regarding the substance you found in the personal property of Hillary Whitney, and how you came to report that to the department.”
She nodded.
“I did try to classify your information as an anonymous tip, but it wasn’t…possible,” he continued, trying to speak clearly and deliberately. “Without a recorded chain of custody, we’ll have a difficult time prosecuting. You’re now technically a confidential informant. You may be called upon to testify in a court of law.”
Cat shivered. The room was freezing, she realized, and her skin had turned paler than usual, almost green.
“I’m going to turn on the recorder. Do not state your name or any identifying details about yourself.”
“Okay.” Cat continued to run her fingers over the handcuff loops, betraying no emotion.
“This is Mark Hutton, NYPD, recording a statement from CI 25401, for case file Halo-Alpha-Niner-Niner-Seven-Oscar. Today is Friday, July 14, 2017. State how you came to contact the department and submit evidence.”
“I found a bag of Hillary’s with some drops in it on Monday, July 10. I contacted the company that made the drops and met with them on Tuesday, July 11. After trying the samples myself, I suspected that they contained illegal drugs. I gave Detective Hutton everything I had, that same day.”
“Name the location and person or persons you received the samples from.”
“Bedford Organics, 400 South Bedford Avenue, Brooklyn, New York, third floor. I met a woman named Kate and a woman named Vittoria, who said she was the owner.”
“Were the samples that you received from this company in the hands of anyone else at any time?”
“Besides Detective Hutton? No.”
“Did they come directly from the shelves?”
“Yes.”
“How much product would you estimate is on the premises at 400 South Bedford?”
“Maybe a few thousand bottles? I couldn’t really tell how deep the shelves were, but there was a ton of product in there.”
“Did it look temporary? Like a storage facility?”
“No. It looked like a wholesale showroom. I would expect a lot of it to still be there.”
“Do you know how Hillary Whitney came to possess the eyedrops?”
“No.”
“Do you know anyone else who has purchased products from Bedford Organics?”
“Not that I know of. I thought about that. The moisturizers smell like dozens of other products. Anything that uses natural herbs and oils will have the same scents.”
He turned off the recorder. “Thank you, Cat. I think that’s all we need.” He stood up and moved toward the door. Cat followed, but he motioned for her to remain seated.
“Can you wait here?” he asked.
“Love to,” she replied.
“I’ll be right back.” Hutton slipped out the door, handed the recorder to a secretary, and checked his watch. Once the paperwork was complete, signed warrants could be generated by the department’s vast post-9/11 security apparatus in a matter of minutes. As he ran down the hallway to Sergeant Roth’s office, Hutton imagined dozens of federal judges sitting at a long library table, rubberstamping pages over and over while a clerk walked around with a copy of the Patriot Act, calling out the relevant statutes over and over like a reader in a nineteenth-century factory. His supervisor sat casually at his desk, watching ESPN on his tablet.
“Carol’s uploading the statement now,” Hutton reported to his boss. “We’ll have the warrant shortly.”
“The DEA’s been in the building for the last twenty-four hours,” Roth said, barely looking up. “Keep track of her. We’ll find you later.”
Hutton nodded and jogged back down the hallway, but Cat was already gone.
After the nearest police officer had escorted her outside—all it took was a light hand on his arm—Cat hit the pavement and turned east, walking as fast as she could. She wanted to break into a sprint, but the crush of pedestrians on all sides forced her to move apace with the collective current, a tide rolling east. All her mind would do was endlessly run through everything she thought she knew.
One: Something from Bedford Organics, probably the eyedrops—although Hutton hadn’t confirmed it—had killed Hillary. If she’d been dosing herself with their products for a while, that certainly explained all her bizarre behavior over the last few months of her life, and Cat had been too self-absorbed to ever call her out on it. Now Hillary was dead.
Two: Hutton had flirted with her, using the personable sleaze of a reporter, dressed up with the moral authority of a cop, then ignored her completely once he had a bag full of evidence. Cat should have known better. So embarrassing.
Three: Cat was now a key witness in a drug investigation.
The list echoed around her skull. I’m a thirsty snitch, she thought to herself. Hooray. Somebody get me a pen, I have a bucket list to update. She leaned against the nearest building, pulled a cigarette out of her bag and lit it, sucking down nearly half of it before realizing that he still had her phone.
Shit.
She walked back to the precinct, clocking Hutton when she was still half a block away as he leaned against the exterior wall, hands shoved into the pockets of his navy jacket, his battered brown oxfords crossed in front of him. Her breath quickened. She tried to ignore how attracted to him she felt. Get over it, Cat. He spotted her and walked in her direction, keys in hand.
“I need my phone,” Cat demanded as soon as he was close enough.
“Sorry. I can’t give it back to you until we’re done with our raid on Bedford Organics.” Hutton shook his head. “I’m parked over here. Get in the car.” He motioned to the opposite side of the block and they crossed together to the bottle-green Volvo he’d been rummaging in on Monday night. She hesitated.
“I have to go to work,” she insisted. “I have things to do.”
“I can take you home or you can sit in the station in a locked room for an indeterminate period of time. It’s for your own safety. It’s up to you,” Hutton said gruffly as he unlocked and opened the passenger’s-side door. Cat sighed and climbed in. He closed her door gently before crossing over to the driver’s side.
He started the car but didn’t move it into gear. Instead, he reached across and put his hand behind Cat’s shoulder.
She froze.
Time slowed to a crawl.
He pulled out her seat belt and clicked it into place without touching her.
Turned the dial to WNYC and pulled out into traffic.