In a mild panic to get to her before she climbed into her car, Kim struggled with his door. It stuck once in a while: a legacy of an old fender bender. Several thumps with his palm got it open, and he leaped out. He sprinted toward the woman. By the time he got to her, she had the back door open of her yellow Ford sedan. She was just straightening up from having stowed her briefcase on the floor of the backseat. Kim was surprised by her height. He estimated she had to be at least five foot ten.
“Marsha Baldwin?” Kim demanded.
Mildly surprised at being accosted by name in the parking lot, Marsha turned to Kim and gave him a once-over with her deep emerald-green eyes. By reflex she swept a lock of her dark blond hair off her forehead and tucked it behind her ear. She was confused by Kim’s appearance and immediately put on guard by the confrontational tone of his voice.
“Yes, I’m Marsha Baldwin,” she said hesitantly.
Kim took in the whole picture, including the bumper sticker that said “Save the Manatees” on what was obviously a government-issue car and the image of the woman who was, in Jack Cartwright’s words, “a looker.” Kim estimated she couldn’t have been much over twenty-five, with coral-toned skin and cameo-like features. Her nose was prominent but aristocratic. Her lips sculpted in sharp relief.
“We have to talk,” Kim averred.
“Really?” Marsha questioned. “And what are you, an unemployed surgeon or did you just come from last night’s costume party?”
“Under different circumstances I might think that was clever,” Kim said. “I was told you are a USDA inspector.”
“And who gave you this information?” Marsha asked warily. She’d been warned in her training that occasionally she might have to deal with kooks.
Kim motioned toward the Mercer Meats entrance. “By an unctuous Mercer Meats PR man named Jack Cartwright.”
“And what if I was a USDA inspector?” Marsha asked. She closed the rear door of her car and opened the front. She had no intention of giving this strange man much time.
From his pocket Kim extracted the paper with the details from the labels of the patty cartons in the Onion Ring. He held it at the top corner shoulder high. “I want you to find out where the meat came from for these two lots.”
Marsha glanced at the paper. “What on earth for?” she questioned.
“Because I believe one of these lots has made my daughter deathly sick with a bad strain of E. coli,” Kim said. “Not only do I want to know where the meat came from, but I also need to know where these lots were shipped to.”
“How do you know it was one of these lots?” Marsha asked.
“I don’t know for sure,” Kim said. “At least not yet.”
“Oh, really?” Marsha questioned superciliously.
“Yes, really,” Kim said hotly, taking offense at her tone.
“Sorry, I can’t get you that kind of information,” Marsha said.
“Why not?” Kim demanded.
“It’s not my job to give such information to the public,” Marsha said. “I’m sure it’s against the rules.”
Marsha started to get into her car.
Picturing his deathly ill daughter in her hospital bed, Kim roughly grabbed Marsha’s arm to keep her from getting into the car. “Screw the rules, you goddamn bureaucrat,” he snapped. “This is important. You’re supposed to be protecting the public. Here’s an opportunity to do just that.”
Marsha didn’t panic. She looked down at the hand gripping her arm, then back up into Kim’s indignant face. “Let go of me or I’ll scream bloody murder, you crank.”
Convinced she was a woman of her word, Kim let go of her arm. He was nonplussed by Marsha’s unexpected assertiveness.
“Be nice, now,” Marsha said as if she were talking with a juvenile. “I haven’t done anything to you.”
“Like hell you haven’t,” Kim said. “If you USDA people weren’t acting out a sham and really inspected this meat industry, my daughter wouldn’t be sick, nor would some five hundred kids die each year.”
“Now, just wait one minute,” Marsha shot back. “I work hard at my job, and I take it very seriously.”