She stayed just under the speed limit. The last thing she wanted was to be stopped by the police. She made good time and was back in the city by 4:00. Parking in a garage, she walked to the State House.
Distinctly uncomfortable in the presence of the capitol police, Marissa sweated nervously as she started up the front steps, certain she would be recognized.
“Dr. Blumenthal,” called a voice.
For a split second, Marissa considered running. Instead, she turned to see one of the CDC secretaries, a bright young woman in her early twenties, walking toward her.
“Alice MacCabe, Doctor Carbonara’s office. Remember me?”
Marissa did, and for the next few nerve-racking minutes was forced to engage in small talk. Luckily, Miss MacCabe was oblivious to the fact that Marissa was a “wanted” person.
As soon as she could, Marissa said good-bye and entered the building. More than ever, she just wanted to get whatever information she could and leave. Unfortunately, there was a long line at the corporate division. With dwindling patience, Marissa waited her turn, keeping a hand to her face with the mistaken notion that it might keep her from being recognized.
“What can I do for you?” asked the white-haired clerk when it was finally Marissa’s turn.
“I’d like some information about a corporation called Professional Labs.”
“Where is it located?” asked the clerk. He slipped on his bifocals and entered the name at a computer terminal.
“Grayson, Georgia,” said Marissa.
“Okay,” said the clerk. “Here it is. Incorporated just last year. What would you like to know?”
“Is it a partnership or a public corporation?” asked Marissa, trying to remember what Mr. Davis had said.
“Limited partnership, subchapter S.”
“What does that mean?” asked Marissa.
“It has to do with taxes. The partners can deduct the corporate losses, if there are any, on their individual returns.”
“Are the partners listed?” asked Marissa, excitement overcoming her anxiety for the moment.
“Yup,” said the clerk. “There’s Joshua Jackson, Rodd Becker..
“Just a second,” said Marissa. “Let me write this down.” She got out a pen and began writing.
“Let’s see,” said the clerk, staring at the computer screen. “Jackson, Becker; you got those?”
“Yes.”
“There’s Sinclair Tieman, Jack Krause, Gustave Swenson, Duane Moody, Trent Goodridge and the Physicians’ Action Congress.”
“What was that last one?” asked Marissa, scribbling furiously.
The clerk repeated it.
“Can an organization be a limited partner?” She had seen the name Physicians’ Action Congress on Markham’s contributions list.
“I’m no lawyer, lady, but I think so. Well, it must be so or it wouldn’t be in here. Here’s something else: a law firm by the name of Cooper, Hodges, McQuinllin and Hanks.”
“They’re partners too?” asked Marissa, starting to write down the additional names.
“No,” said the clerk. “They’re the service agent.”
“I don’t need that,” said Marissa. “I’m not interested in suing the company.” She erased the names of Cooper and Hodges.
Thanking the clerk, Marissa beat a hasty retreat and hurried back to the parking garage. Once inside her car, she opened her briefcase and took out the photocopies of Markham’s contributors list. Just as she’d remembered, the Physicians’ Action Congress (PAC) was listed. On the one hand it was a limited partner in an economic venture, on the other, a contributor to a conservative politician’s reelection campaign.
Curious, Marissa looked to see if any of the other partners of Professional Labs were on Markham’s list. To her surprise, they all were. More astonishing, the partners, like Markham’s contributors, came from all over the country. From Markham’s list, she had all their addresses.
Marissa put her key in the ignition, then hesitated. Looking back at Markham’s list she noted that the Physicians’ Action Congress was listed under corporate sponsors. Much as she hated to tempt fate by passing the capitol police again, she forced herself to get out of the
car and walk back. She waited in line for the second time, for the same clerk, and asked him what he could tell her about the Physicians’ Action Congress.
The clerk punched in the name on his terminal, waited for a moment, then turned to Marissa. “I can’t tell you anything. It’s not in here.”
“Does that mean it’s not incorporated?”
“Not necessarily. It means it’s not incorporated in Georgia.”
Marissa thanked the man again, and again ran out of the building. Her car felt like a sanctuary. She sat for a few minutes, trying to decide what to do next. She really didn’t have all that much information, and she was getting rather far afield from the Ebola outbreaks. But her intuition told her that in some weird way everything she had learned was related. And if that were the case, then the Physicians’ Action Congress was the key. But how could she investigate an organization she’d never heard of?
Her first thought was to visit the Emory Medical School library. Perhaps one of the librarians might know where to look. But then, remembering running into Alice MacCabe, she decided the chance of being recognized was too great. She would do much better to go out of town for a few days. But where?
Starting the car, Marissa had an inspiration: the AMA! If she couldn’t get information about a physicians’ organization at the AMA, then it wasn’t available. And Chicago sounded safe. She headed south toward the airport, hoping the meager supply of clothing in her suitcase would hold up.
Joshua Jackson’s heavy sedan thundered over the wood-planked bridge spanning Parsons Creek, then veered sharply to the left, the tires squealing. The pavement stopped, and the car showered the shoulder of the road with pebbles as it sped down the tree-lined lane. Inside, Jackson’s fury mounted with each mile he traveled. He didn’t want to visit the lab, but he had no intention of being seen in town with Heberling. The man was proving increasingly unreliable, and even worse, unpredictable. Asked to create minor confusion, he resorted to atomic warfare. Hiring him had been a terrible decision, but there wasn’t much any of them could do about the fact now.
Puffing up to the lab, Jackson parked across from Heberling’s Mercedes. He knew that Heberling had bought it with some of the funds he’d been given for technical equipment. What a waste!
Jackson walked up to the front of the building. It was an impressive affair, and Jackson, perhaps better than anyone, knew how much
money it had all cost. The Physicians’ Action Congress had built Dr. Arnold Heberling a personal monument, and for what: a hell of a lot of trouble, because Heberling was a nut.
There was a click, the door opened and Jackson stepped inside.
“I’m in the conference room,” shouted Heberling.
Jackson knew the room Heberling meant, and it was hardly a conference room. Jackson paused at the door, taking in the high ceiling, glass wall and stark furnishings. Two Chippendale couches faced one another on a large Chinese rug. There was no other furniture. Heberling was on one of the couches.
“I hope this is important,” said Jackson, taking the initiative. The two men sat facing each other. Physically, they couldn’t have been more different. Heberling was stocky with a bloated face and coarse features. Jackson was tall and thin with an almost ascetic face. Their clothes helped heighten the contrast: Heberling in coveralls; Jackson in a banker’s pinstripes.
“The Blumenthal girl was right here in the yard,” said Heberling, pointing over his shoulder for effect. “Obviously she didn’t see anything, but just the fact that she was here suggests that she knows something. She’s got to be removed.”