Sadly, there was no e-mail about the murder of Trish Thrash, or T.T., except for a short note from someone named P.J., who claimed that she used to play softball with T.T. and knew for a fact that T.T. would never willingly go to Belle Island with a man.
Have you lost your mind?” Hammer said to Andy over the phone at 6:00 P.M. “I thought you were supposed to write only anti-crime essays. It’s bad enough that you’re straying from mummies to pirates, but now you’re pretending to be the SPCA!”
“Do you want me to take Popeye’s picture off the website?” He tested her. “I certainly can, but I thought giving it a shot couldn’t hurt anything. Maybe she’s still out there and someone will be tempted enough by the reward to give her back.”
“I just don’t know if I can stand seeing her in that sweet little red coat every time I log on to your site,” Hammer confessed sadly.
“When people avoid looking at pictures, it indicates that they haven’t healed. That’s why I never tear up photos of old girlfriends. If I can look at them now, then I’m okay. If I can’t bear to look at them, then I’m not okay,” Andy said.
“Well, leave her picture on the site, then,” Hammer said. “I’ll just have to get used to it. And you’re right, Andy, if there’s any chance Popeye might be found, we have to do everything we can. I thought you were supposed to stake out the governor tonight.” Her tone turned all business again. “And I’m not sure it was a wise thing to criticize him again in your Trooper Truth essay. By the way, who is this so-called wise confidante you keep referring to?”
“Having a wise confidante gives me license to have dialogue and expository conversations,” Andy replied.
“Well, I don’t know who the hell she is, but no one is supposed to know you’re Trooper Truth, especially in light of this awful murder.” Hammer was brusque with him. “So I certainly hope you haven’t blown your cover over some so-called wise female confidante. And if you have, I have a right to know about it, even if I’m not the
least bit interested in your personal life. Please don’t tell me it’s Windy.”
“Windy?” Andy was offended and changed the phone to his other ear. “I should hope you would think I have better taste than that.”
Hammer ended the conversation, which had gone on far too long, and hung up without saying goodbye. Andy sent one final e-mail, but this time he used his own screen name:
Dear Dr. Pond,
Just wondering if you’ve gotten those toxicology results yet? Remember, this is an extremely sensitive case, and I appreciate your keeping all details strictly confidential. And no, I can’t fix your recent reckless driving ticket. I suggest you go to driving school on a Saturday that is most convenient for you, and the points will be taken off your record.
Thanks and good luck, Trooper Brazil
He logged off and put on his uniform, and within the hour was parking at Ruth’s Chris Steak House on the city’s south side, where he met Trooper Macovich, who had piloted the First Family in for dinner. The two of them sat in Andy’s car and watched the steak house’s front door, waiting for the governor to emerge.
“What’s it like flying them?” Andy asked as he gazed out at the gleaming Bell 430 helicopter that was painted gun metal gray with dark blue stripes down the sides and the seal of the Commonwealth on the doors.
“Wooo, I can tell you for a fact, it ain’t all it’s cracked up to be,” Macovich replied. “Just a damn good thing the guv didn’t recognize me when I flew them here, ’cause I thought for sure that ugly daughter of his was gonna say something about playing pool and then the cat sure would be outta the bag. But she was too busy getting into the snacks in that little drawer under the backseat, you know? I sure do hope she don’t say nothing when they come out, though.” Macovich lit a Salem Light and turned his dark glasses on Andy. “So now that we’re sitting here man-to-man, how ’bout you tell me what you did to get into so much trouble. I mean, everybody’s wondering why Hammer put you on the bricks for an entire year.”