The mystery of missing hooksets

The county cop had me dead to rights. He knew it, and I knew it. Or at least I knew it when, as he passed me heading east on the two-lane highway (I was heading west), I glanced at my speedometer and realized I was humming along somewhere north of 65 miles per hour. The speed limit, of course, was 55. Yeah, I was screwed. His party lights began to strobe; I said some bad words. He whipped his squad car around in a Bullitt-worthy U-turn, and I pulled onto the shoulder.

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