Fever Dream

Phillips frowned. 'I don't understand.'

'You're in possession of information that's very important to us. Now, my associate here, Agent Pendergast-- let's just say that the two of us are in disagreement on how best to elicit that information. He, and the Bureau, are in a position to make sure that your son's record is not expunged. And he's of the opinion that this is the easiest way to guarantee your help. By keeping your son's record dirty, by preventing him from attending law school--or at least threatening to prevent him from attending--he believes he can force your hand.'

Hayward paused. Phillips looked at them in turn. A vein in his temple throbbed.

'I, on the other hand, would prefer to cooperate. See, I'm in with the local constabulary. I used to be one of them myself. I'm in a position to help clear your son's record. Help make sure he gets into law school, passes the bar, joins your firm. Seems to me that would be good for everyone. What do you think?'

'I see: the classic good-cop, bad-cop routine,' said Phillips.

'A tried-and-true approach.'

'What do you want to know?' Phillips asked, voice thin.

'We're working on an old case, and we have reason to believe you can help us. As I mentioned, it involves Longitude Pharmaceuticals.'

A veiled expression came over Phillips's face. 'I'm not at liberty to discuss the company.'

'That's really a shame. And I'll tell you why. Because hearing this obstructionist attitude--and hearing it from your own lips--is just going to reinforce my associate's notion that his way of handling this is the right way to go. I'll be embarrassed--and your son will never, ever get a law degree.'

Phillips did not reply.

'It's also a shame because Agent Pendergast here is in a position to help, as well as to hurt.' Hayward paused briefly to let this sink in. 'You see, you'll need the FBI's help if you want to correct your son's record. With a drug conviction like that... well, as you might imagine, there will be a federal file to take care of, in addition to the local paperwork.'

Phillips swallowed. 'We're talking about a small-time drug conviction. The FBI would have no interest in that.'

'Possession with intent to sell. That automatically generates a federal file.' She nodded slowly. 'Being a corporate lawyer, perhaps you didn't know that. Trust me, that file is sitting in a cabinet somewhere, a time bomb waiting to blow up your son's future.'

Pendergast stood beside her, motionless. He hadn't said a word during the entire exchange.

Phillips licked his lips, wet them with the martini, exhaled. 'What is it you want to know, exactly?'

'Tell us about the avian flu experiments at Longitude.'

The ice chips in the martini tinkled as Phillips's hand shook.

'Mr. Phillips?' Hayward prompted.

'Captain, if I spoke to you of that, and the fact got out, it would result in my death.'

'Nothing's going to get out. Nothing will come back to haunt you. You have my word.'

Phillips nodded.

'But you have to tell us the whole truth. That's the deal.'

A silence ensued.

'And you'll help him?' Phillips asked at last. 'Clear his record, on both the local and federal level?'

Hayward nodded. 'I'll see to it personally.'

'Very well. I'll tell you what I know. Which isn't much, I'm afraid. I wasn't part of the avian group. Apparently they--'

' 'They'?'

'It was a secret cell within Longitude. Formed thirteen or fourteen years ago. The names were kept secret--the only one I knew was Dr. Slade. Charles J. Slade, the CEO. He headed it. They were trying to develop a new drug.'

'What kind of drug?'

'A mind-enhancement drug or treatment of some sort, developed from a strain of avian flu. Very hush-hush. They poured a huge amount of money and time into it. Then everything fell apart. The company got into financial trouble, began to cut corners, safety protocols weren't observed. There were accidents. The project was shut down. Then, just when it looked like the worst had passed, a fire broke out that destroyed Complex Six and killed Slade, and--'

'Just a minute,' Pendergast interrupted, speaking for the first time. 'You mean Dr. Slade is dead?'

The man looked at him and nodded. 'And that was only the beginning. Not long after, his secretary committed suicide and the company went bankrupt. Chapter Eleven. It was a disaster.'

There was a brief silence. Glancing at Pendergast, Hayward noticed a look of surprise and--what, disappointment?--on the normally expressionless face. Clearly, this was an unexpected development.

'Was Slade a medical doctor?' Pendergast asked.

'He had a PhD.'