Eyes wide, Lopez glanced from Cohen to Kilburn. “What death?”

Cohen shook his head. Kilburn leaned forward in his seat and tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Do you have any idea what that story was about?” he asked anxiously. “Whose death?”

“Dunno, but I can find out.” The driver shrugged. He pressed another button. Kilburn fidgeted impatiently through the radio ad for a local car dealership and then another promising a cure for baldness, before the deep male anchor’s voice finally announced it was time for “headline news.”

“In breaking news,” the anchor said somberly, “Philadelphia police have confirmed they’ve found the body of Dr. Ellen Horton in her Mt. Airy home this morning. The police are refusing to release the cause of death. Few other details are known at this hour.” His tone lightened, becoming more informational. “The forty-year-old scientist is credited with developing Oraloxin, the antibiotic used during the past few days as the only treatment for MRGAS. The new superbug has caused deadly outbreaks in San Francisco, L.A., and Seattle. The treatment was—”

“Turn it back to the weather please,” Kilburn said quietly, slumping back in his seat.

Lopez put a hand on his shoulder. “Oh, Graham, I’m so sorry.”

Kilburn swallowed. “She was reaching out to me,” he said, feeling the guilt swell. “Goddamn it! I should have told her I was coming.”

“Graham,” Cohen said gently, “we don’t even know how she died.”

“You’re the detective,” Kilburn spat. “What does a report like that usually mean?”

“It usually means suicide,” Cohen answered evenly. He leaned forward and looked past Lopez straight into Kilburn’s eyes. “But there’s nothing usual about any of this.”

Kilburn nodded, sorry for having snapped at Cohen. “How do we find out more, Seth?”

“I have a friend with Philadelphia PD,” Cohen said. “I was planning to see him anyway. He might know something.”

Kilburn turned and gazed out the window, barely noticing that the freeway had given way to the high-rises and congestion of downtown Philadelphia. His stomach churned. His temples pounded. Ellen. Even though their contact had lapsed, he knew their friendship had been renewed in the past week.

Their final conversation repeated in his head like a looping tape. Her labile mood and her air of desperation were painfully fresh. He flinched at the memory of how he told Ellen he was too busy to fly to Philadelphia. He had let down his friend when she needed him most. It was Toronto all over again, except this time someone died.

They stopped by their hotel only long enough to drop off their bags, after which they headed west over the Schuylkill River and past the University of Pennsylvania. The driver dropped them off in front of the Philadelphia Police Department’s Sixteenth District building.