Fever Dream (39 page)

Answer:
I’m afraid I don’t.

Question:
It must have been, what, the late ’80s?

Answer:
I believe it would have been more in the early ’70s.

The judge looked up. “Did you or did you not say these things?”

“I did.”

“Well, then. You claim to have been born in the early 1970s on Water Street. But the court’s research has proven this to be
untrue beyond any doubt. And in any case you look far too young to have been born more than thirty years ago.”

Greene said nothing.

Felder started to rise. “Your Honor, may I interject?”

The judge turned to him. “Yes, Dr. Felder?”

“I’ve already thoroughly explored this line of questioning with the patient. With respect, Your Honor, I would remind the
court that we are not dealing with a rational mind. I hope I won’t offend the court by saying that in my professional opinion,
there will be no useful result from this line of questioning.”

The judge tapped the folder with his glasses. “Perhaps you’re right, Doctor. And am I to understand that the nominative next-of-kin,
Aloysius Pendergast, defers to the court in this matter?”

“He declined any invitation to be heard, Your Honor.”

“Very well.” The judge gathered up another sheaf of papers, took a deep breath, and looked out over the small, empty courtroom.
He put his glasses back in place and bent over the papers. “This court finds—” he began.

Constance Greene rose to her feet, her face suddenly flushed. For the first time, she looked like she was experiencing emotion;
in fact, to Felder she looked almost angry. “On second thought, I believe I
shall
speak,” she said, her voice suddenly possessing an edge. “If I may, Your Honor?”

The judge sat back and folded his hands. “I will allow a statement.”

“I was indeed born on Water Street in the ’70s—the
1870s
. You will find all you need to know in the city archives on Centre Street,
and more in the New York Public Library. About
me; about my sister, Mary, who was sent to the Five Points Mission and later killed by a mass murderer; about my brother,
Joseph; about my parents, who died of tuberculosis—there’s a fair amount of information there. I know, because I have seen
the records myself.”

The silence stretched out in the court. Finally the judge said, “Thank you, Ms. Greene. You may be seated.”

She sat down.

The judge cleared his throat. “The court finds that Ms. Constance Greene, age unknown, address unknown, is of unsound mind
and represents a clear and present danger to herself and others. Therefore, we order that Ms. Constance Greene be committed
involuntarily to the Bedford Hills Correctional Facility for appropriate observation and treatment. The term of this commitment
shall be indefinite.”

He gave a tap with the gavel for emphasis. “Court dismissed.”

Felder rose, feeling oddly dispirited. He threw a glance toward the unknown woman, who had risen again and was now flanked
by two muscular guards. Standing between them, she looked small and almost frail. The color had left her face, which was once
again expressionless. She knew what had just occurred—she
had
to know—and yet she showed not the slightest hint of emotion.

Felder turned away and walked out of the courtroom.

Sulphur, Louisiana

T
HE RENTAL BUICK HUMMED ALONG THE
diamond-cut concrete of Interstate 10. Hayward had set the cruise control at seventy-five miles an hour, despite Pendergast’s
murmured observation that, at seventy-nine miles per hour, they would arrive in town five minutes earlier.

They had already logged two hundred miles on the Buick that day, and she had noted that Pendergast was becoming uncharacteristically
irritable. He made no secret of his dislike of the Buick and had suggested more than once they switch to the Rolls-Royce—its
windshield freshly repaired—but Hayward had refused to get into it. She couldn’t imagine conducting an effective investigation
while tooling around in a Rolls, and she wondered why Pendergast would even consider using such a flamboyant car for work.
Driving his wife’s vintage sports car had been bad enough; after twenty-four hours of that, Hayward had returned it to its
garage and insisted on renting a much less exciting but infinitely more anonymous vehicle.

Pendergast seemed particularly annoyed that the first two names on Mary Ann Roblet’s list hadn’t panned out: one was long
dead, the other non compos mentis and, on top of that, in a hospital on life support. They were now on their way to the third
and last. He was Denison Phillips IV, former general counsel of Longitude,
retired and living a quiet life on Bonvie Drive
in the Bayou Glades Country Club area of Sulphur. The name and address had already created a picture in Hayward’s mind of
a member of a certain minor southern gentry: pompous, self-important, alcoholic, cunning, and above all uncooperative. From
her days at LSU she knew the type all too well.

She saw the exit sign for Sulphur and slowed, moving into the right lane.

“I’m glad we ran a file on our Mr. Phillips,” Pendergast said.

“He came up clean.”

“Indeed,” came the curt reply. “I’m referring to the file on Mr. Denison Phillips the Fifth.”

“His son? You mean, that drug conviction on his rap sheet?”

“It’s rather serious: possession of more than five grams of cocaine with intent to sell. I also noted in the file that he’s
pre-law at LSU.”

“Yeah. I’d like to see him get into law school with that on his record. You can’t qualify for the bar with a felony.”

“One would assume,” Pendergast drawled, “that the family is connected and has reason to believe the record will be expunged
when Denison the Fifth attains twenty-one. At least, I feel confident that’s their
intention
.”

Hayward took her eyes off the road long enough to glance at Pendergast. There was a hard gleam in his eyes as he spoke these
last words. She could just imagine how he was planning to handle this. He’d put the screws on, threaten to obstruct any attempt
to expunge the conviction, perhaps even threaten to call the press, and in every way make it impossible for Denison Phillips
V to join his father’s law firm… unless the old man talked, and talked effusively. More than ever, she wished Vinnie were
here instead of recuperating in Caltrop Hospital. Handling Pendergast was exhausting work. For the hundredth time, she wondered
exactly why Vinnie—an old-school cop like herself—held Pendergast and his supreme unorthodoxy in such high regard.

She took a deep breath. “Say, Pendergast, I wonder if you’d do me a favor.”

“Of course, Captain.”

“Let me take first crack at this particular interview.”

She felt the FBI agent’s eyes on her.

“I know his type well,” she went on. “And I’ve got an idea for how best to handle him.”

There was a brief and to Hayward’s mind somewhat frosty silence before Pendergast replied, “I shall observe with interest.”

Denison Phillips IV met them at the door of his spacious golf-club development home, old enough that the trees planted around
had attained quasi-stately proportions. He was so exactly what Hayward had imagined, so exquisitely the type, that she was
instantly disgusted. The seersucker jacket with the paisley handkerchief tucked into the breast pocket, the monogrammed pale
yellow shirt unbuttoned at the top, green golfing slacks, and afternoon martini in hand completed the picture.

“May I ask what this is in reference to?” he drawled, in a faux-genteel accent in which all traces of servile ancestry had
been carefully removed several generations before.

“I am Captain Hayward of the New York City Police Department, formerly of the New Orleans Police Department,” she said, switching
into the bland, neutral tone she used when dealing with potential informants. “And this is my associate, Special Agent Pendergast
of the FBI.” As she spoke, she removed her shield, swept it past Phillips. Pendergast didn’t bother doing the same.

Phillips glanced from one to the other. “You are aware this is Sunday?”

“Yes, sir. May we come in?”

“Perhaps I need to speak to my attorney first,” said Phillips.

“Naturally,” Hayward replied, “that would be your right, sir, and we’d wait as long as it took for him to arrive. But we’re
here informally with only a few quick questions. You’re not in any way a target of our investigation. All we need is ten minutes
of your time.”

Phillips hesitated and then stepped aside. “In that case, come in.”

Hayward followed Phillips into the house, all white carpeting, white brick, white leather, gold and glass. Pendergast silently
brought up the rear. They came into a living room with picture windows overlooking a fairway.

“Please sit down.” Phillips took a seat, setting his martini on a leather coaster on a side table. He did not offer them one.

Hayward cleared her throat. “You were a partner in the law firm of Marston, Phillips, and Lowe, is that right?”

“If this is about my law firm, I really can’t answer any questions.”

“And you were the general counsel to the Longitude corporation, up to and through the period of its bankruptcy some eleven
years ago?”

A long silence. Phillips smiled and placed his hands on his knees, rising. “I’m sorry, but we’re already beyond where I’m
comfortable going without legal representation. I would suggest you return with a subpoena. I will gladly answer questions
with counsel present.”

Hayward rose. “As you wish. Sorry to bother you, Mr. Phillips.” She paused. “Give our regards to your son.”

“You know my son?” came the easy reply, with no hint of anxiety.

“No,” said Hayward. They moved toward the front hall.

As her hand touched the doorknob, Phillips finally asked, his voice very calm, “Then why did you mention him just now?”

Hayward turned. “I can see, Mr. Phillips, that you are a gentleman of the Old South. A forthright man of old-fashioned values
who appreciates directness.”

Phillips greeted this with a certain wariness.

Hayward went on, subtly modulating her voice into the southern inflections that she usually suppressed. “Which is why I’ll
be straight with you. I’m here on a special errand. We need information. And we’re in a position to help your son. About that
matter of the drug conviction, I mean.”

This was greeted with a dead silence. “All that’s been taken care of,” Phillips said at last.

“Well, you see—that depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“On just how forthright you prove to be.”

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.”