Hooked by Matt Richtel Page A

cop approached me. “Lieutenant Aravelo is ready for you.”
    As a journalist, I’d always been in the power position when it came to interviews. I was the one asking the questions. I may not have been equal in wealth or power to the person I was interviewing, but the threat that I might write a story gave me a kind of clout in almost any interview situation. Not with Lieutenant Aravelo.
    He was dressed in uniform with his crisp white shirt tucked in smartly. He was asking me to take a seat when a loud buzzing came from what looked to be an alarm clock on his desk. He shut it off, opened a desk drawer, and pulled out a bag of almonds and a banana.
    “Small, regular meals,” he declared.
    He put a picture on the table. It was grainy, but in color, like it had been taken from a convenience store camera.
    “Who is this?” Aravelo asked.
    She was blonde, with angular cheekbones and a blouse that came high up onto her neck. I felt a spasm of adrenaline, but I wasn’t sure why.
    Lieutenant Aravelo seized instantly on my hesitation.
    “What can you tell me about her?” he said. “I want to know everything you know, Dodo.”
    Even if I had seen the woman before, it would be tough to recognize from an image of such poor quality. The eyes seemed distant, foggy.
    “How about cutting out the offensive and not very clever nickname.”
    “Tell me what you know, Mr. Idle.”
    “I can’t help you. I have no idea who that is.”
    I must have sounded genuine enough. Aravelo paused. He took deliberate bites of his banana, chewing almost comically slowly, like it was part of a regimen.
    “How about this one?” The lieutenant held out another photo.
    This time my surge of adrenaline was justified. This time, I held it in check. On the table, he set down a photo that I guessed from the relatively smooth skin around the subject’s eyes to be about a decade old.
    “She’s Erin Coultran,” Aravelo explained. “Waitress at the Sunshine Café.”
    I held my breath.
    “I recognize her.”
    He sat lightly on the edge of the table and waited. I paused, trying to make it look like I was searching. “The paper said she survived because she was in the bathroom?”
    When I looked up, I found the lieutenant searching my face. If he knew that I knew Erin, he wasn’t letting on. Had Weller not told him?
    “Did you see her go into the bathroom?”
    I shook my head.
    “Did you order coffee from her?”
    “I had water.”
    He wasn’t amused.
    “No.”
    “Did you remember her from the café?”
    “Is she a suspect, Lieutenant?” I asked, trying to sound properly reverent.
    Aravelo ignored me. “Tell me about the Saab.”
    I remembered what Sergeant Weller had told me earlier. The police had found a red Saab in the water near Half Moon Bay. Maybe this was why I had been on Lieutenant Aravelo’s invite-only list to the police station. They’d found the Saab and wanted more details. After all, I was the one who had given them the tip in the first place. Could I recall anything else?
    “Was the woman in the picture the driver of the red Saab?” I said.
    “You remember any details?” The lieutenant dismissed my question. “The interior. Was it leather? What about the license plate? What about the frame around the license plate?”
    Wouldn’t they have known all this already? Maybe they wanted to verify they had the right car.
    What was the harm in answering about the Saab? I mostly already had—the day the café exploded. I did it again. I told him what I’d told him before.
    “I wasn’t focused on the car,” I said.
    He seemed to consider this, and accept it.
    “Why are you asking about the Saab?” I said.
    No answer. I upped the ante. “Did you find it?”
    Lieutenant Aravelo turned his lips upward into a tight, controlled grin. It could have meant anything. I interpreted it as: You’re a better tactician than I thought.
    “How did you know that?” he asked.
    It was a fair inquiry. One I was totally unprepared to