answer. It would have meant jeopardizing Sergeant Weller and my relationship with him. Maybe Weller and Aravelo were on the same team, maybe not.
Before I’d left Erin, she’d told me I would know what to say when I got into the interrogation room. The realization came upon me slowly, like a wave of nausea.
“The explosion is just the tip of this thing,” I said. “Something went wrong at that café long before it turned into a fireball. You know it.
I
know it. Please stop treating me like a chump.”
I steadied myself for whatever was coming and was still unprepared.
“From now on, I’m calling you Sleeve. Not Steve, Sleeve.”
I squinted.
“Do you know why a woman hates when her man goes to a strip club?” He continued to not make sense. “It’s not about the tits and ass and the lap dances that make weaker men cream their pants. It’s because the men fall in love. For a few minutes, we soak in the belief that we are connecting. We
are
connecting. The best strippers are opening themselves up to us, and we, knowing it’s a finite experience, open up right back. When it works, it’s not about sex. It’s about love.”
He opened the top of a clear plastic container and took a swig of a thick, strawberry-colored juice drink.
“Being a great cop involves reading emotions and being honest about what motivates me and other people. I can see what’s happening inside you right now; you wear your emotions on your sleeve. Your anxiety has a smell, and it’s not just the kind that comes from sitting in the hot room. I can see where the edge is and I can see how close you are to it.”
He clasped his hands.
“What did you have to do with the explosion?” he said.
“Give me a break.”
Aravelo pulled a notebook from his back pocket and flipped it open. He glanced at it while he talked.
“You left the café just before it exploded,” he said.
Then he listed the rest of the circumstantial evidence. I’d known about the red Saab. I knew it had been found, something that hadn’t yet been made public. “Now you’re telling me that there was a previous problem at the café. Would you care to elaborate?”
The way he asked it, I wasn’t sure whether he knew about Andy or Simon Anderson.
“I want to talk to my lawyer.”
When I said it, I was struck by a single thought: Why the hell didn’t I insist on talking to my lawyer earlier? I guess it was because I never thought I was considered a suspect.
“You’re not the only one trying to figure out what is going on here,” I said, standing. “The difference is, maybe I’m doing a hell of a lot better job.”
My frustration, confusion, adrenaline, and yearning boiled over. Aravelo slammed his fist into the table.
“You. Will. Stay. The. Fuck. Out. Of. My. Investigation!”
I walked out of the building in a rage. I pictured myself slamming a two-by-four into Aravelo, succumbing to a reckless adolescent fantasy.
I hadn’t slept well in two days. My neck balled with tension—a clear demand of the brain by the muscles: Slow down or we will seize up or tear and enforce bed rest. I tapped my head against the side of the building and tried to calm myself by remembering the likely medical causes of my compounding stress. This was all just biochemical. I was experiencing acute stress disorder, the result of a highly traumatic event like confronting death or its prospect. The symptoms were potentially serious—anxiety, detachment, and even dissociative amnesia. Was I even accurately remembering what happened at the café?
I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, just as the phone rang.
“We need to get out of here,” Erin said.
21
E rin picked me up two blocks away. I noticed the smell. Groceries. The back was packed up with Safeway bags.
“Lieutenant Aravelo is a very dangerous man,” I said.
“I got that feeling.”
“He uses his brain the way his brother uses a flashlight.”
“Which means?”
“As a blunt object.”
“Elaborate,
Before I’d left Erin, she’d told me I would know what to say when I got into the interrogation room. The realization came upon me slowly, like a wave of nausea.
“The explosion is just the tip of this thing,” I said. “Something went wrong at that café long before it turned into a fireball. You know it.
I
know it. Please stop treating me like a chump.”
I steadied myself for whatever was coming and was still unprepared.
“From now on, I’m calling you Sleeve. Not Steve, Sleeve.”
I squinted.
“Do you know why a woman hates when her man goes to a strip club?” He continued to not make sense. “It’s not about the tits and ass and the lap dances that make weaker men cream their pants. It’s because the men fall in love. For a few minutes, we soak in the belief that we are connecting. We
are
connecting. The best strippers are opening themselves up to us, and we, knowing it’s a finite experience, open up right back. When it works, it’s not about sex. It’s about love.”
He opened the top of a clear plastic container and took a swig of a thick, strawberry-colored juice drink.
“Being a great cop involves reading emotions and being honest about what motivates me and other people. I can see what’s happening inside you right now; you wear your emotions on your sleeve. Your anxiety has a smell, and it’s not just the kind that comes from sitting in the hot room. I can see where the edge is and I can see how close you are to it.”
He clasped his hands.
“What did you have to do with the explosion?” he said.
“Give me a break.”
Aravelo pulled a notebook from his back pocket and flipped it open. He glanced at it while he talked.
“You left the café just before it exploded,” he said.
Then he listed the rest of the circumstantial evidence. I’d known about the red Saab. I knew it had been found, something that hadn’t yet been made public. “Now you’re telling me that there was a previous problem at the café. Would you care to elaborate?”
The way he asked it, I wasn’t sure whether he knew about Andy or Simon Anderson.
“I want to talk to my lawyer.”
When I said it, I was struck by a single thought: Why the hell didn’t I insist on talking to my lawyer earlier? I guess it was because I never thought I was considered a suspect.
“You’re not the only one trying to figure out what is going on here,” I said, standing. “The difference is, maybe I’m doing a hell of a lot better job.”
My frustration, confusion, adrenaline, and yearning boiled over. Aravelo slammed his fist into the table.
“You. Will. Stay. The. Fuck. Out. Of. My. Investigation!”
I walked out of the building in a rage. I pictured myself slamming a two-by-four into Aravelo, succumbing to a reckless adolescent fantasy.
I hadn’t slept well in two days. My neck balled with tension—a clear demand of the brain by the muscles: Slow down or we will seize up or tear and enforce bed rest. I tapped my head against the side of the building and tried to calm myself by remembering the likely medical causes of my compounding stress. This was all just biochemical. I was experiencing acute stress disorder, the result of a highly traumatic event like confronting death or its prospect. The symptoms were potentially serious—anxiety, detachment, and even dissociative amnesia. Was I even accurately remembering what happened at the café?
I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, just as the phone rang.
“We need to get out of here,” Erin said.
21
E rin picked me up two blocks away. I noticed the smell. Groceries. The back was packed up with Safeway bags.
“Lieutenant Aravelo is a very dangerous man,” I said.
“I got that feeling.”
“He uses his brain the way his brother uses a flashlight.”
“Which means?”
“As a blunt object.”
“Elaborate,
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