was a boy.
“Who is this?” demanded Dr. Joshua Jackson at the other end of the phone.
“Heberling,” said the man in the blue coveralls. “Dr. Arnold Heberling. Remember me?”
Paul gave Arnold his coffee, then returned to the desk, taking another paper clip out of the middle drawer. He pounded his chest, clearing his throat.
“Heberling!” said Dr. Jackson. “I told you never to call me at my office!”
“The Blumenthal girl was here,” said Heberling, ignoring Jackson’s comment. “She drove up pretty as you please in a red car. I caught her looking through the windows.”
“How the hell did she find out about the lab?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care,” said Heberling. “The fact of the matter is that she was here, and I’m coming into town to see you. This can’t go on. Something has to be done about her.”
“No! Don’t come here,” said Jackson frantically. “I’ll come there.”
“All right,” said Heberling. “But it has to be today.”
“I’ll be there around five,” said Jackson, slamming down the receiver.
Marissa decided to stop in Grayson for lunch. She was hungry, and maybe someone would tell her something about the lab. She stopped in front of the drugstore, went in and sat down at the old-fashioned soda fountain. She ordered a hamburger, which came on a freshly toasted roll with a generous slice of Bermuda onion. Her Coke was made from syrup.
While Marissa ate, she considered her options. They were pretty meager. She couldn’t go back to the CDC or the Berson Clinic Hospital. Figuring out what Professional Labs was doing with a sophisticated 3 HEPA filtration system was a last resort, but the chances of getting in seemed slim: the place was built like a fortress. Perhaps it was time to call Ralph and ask if he’d found a lawyer, except…
Marissa took a bite of her dill pickle. In her mind’s eye she pictured the two vehicles in the lab’s parking lot. The white van had had Professional Labs, Inc., printed on its side. It was the Inc. that interested her.
Finishing her meal, Marissa walked down the street to an office building she remembered passing. The door was frosted glass: RONALD DAVIS, ATTORNEY AND REAL- TOR, was stenciled on it in gold leaf. A bell jangled as she entered. There was a cluttered desk, but no secretary.
A man dressed in a white shirt, bow tie and red suspenders, came out from an inside room. Although he appeared to be no more than thirty, he was wearing wire-rimmed glasses that seemed almost grandfatherly. “Can I help you?” he asked, with a heavy Southern accent.
“Are you Mr. Davis?” asked Marissa.
“Yup.” The man hooked his thumbs through his suspenders.
“I have a couple of simple questions,” said Marissa. “About corporate law. Do you think you could answer them?”
“Maybe,” said Mr. Davis. He motioned for Marissa to come in.
The scene looked like a set for a 1930s movie, complete with the desk-top fan that slowly rotated back and forth, rustling the papers. Mr. Davis sat down and leaned back, putting his hands behind his head. Then he said: “What is it you want to know?”
“I want to find out about a certain corporation,” began Marissa. “If a business is incorporated, can someone like myself find out the names of the owners?”
Mr. Davis tipped forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “Maybe and maybe not,” he said, smiling.
Marissa groaned. It seemed that a conversation with Mr. Davis was going to be like pulling teeth. But before she could rephrase her question, he continued: “If the company in question is a public corporation, it would be hard to find out all the stockholders, especially if a lot of the stock is held in trust with power of attorney delegated to a third party. But if the company is a partnership, then it would be easy. In any case, it is always possible to find out the name of the service agent if you have in mind to institute some sort of litigation. Is that what you have in mind?”
“No,” said Marissa. “Just information. How would I go about finding out if a company is a partnership or a public corporation?”
“Easy,” said Mr. Davis, leaning back once more. “All you have to do is go to the State House in Atlanta, visit the Secretary of State’s office and ask for the corporate division. Just tell the clerk the name of the company, and he can look it up. It’s a matter of public record, and if the company is incorporated in Georgia, it will be listed there.”
“Thank you,” said Marissa, seeing a glimmer of light at the end of the dark tunnel. “How much do I owe you?”
Mr. Davis raised his eyebrows, studying Marissa’s face. “Twenty dollars might do it, unless…”
“My pleasure,” said Marissa, pulling out a twenty-dollar bill and handing it over.
Marissa returned to her car and drove back toward Atlanta. She was pleased to have a goal, even if the chances of finding significant information were not terribly good.
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.”
