Текст книги "Fever Dream"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

Another nod.

"So I went back to report to Blast, found him dead. Shotgun at close range, tore him up real nice. Owed me over five grand in time and expenses. I figured you killed him. And I figured to pay you a visit, take back what was owed me."

"Alas, I did not kill Blast. Someone else got to him."

Hudson nodded, not knowing whether to believe him or not.

"And what did you know of Mr. Blast's business?"

"Not much. Like I said, he was involved in the illegal wildlife trade–animal skins. But his big thing seemed to be that Black Frame. He was half crazy over it."

"And your own employment history, Mr. Hudson?"

"I used to be a cop, got put in the back office because of diabetes. Couldn't stand a desk job, so I became a PI. That was about five years ago. Did a lot of work for Mr. Blast, mostly looking into the backgrounds of his... business partners and suppliers. He was very careful who he dealt with. The wildlife market's crawling with undercover cops and sting operators. He mostly dealt with some guy named Victor."

"Victor who?"

"I never heard the last name."

Pendergast looked at his watch. "It is dinnertime, Mr. Hudson, and I'm sorry you can't stay."

Hudson felt sorry, too.

Pendergast reached into his suit and pulled out a small sheaf of bills. "I can't speak for what Blast owes you," he said, "but this is for your first two days' employment. Five hundred a day plus expenses. From now on you work without a firearm and you work only for me. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"There's a small town called Sunflower, just west of the Black Brake swamp. I want you to get out a map, draw a circle with a fifty-mile radius around that town, and identify all the pharmaceutical companies and drug research facilities within that circle, going back fifteen years. I want you to drive to each one, in the guise of a lost motorist. Get as close as you can without trespassing. Don't take notes or pictures, keep it all in your head. Observe and report back to me in twenty-four hours. That will be the extent of your first assignment. Do you understand?"

Hudson understood. He heard the door open and voices in the hall; someone had arrived. "Yes. Thank you, sir." This was even more money than Blast had been paying him–and for the simplest of assignments. Just so long as he didn't have to go into the Black Brake swamp itself–he'd heard one too many rumors about that place as it was.

Pendergast saw him to the kitchen door. Hudson stepped out into the night, filled with a fierce gratitude and sense of loyalty toward the man who had spared his life.

49

St. Francisville, Louisiana

LAURA HAYWARD FOLLOWED THE SQUAD CAR out of town on a winding road that led south toward the Mississippi River. She felt conspicuous and more than a little awkward behind the wheel of Helen Pendergast's vintage Porsche convertible, but the FBI agent had offered his wife's car so courteously she simply hadn't had the heart to refuse. As she drove along the sloping road, overleafed with oaks and walnut trees, her mind drifted back to her first job with the New Orleans Police Department. She'd only been a substitute dispatcher then, but the experience had confirmed her desire to become a cop. That was before she'd headed north to New York City, to attend the John Jay College of Criminal Justice and later take her first job as a Transit Authority cop. In the almost fifteen years since, she'd lost most of her southern accent–and become a die-hard New Yorker, to boot.

The sight of St. Francisville–whitewashed houses with long porches and tin roofs, the heavy air redolent of magnolias–seemed to melt right through her New York carapace. She mused that her experience with the local police had, so far, gone better than the bureaucratic run-around she'd gotten in Florida trying to get information on the Blast homicide. There was still something to be said for the gentility of the Old South.

The squad car turned into a driveway and Hayward followed, parking next to it. She stepped out to see a modest ranch house, with tidy flower beds framed by two magnolias.

The two cops who had escorted her to the Blackletter house, a sergeant in the homicide division and a regular officer, climbed out of their car, hiking up their belts and walking toward her. The white one, Officer Field, had carrot hair and a red face and was sweating copiously. The other, Sergeant Detective Cring, had an almost excessive earnestness about him, a man who did his duty, dotted every iand crossed every twith close attention.

The house was whitewashed like its neighbors, neat and clean. Crime-scene tape, detached by the wind, fluttered over the lawn and coiled around the porch columns. The front door latch was sealed with orange evidence tape.

"Captain," said Cring, "do you want to examine the grounds or would you like to go inside?"

"Inside, please."

She followed them onto the porch. Her arrival at the St. Francisville police station unannounced had been a big event and, initially, not a positive one. They were not happy to see an NYPD captain–and a woman no less–arriving in a flashy car to check up on a local homicide without warning or peace officer status, or even a courtesy call from up north. But Hayward had been able to turn around their suspicion with friendly chatter about her days on the job in New Orleans, and pretty soon they were old buddies. Or at least, she hoped so.

"We'll do a walk-through," Cring went on as he approached the door. He took out a penknife and slit through the tape. Freed, the door swung open, its lock broken.

"What about those?" Hayward asked, pointing to a bootie box sitting by the door.

"The crime scene's already been thoroughly worked over," said Cring. "No need."

"Right."

"It was a pretty straightforward case," Cring said as they stepped inside, the house exhaling a breath of stale, faintly foul air.

"Straightforward how?" Hayward asked.

"Robbery gone bad."

"How do you know?"

"The house was tossed, a bunch of electronics taken–flat panel, couple of computers, stereo. You'll see for yourself."

"Thank you."

"It took place between nine and ten in the evening. The perp used a pry bar to get inside, as you probably noticed, and walked through this front hallway into the den, through there, where Blackletter was tinkering with his robots."

"Robots?"

"He was a robot enthusiast. Hobbyist stuff."

"So the perp went straight from here to the den?"

"It seems so. He apparently heard Blackletter in there, decided to eliminate him before robbing the house."

"Was Blackletter's car in the driveway?"

"Yes."

Hayward followed Cring into the den. A long table was covered with metal and plastic parts, wires, circuit boards, and all kinds of strange gizmos. The floor below sported a large black stain, and the cinder-block wall was sprayed with blood and peppered with buckshot. Evidence marking cones and arrows were still positioned everywhere.

Shotgun, she thought. Just like Blast.

"It was a sawed-off," said Cring. "Twelve-gauge, based on the splatter analysis and the buckshot recovered. Double-ought buck."

Hayward nodded. She examined the door into the den: thick metal with a layer of hard soundproofing screwed into it on the inside. The walls and ceiling were also well soundproofed. She wondered if Blackletter had been working with the door open or shut. If he was a fastidious man–which seemed to be the case–he would have kept it shut to keep the dirt and dust out of the kitchen.

"After shooting the victim," continued Cring, "the perpetrator walked back into the kitchen–we found spots of secondary blood from footprints–and then back through the hallway to the living room."

Hayward was about to say something, but bit her tongue. This was no burglary, but it would do no good to point that out now. "Can we look at the living room?"

"Sure thing." Cring led her through the kitchen to the entry hall, then into the living room. Nothing had been touched; it was still a mess. A roll-top desk had been rifled, letters and pictures scattered about, books pulled off shelves, a sofa slit open with a knife. The wall sported a hole where the supports to the missing flatscreen had been affixed.

Hayward noticed an antique, sterling-silver letter opener with an opal inlaid in its handle lying on the floor, where it had been swept off the desk. Her eye roved about the living room, noting quite a few small, portable objects of silver and gold workmanship: ashtrays, small casks and boxes, teapots, teaspoons, salvers, candlesnuffers, inkstands, and figurines, all beautifully chased. Some had inlaid gemstones. They all seemed to have been unceremoniously swept to the floor.

"All these silver and gold objects," she asked. "Were any stolen?"

"Not that we know of."

"That seems odd."

"Things like that are very hard to fence, especially around here. Our burglar was most likely a drug addict just looking for some stuff to get a quick fix."

"All this silver looks like a collection."

"It was. Dr. Blackletter was involved with the local historical society and donated things from time to time. He specialized in antebellum American silver."

"Where'd he get his money?"

"He was a medical doctor."

"As I understand, he worked for Doctors With Wings, a nonprofit organization without a lot of money. This silver must be worth a small fortune."

"After Doctors With Wings, he did consulting work for various pharmaceutical companies. There are quite a few in this area; it's one of the mainstays of the local economy."

"Do you have a file on Dr. Blackletter? I'd like to see it."

"It's back at the station. I'll get you a copy when we're done here."

Hayward lingered in the living room. She had a vague feeling of dissatisfaction, as if there was more to extract from the crime scene. Her eye fell on a number of snapshots in silver frames that had apparently been swept from a bookshelf.

"May I?"

"Be my guest. The CSI people have been through here with a fine-tooth comb."

She knelt and picked up several of the frames. They showed what she presumed to be various family members and friends. Some were clearly of Blackletter himself: in Africa flying a plane, inoculating natives, standing before a bush clinic. There were several pictures showing Blackletter in company with an attractive blond woman some years his junior; in one he had his arm around her.

"Was Dr. Blackletter married?"

"Never," said Cring.

She turned this last picture over in her hands. The glass in the frame had cracked in its fall to the floor. Hayward slid the photo out of its frame and turned it over. Written on the back with a generous, looping hand was, TO MORRIS, IN MEMORY OF THAT FLIGHT OVER THE LAKE. LOVE, M.

"May I keep this? Just the photo, I mean."

A hesitation. "Well, we'll have to enter it in the chain-of-custody logs." Another hesitation. "May I ask the reason why?"

"It may be pertinent to my investigation." Hayward had been careful not to tell them exactly what her investigation was, and they, after making a few halfhearted attempts to find out, had tactfully dropped the subject.

But now Cring brought it up again. "If you don't mind me asking, we're sort of puzzled why an NYPD homicide captain would be interested in a fairly routine burglary and murder all the way down here. We don't mean to pry, but it would be useful to know what you're looking for–so we can help."

Hayward knew she couldn't keep dodging the question, so she opted for misdirection. "It involves a terrorism investigation."

A silence. "I see."

"Terrorism," Field repeated from behind her, speaking for the first time. He'd been following them so silently she'd almost forgotten he was there. "You got a lot of that up in New York, I hear."

"Yes," said Hayward. "You understand why we can't go into details."

"Absolutely."

"We're keeping a low profile on this one. Which is why I'm down here informally, if you know what I mean."

"Yes, of course," said Field. "If I may ask–anything to do with the robots?"

Hayward flashed him a quick smile. "The less said the better."

"Yes, ma'am," said the officer, flushing with pleasure at having guessed.

Hayward hated herself for telling lies like this. It was bad policy all around, and if it ever got out she could lose her job.

"Give the picture to me," said Cring, with a warning glance to his subordinate. "I'll see that it's logged and back in your hands right away." He slid the photograph into an evidence envelope, sealed it, and initialed it.

"I think we're done here," said Hayward, looking around, feeling guilty about her crude deception. She hoped Pendergast wasn't starting to rub off on her.

She stepped out of the dark house and into the humid sunlight. Glancing around, she noticed that the street dead-ended at the river not half a mile away. On impulse she turned back to Cring, who was securing the front door.

"Detective," she said.

He turned. "Ma'am?"

"You understand that you can't speak to anybody about what we just discussed."

"Yes, ma'am."

"But you probably also understand now why I believe this robbery to be a fake."

Cring rubbed his chin. "A fake?"

"Staged." She nodded down the street. "In fact, I'd bet that if you were to check, you just might find those missing electronics down there, beyond the end of the road, at the bottom of the Mississippi."

Cring looked from her, to the river, and back again. He nodded slowly.

"I'll swing by for that photo this afternoon," she said as she slipped into the Porsche.

50

Penumbra Plantation

THE OLD SERVANT, MAURICE, OPENED THE DOOR for Hayward, and she entered the dim confines of the mansion house. It again struck her as exactly the kind of place she imagined Pendergast coming from, decaying antebellum gentry, from the dilapidated house down to the mournful old servant in formal clothes.

"This way, Captain Hayward," Maurice said, turning and gesturing toward the parlor with an upturned palm. She walked in to find Pendergast seated before a fire, a small glass by his right hand. He rose and indicated a seat for her.

"Sherry?"

She dropped her briefcase on the sofa and settled down beside it. "No thanks. Not my kind of drink."

"Anything else? Beer? Tea? A martini?"

She glanced at Maurice, not wanting to put him out but exhausted by her travel. "Tea. Hot and strong, with milk and sugar, please."

With a decline of his head, the servant withdrew.

Pendergast settled back down, throwing one leg over the other. "How was your trip to Siesta Key and St. Francisville?" he asked.

"Productive. But first, how's Vinnie?"

"Doing quite well. The move to the private hospital was accomplished without incident. And the second operation, replacing the valve in his aorta with a pig valve, went beautifully and he is on the road to recovery."

She eased back, feeling a huge weight lifted. "Thank God. I want to see him."

"As I mentioned before, that would be unwise. Even calling him might be a bad idea. We seem to be dealing with a very clever killer–who, I believe, has some inside source of information about us." Pendergast took a sip of his sherry. "In any case, I just received the lab report about the feathers I purloined from Oakley Plantation. The birds were indeed infected with an avian influenza virus, but the very small sample I was able to obtain was simply too degraded to cultivate. Nevertheless, the researcher I employed made an important observation. The virus is neuroinvasive."

Hayward sighed. "You're going to have to explain that."

"It hides in the human nervous system. It's highly neurovirulent. And that, Captain, is the final piece of the puzzle."

The tea came and Maurice poured out a cup. "Go on."

Pendergast rose and paced before the fire. "The parrot virus makes you sick, just like any flu virus. And like many viruses, it hides in the nervous system as a way of avoiding the bloodstream and thus the human immune system. But that's where the similarities end. Because this virus also has an effecton the nervous system. And that effect is most unusual: it enhances brain activity, triggers a flowering of the intellect. My researcher–an exceedingly clever fellow–tells me that this could be caused by a simple loosening of neural pathways. You see, the virus makes the nerve endings slightly more sensitive–making them fire more quickly, more easily, with less stimuli. Trigger-happy nerves, as it were. But the virus also inhibits production of acetylcholine in the brain. And it seems this combination of effects ultimately unbalances the system, eventually overwhelming the victim with sensory input."

Hayward frowned. This seemed like a reach, even for Pendergast. "Are you sure about this?"

"Additional research would be needed to confirm the theory, but it's the only answer that fits." He paused. "Think of yourself for a moment, Captain Hayward. You are sitting on a couch. You are aware of the pressure of the leather against your back. You are aware of the warmth of the teacup in your hand. You can smell the roast saddle of lamb that we will be having for dinner. You can hear a variety of sounds: crickets, songbirds in the trees, the fire in the fireplace, Maurice in the kitchen."

"Of course," Hayward said. "What's your point?"

"You are aware of those sensations and probably a hundred more, if you were to stop and take note of them. But that's the point: you don'ttake note. A part of your brain–the thalamus, to be exact–is acting as a traffic cop, making sure you are only aware of the sensations that are important at the moment. Imagine what it would be like if there were no traffic cop? You would be continually bombarded by sensation, unable to ignore any of it. While it might in the short run enhance cognitive function and creativity, in the long run it would drive you mad. Literally. Thatis what happened to Audubon. And it happened to the Doane family–only much more rapidly and powerfully. We already suspected the madness shared by Audubon and the Doanes was more than coincidence–we just didn't have the link. Until now."

"The Doanes' parrot," Hayward said. "It had the virus, too. Just like the parrots stolen from Oakley Plantation."

"Correct. My wife must have discovered this extraordinary effect by accident. She realized that Audubon's illness seemed to have profoundly changed him, and as an epidemiologist she had the tools to figure out why. Her leap of genius was in realizing it wasn't just a psychic change caused by a brush with death; it was a physicalchange. You asked what her role in all this was: I have reason to believe she might, through the best of intentions, have taken her discovery to a pharmaceutical company, which tried to develop a drug from it. A mind-enhancement drug, or what I believe today is called a 'smart' drug."

"So what happened to that drug? Why wasn't it developed?"

"When we learn that, I think we will be much closer to understanding why my wife was killed."

Hayward spoke again, slowly. "I learned today that Blackletter was a consultant for several pharmaceutical companies after leaving Doctors With Wings."

"Excellent." Pendergast resumed pacing. "I'm ready for your report."

Hayward briefly summarized her visits to Florida and St. Francisville. "Both Blast and Blackletter were killed by a professional wielding a 12-gauge sawed-off shotgun loaded with double-ought buckshot. He entered the premises, killed the victims, then tossed the place and took a few things to make it look like a robbery."

"Which pharmaceutical companies did Blackletter consult for?"

Hayward opened her briefcase, slid out a manila envelope, extracted a sheet, and handed it to him.

Pendergast walked over and took it. "Did you dig up any of Blackletter's former contacts or associates?"

"Just one–a snapshot of an old flame."

"An excellent start."

"Speaking of Blast, there's something I don't understand."

Pendergast put the photo aside. "Yes?"

"Well–it's pretty obvious the person who killed Blackletter also killed him. But why? He didn't have anything to do with this avian flu–did he?"

Pendergast shook his head. "No, he didn't. And that is a very good question. I believe it must concern the conversation Helen once had with Blast. Blast told me that, when he confronted her about the Black Frame and her reasons for wanting it, she said: 'I don't want to own it, I just want to examine it.' We now know Blast was telling the truth about this. But of course, whoever arranged for my wife's murder cannot have known what transpired in that conversation. She might have told him more–perhaps much more. About Audubon and the avian flu, for example. And so, for safety's sake, Blast had to die. He wasn't a big loose end–but he was a loose end nonetheless."

Hayward shook her head. "That's cold."

"Cold indeed."

At that moment Maurice came in, a look of distaste on his face. "Mr. Hudson is here to see you, sir."

"Send him in."

Hayward watched as a short, stocky, obsequious-looking fellow came into the room, all trench coat, fedora, pinstripes, and wingtips. He looked every inch the film noir caricature of a private investigator, which is what he evidently thought he was. She was amazed that Pendergast would have any truck with such a person.

"Hope I'm not interrupting," he said, ducking his head and removing his hat.

"Not at all, Mr. Hudson." She noticed Pendergast didn't introduce her. "You have the list of pharmaceutical companies I asked for?"

"Yes, sir. And I visited each one–"

"Thank you." Pendergast took the list. "Please wait in the east parlor, where I will take your report in good time." He nodded to Maurice. "Make sure Mr. Hudson is comfortable with a nonalcoholic beverage." The old servant led the man back out into the hallway.

"What in the world did you do to make him so..." Hayward searched for the right word. "Meek?"

"A variant of the Stockholm syndrome. First you threaten his life, then with great magnanimity you spare him. The poor fellow made the mistake of hiding in my garage with a loaded gun, in a rather ill-considered blackmail attempt."

Hayward shuddered, remembering afresh why she found Pendergast's methods so distasteful.

"Anyway, he's working for us now. And the first assignment I gave him was to compile a list of all the pharmaceutical companies within fifty miles of the Doane house–reasoning fifty miles to be the outside limit of how far an escaped parrot would fly. All that remains is to compare it to your list of the companies Blackletter consulted for." Pendergast held up the two sheets of paper, glancing back and forth between them. His face suddenly hardened. He lowered the sheets and his eyes met hers.

"We have a match," he said. "Longitude Pharmaceuticals."

51

Baton Rouge

THE HOUSE, OF CHEERFUL YELLOW STUCCO with white trim, stood in a gentrified neighborhood at the fringes of Spanish Town in Baton Rouge, with a tiny front garden overflowing with tulips. Laura Hayward followed Pendergast up the brick walk to the front door. She eyed the large sign that read NO SOLICITING. That did not seem like a good omen, and she was miffed that Pendergast had turned down her suggestion they call ahead to set up an appointment.

A small man with wispy hair opened the door, peering at them through round glasses. "May I help you?"

"Is Mary Ann Roblet at home?" Pendergast asked in his most mellifluous southern accent, irritating Hayward further. She reminded herself again that she was doing this not for him, but for Vinnie.

The man hesitated. "Whom may I say is calling?"

"Aloysius Pendergast and Laura Hayward."

Another hesitation. "Are you, ah, religious folk?"

"No, sir," said Pendergast. "Nor are we selling anything." He waited, with a pleasant smile on his face.

The man, after a moment of further hesitation, called over his shoulder. "Mary Ann? Two people to see you." He waited at the door, not inviting them in.

A moment later a vivacious woman bustled to the door, plump, ample-breasted, her silver hair coiffed, makeup tastefully applied. "Yes?"

Pendergast introduced themselves once again while at the same time removing the FBI shield from his suit, opening it in front of her with a smooth motion, and then closing it and restoring it somewhere inside the black material. Hayward noticed with a start that tucked inside the shield was the snapshot she had retrieved in Blackletter's house.

A blush crept up on Mary Ann Roblet's face.

"May we speak with you in private, Mrs. Roblet?"

She was flustered, unable to reply, her blush growing deeper.

The man, evidently her husband, hovered suspiciously in the background. "What is it?" he asked. "Who are these people?"

"They're FBI."

"FBI? FBI?What the heck is this about?" He turned to them. "What do you want?"

Pendergast spoke up. "Mr. Roblet, it's purely routine, nothing to be concerned about. But it is confidential. We need to speak with your wife for a few minutes, that's all. Now, Mrs. Roblet, may we come in?"

She backed away from the door, her face now entirely red.

"Is there a place inside where we can talk in private?" asked Pendergast. "If you don't mind."

Mrs. Roblet recovered her voice. "We can go into the den."

They followed Mrs. Roblet into a small television room, with two overstuffed chairs and a sofa, white wall-to-wall carpeting, and a huge plasma television at one end. Pendergast firmly shut the door as Mr. Roblet hung about in the hall, frowning. Mrs. Roblet seated herself primly on the sofa, adjusting the hem of her dress. Instead of taking one of the chairs, Pendergast sat down beside her on the sofa.

"My apologies for disturbing you," said Pendergast in a low, pleasant voice. "We hope to take up only a few minutes of your time."

After a silence, Mrs. Roblet said, "I assume you're looking into the... death of Morris Blackletter."

"That's correct. How did you know?"

"I read about it in the papers." Her carefully constructed face already looked like it was beginning to fall apart.

"I'm very sorry," said Pendergast, extracting a small packet of tissues from his suit and offering her one. She took one, dabbed her eyes. She was making a heroic effort to hold herself together.

"We're not here to pry into your past life or disturb your marriage," Pendergast went on in a kindly voice. "I imagine it must be difficult to grieve secretly for someone you once cared about a great deal. Nothing we say in here will get back to your husband."

She nodded, dabbing again. "Yes. Morris was... was a wonderful man," she said quietly, then her voice changed, hardened. "Let's just get this over with."

Hayward shifted uncomfortably. Damn Pendergast and his methods, she thought. This kind of an interview should take place in a formal setting: a police station with recording devices.

"Of course. You met Dr. Blackletter in Africa?"

"Yes," she said.

"Under what circumstances?"

"I was a nurse with the Libreville Baptist Mission in Gabon. That's in West Africa."

"And your husband?"

"He was the mission's senior pastor," she said in a low voice.

"How did you meet Dr. Blackletter?"

"Is this really necessary?" she whispered.

"Yes."

"He ran a small clinic next to the mission for Doctors With Wings. Whenever there was an outbreak of disease in the western part of the country, he used to fly into the bush to inoculate the villagers. It was very, very dangerous work, and when he needed help, sometimes I would go with him."

Pendergast laid a kindly hand on hers. "When did your relationship with him begin?"

"Around the middle of our first year there. That would be twenty-two years ago."

"And when did it end?"

A long silence. "It didn't." Her voice faltered.

"Tell us about his work back here in the States, after he left Doctors With Wings."

"Morris was an epidemiologist. A very good one. He worked for a number of pharmaceutical companies as a consultant, helping them design and develop vaccines and other drugs."

"Was one of them Longitude Pharmaceuticals?"

"Yes."

"Did he ever tell you anything about his work with them?"

"He kept quiet about most of his consulting work. It was pretty hush-hush, industrial secrets and all that. But it's funny you should mention that company, because he did talk about it a few times. More than most of them."

"And?"

"He worked there for about a year."

"When was that?"

"Maybe eleven years ago. He quit abruptly. Something happened there he didn't like. He was angry and frightened–and believe me, Morris was not an easily frightened man. I remember one evening he talked about the company CEO. Slade was his name. Charles J. Slade. I remember him saying the man was evil, and that the sign of a truly evil man was his ability to draw good people into his maelstrom. That was the word he used, maelstrom.I remember having to look it up. Morris abruptly stopped talking about Longitude shortly after he quit, and I never heard him speak of it again."

"He never worked for them again?"

"Never. The company went into bankruptcy almost immediately after Morris left. Fortunately, he had been paid by then."

Hayward leaned forward. "Excuse me for interrupting, but how do you know he was paid?"

Mary Ann Roblet turned gray eyes on her, damp and red. "He loved fine silverwork. Antiques. He went out and spent a fortune on a private collection, and when I asked him how he afforded it he told me he'd received a large bonus from Longitude."

"A large bonus. After a year of work." Pendergast thought a moment. "What else did he say about this man, Slade?"

She thought for a moment. "He said he'd brought down a good company. Wrecked it with his own thoughtlessness and arrogance."

"Did you ever meet Slade?"

"Oh, no. Never. Morris and I never had any kind of public relationship. It was always... private. I did hear that everyone was in deathly fear of Slade. Except for June, that is."

"June?"

"June Brodie. Slade's executive secretary."

Pendergast thought about this for a moment. Then he turned to Hayward. "Do you have any further questions?"

"Did Dr. Blackletter ever indicate what he was working on at Longitude or whom he worked with?"

"He never talked about the confidential research. But from time to time he did mention a few of the people he worked with. He liked to tell funny stories about people. Let's see... My memory isn't what it used to be. There was June, of course."