“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.