you be put off the Ebola team, not Dr. Dubchek.”
Marissa was again speechless. The idea of a United States Congressman calling the head of the CDC to have her removed from the Ebola investigation seemed unbelievable. “Congressman Markham used my name specifically?” asked Marissa, when she found her voice.
“Yes,” said Dr. Carbonara. “Believe me, I questioned it, too.”
“But why?” asked Marissa.
“There was no explanation,” said Dr. Carbonara. “And it was more of an order than a request. For political reasons, we have no choice. I think you can understand.”
Marissa shook her head. “That’s just it, I don’t understand. But it does make me change my mind about that vacation offer. I think I need the time after all.”
“Splendid,” said Dr. Carbonara. “I’ll arrange it—effective immediately. After a rest you can make a fresh start. I want to reassure you that we have no quarrel with your work. In fact we have been impressed by your performance. Those Ebola outbreaks had us all terrified. You’ll be a significant addition to the staff working on enteric bacteria, and I’m sure you will enjoy the woman who heads the division, Dr. Harriet Samford.”
Marissa headed home, her mind in turmoil. She’d counted on work to distract her from Taffy’s brutal death; and while she’d thought there’d been a chance she’d be fired, she’d never considered she’d be given a vacation. Vaguely she wondered if she should ask Ralph if he was serious about that Caribbean trip. Yet such an idea was not without disadvantages. While she liked him as a friend, she wasn’t sure if she were ready for anything more.
Her empty house was quiet without Taffy’s exuberant greeting. Marissa had an overwhelming urge to go back to bed and pull the covers over her head, but she knew that would mean yielding to the depression she was determined to fight off. She hadn’t really accepted Dr. Carbonara’s story as an excuse for shuffling her off the Ebola case. A casual recommendation from a congressman usually didn’t produce such fast results. She was sure if she checked she would discover Markham was a friend of Dubchek’s. Eyeing her bed with its tempting ruffled pillows, she resolved not to give in to her usual pattern of withdrawal. The last reactive depression, after Roger left, was too fresh in her mind. Instead of just giving in and accepting the situation, which was what she’d done then, she told herself that she had to do something. The question was what.
Sorting her dirty clothes, intending to do a therapeutic load of wash, she spotted her packed suitcase. It was like an omen.
Impulsively, she picked up the phone and called Delta to make a reservation for the next flight to Washington, D.C.
“There’s an information booth just inside the door,” said the knowledgeable cab driver as he pointed up the stairs of the Cannon Congressional Office Building.
Once inside, Marissa went through a metal detector while a uniformed guard checked the contents of her purse. When she asked for Congressman Markham’s office she was told that it was on the fifth floor. Following the rather complicated directions—it seemed that the main elevators only went to the fourth floor—Marissa was struck by the general dinginess of the interior of the building. The walls of the elevator were actually covered with grafitti.
Despite the circuitous route, she had no trouble finding the office. The outer door was ajar, so she walked in unannounced, hoping an element of surprise might work in her favor. Unfortunately, the congressman was not in.
“He’s not due back from Houston for three days. Would you like to make an appointment?”
“I’m not sure,” said Marissa, feeling a little silly after having flown all the way from Atlanta without checking to see if the man would be in town, let alone available.
“Would you care to talk with Mr. Abrams, the congressman’s administrative assistant?”
“I suppose,” said Marissa. In truth she hadn’t been certain how to confront Markham. If she merely asked if he had tried to do Dubchek a favor by figuring out a way to remove her from the Ebola case, obviously he would deny it. While she was still deliberating, an earnest young man came up to her and introduced himself as Michael Abrams. “What can I do for you?” he asked, extending a hand. He looked about twenty-five, with dark, almost black, hair and a wide grin that Marissa suspected could not be as sincere as it first seemed.
“Is there somewhere we can talk privately?” she asked him. They were standing directly in front of the secretary’s desk.
“By all means,” said Michael. He guided her into the congressman’s office, a large, high-ceilinged room with a huge mahogany desk flanked by an American flag on one side and a Texas state flag on the other. The walls were covered with framed photos of the congressman shaking hands with a variety of celebrities including all the recent presidents.
“My name is Dr. Blumenthal,” began Marissa as soon as she was seated. “Does that name mean anything to you?”
Michael shook his head. “Should it?” he asked in a friendly fashion.
“Perhaps,” said Marissa, unsure of how to proceed.
“Are you from Houston?” asked Michael.
“I’m from Atlanta,” said Marissa. “From the CDC.” She watched to see if there was any unusual response. There wasn’t.
“The CDC,” repeated Michael. “Are you here in an official capacity?”
“No,” admitted Marissa. “I’m interested in the congressman’s association with the Center. Is it one of his particular concerns?”
“I’m not sure ‘particular’ is the right word,” said Michael warily. “He’s concerned about all areas of health care. In fact Congressman Markham has introduced more health-care legislation than any other congressman. He’s recently sponsored bills limiting the immigration of foreign medical school graduates, a bill for compulsory arbitration of malpractice cases, a bill establishing a federal ceiling on malpractice awards and a bill limiting federal subsidy of HMO—Health Maintenance Organization—development…” Michael paused to catch his breath.
“Impressive,” said Marissa. “Obviously he takes a real interest in American medicine.”
“Indeed,” agreed Michael. “His daddy was a general practitioner, and a fine one at that.”
“But as far as you know,” continued Marissa, “he does not concern himself with any specific projects at the CDC.”
“Not that I know of,” said Michael.
“And I assume that not much happens around here without your knowing about it.”
Michael grinned.
“Well, thank you for your time,” said Marissa, getting to her feet. Intuitively, she knew she wasn’t going to learn anything more from Michael Abrams.
Returning to the street, Marissa felt newly despondent. Her sense of doing something positive about her situation had faded. She had no idea if she should hang around Washington for three days waiting for Markham’s return, or if she should just go back to Atlanta.
She wandered aimlessly toward the Capitol. She’d already checked into a hotel in Georgetown, so why not stay? She could visit some museums and art galleries. But as she gazed at the Capitol’s impressive white dome, she couldn’t help wondering why a man in Markham’s position should bother with her, even if he were a friend of Dubchek’s. Suddenly, she got the glimmer of an idea. Flagging a cab, she hopped in quickly and said, “Federal Elections Commission; do you know where that is?”
The driver was a handsome black who turned to her and said, “Lady, if there’s some place in this city that I don’t know, I’ll take you there for nothin’.”
Satisfied, Marissa settled back and let the man do the driving. Fifteen minutes later they pulled up in front of a drab semimodern office building in a seedy part of downtown Washington. A uniformed guard paid little heed to Marissa other than to indicate she had to sign the register before she went in. Uncertain which department she wanted, Marissa ended up going into a first-floor office. Four women were typing busily behind gray metal desks.
As Marissa approached, one looked up and asked if she could be of assistance.
“Maybe,” said Marissa with a smile. “I’m interested in a congressman’s campaign finances. I understand that’s part of the public record.”
“Certainly is,” agreed the woman, getting to her feet. “Are you interested in contributions or disbursements?”
