“Everything the lab has tested it against so far.” Lopez turned for the door. “But that’s not useful now that the patient is dead, right?”

Peters sprang off the couch and followed her. His look of self-assured indifference gave way to sudden concern. “Hold on! I was the one who intubated her.” He pointed at her. “Remember with SARS? Intubation was a huge risk to the physician.”

“I do remember, yes, Dr. Peters.” Finding his panic easier to stomach than his arrogance, Lopez was tempted to walk away without responding but decided against it. “Did you wear precautions?” she asked.

He nodded vigorously. “The works. Gown, mask, gloves, and goggles.”

“Provided you washed your hands well, you should be okay.”

Peters nodded. The color came back to his face.

She fished in her purse and pulled out a card. “If you see any other cases even vaguely resembling Tonya Jackscn’s, you call me. Day or night, okay?”

Peters took the card from her hand and nodded.

“And Dean, doesn’t matter how much you think you know.” Her eyes met his contrite stare. “You’ll never be a good physician until you develop a little more compassion for all your patients.”

Lopez and Warmack left without another word. They took the first set of stairs they passed to the main floor and then followed the signs to Microbiology. A technician led them past the microscopes, centrifuges, and other machines resting on countertops or standing alone on the floor of the lab. From the other side of the room, a distinguished, gray-bearded African American man, in a navy jacket and dotted red bowtie, strode toward them. “David!” he said in a rich baritone as he extended his hand to Warmack. “It has been far too long.”

Warmack met the handshake enthusiastically. “Thanks for meeting us so late, Phil.” He turned to Lopez and placed a hand paternally on her shoulder. “Phil Alan, this is Catalina Lopez. She’s the CDC’s regional EIS officer. No doubt she will one day be either the director of CDC, the surgeon general, or the secretary of health. Likely all three.”

“Honored,” Alan said with an affable smile and slight bow of his head.

Lopez waved the comment away. “He’s all talk. Thanks for meeting us, Phil.”

“Dr. Phil is no slouch either.” Warmack looked at her with a raised eyebrow. “He runs the show here at Harborcenter.”

“David, you do have a gift for exaggeration. And I’m choosing very polite words for it.” Alan turned to Lopez. “I’m the acting department head. I did the job years ago, but now I’m a figurehead while the hunt for a suitable—read younger—candidate continues.”

Before either could comment, Alan spun and headed toward a long countertop against the near wall. “Come,” he called over his shoulder. “I want to show you something.”