Fever Dream

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 a

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 co

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 pla

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."