Fever Dream by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child Page B

pains and expense to disguise her death as an accident—it’s clear there must be a part of her life I knew
     nothing about. Since we spent most of her last two years on earth together, I have to believe that, whatever it was, it lay
     farther back in her past. This is where I need your help.”
    Esterhazy passed a hand across his broad forehead, nodded.
    “Do you have any idea, any, of a person who might have had a motive to kill her? Enemies? Professional rivals? Old lovers?”
    Esterhazy was silent, his jaw working. “Helen was… wonderful. Kind. Charming. She
had
no enemies. Everyone loved her at MIT, and in her graduate work she was always scrupulous in sharing credit.”
    Pendergast nodded. “What about after her graduation? Any rivals at Doctors With Wings? Anyone passed over for a promotion
     in favor of her?”
    “DWW didn’t operate like that. Everyone worked together. No egos. She was much appreciated there.” He swallowed painfully.
     “Even loved.”
    Pendergast sat back in his chair. “In the months before her death, she took several short trips. Research, she told me, but
     she was vague about the details. In retrospect it seems a little odd—Doctors With Wings was more about education and treatment
     than it wasabout research. I now wish I had pressed her for more information. You’re a doctor—do you know what she might
     have been up to, if anything?”
    Esterhazy paused to think. Then he shook his head. “Sorry, Aloysius. She told me nothing. She loved traveling to faraway places—as
     you know. And she was fascinated by medical research. Those twin loves were what led her to DWW in the first place.”
    “What about your family history?” D’Agosta asked. “Any instances of familial conflict, childhood grievances, that sort of
     thing?”
    “Everybody loved Helen,” Esterhazy said. “I used to be a little jealous of her popularity. And, no, there have been no family
     problems to speak of. Both our parents died more than fifteen years ago. I’m the only Esterhazy left.” He hesitated.
    “Yes?” Pendergast leaned forward.
    “Well, I’m sure there’s nothing to it, but long before she met you she had… an unhappy love affair. With a real bounder.”
    “Go on.”
    “It was her first year in graduate school, seems to me. She brought the fellow down from MIT for the weekend. Blond, clean-cut,
     blue eyes, tall and athletic, always seemed to go about in tennis whites and crew sweaters, came from a rich old WASP family,
     grew up in Manhattan with a summer cottage on Fishers Island, talked about going into investment banking—you know the type.”
    “Why was it unhappy?”
    “Turned out he had some kind of sexual problem. Helen was vague about it, some kind of perverse behavior or cruelty in that
     area.”
    “And?”
    “She dumped him. He annoyed her for a while, phone calls, letters. I don’t think it reached the level of stalking. And then
     it seemed to fade away.” He waved his hand. “That was six years before you met and nine years before her death. I can’t see
     there being anything in it.”
    “And the name?”
    Esterhazy clutched his forehead in his hands. “Adam… First name was Adam. For the life of me I can’t remember his last name—if
     I ever knew it.”
    A long silence. “Anything else?”
    Esterhazy shook his head. “It seems inconceivable to me anyone would want to hurt Helen.”
    There was a brief silence. Then Pendergast nodded to a framed print on one of the walls: a faded picture of a snowy owl sitting
     in a tree at night. “That’s an Audubon, isn’t it?”
    “Yes. A reproduction, I’m afraid.” Esterhazy glanced at it. “Odd you should mention it.”
    “Why?”
    “It used to hang in Helen’s bedroom when we were children. She told me how, when she was sick, she would stare at it for hours
     on end. She was fascinated by Audubon. But of course you know all that,” he concluded briskly. “I kept it because it reminded
     me of