The Blonde

11:24 p.m.

1-95 North, Near the Girard Point Bridge

Driver, take us to the nearest police precinct. Immediately.”

Kelly rolled her eyes and eased back into the dark blue vinyl seat. She folded her arms.

“They are not called precincts here,” the driver said. “They are districts.”

“What?”

The driver had curly, thinning black hair. He spoke carefully and clearly. “I do not know the local districts. I operate mainly in the Northeast. I only brought someone down here to catch a late flight. I am working my way back up to the Northeast; that is all.”

“Sir, ignore my husband. Jackie boy had too many Jamesons on the plane.”

“You’re not my wife, and I’m completely sober. I don’t care if they’re districts or what, but I need a police officer. Now.”

Jack knew this was his safest bet. He hadn’t gone to the police before because he thought the blonde had been joking. But he’d vomited enough to know otherwise. The proof was splattered all the hell over 1-95. In fact, they could drive past it, and he could point it out to the police. See that! The contents of my stomach! There’s more of that fucking spinach stromboli! Even if they didn’t believe him at first, they’d hold both of them—he’d make sure of that— until they could pump his stomach (whatever was left of it) or take some blood. Or whatever. Somehow, they’d be able to prove she’d slipped him something. If it took all night, so be it. His 8:00 A.M. appointment with Donovan “the Testicle Hunter” Piatt would have to be rescheduled. No great loss there.

“Watch him, sir. Any minute now, he’ll ask you to pull over so he can vomit.”

“Don’t listen to her.”

“Please do not vomit in my cab.”

“I told you before. Don’t listen to her!”

Then he felt fingers on his chin. Soft, warm. They turned his face to the left. Kelly looked at him.

“You only have eight hours left. I can stonewall anyone for eight hours.”

“But if I die, they’ll know I was telling the truth.”

“And I’m sure that will be a great comfort to you.”

The blonde had a point.

“Tell him where we’re staying. This night doesn’t have to be difficult. You just made it difficult.”

The driver, meanwhile, looked uneasy. He kept stealing glances through the rearview mirror. Worrying about the blue vinyl seats, no doubt. Guess people in the Northeast didn’t puke much.

Oh hell. Jack felt his stomach wrench itself into a knot again. That was the stress talking. Christ, this was unbelievable. Was he actually going to invite a strange woman back to his hotel room? Tonight, of all nights? But he didn’t seem to have a choice.

“Fine. The Sheraton on Rittenhouse Square.”

Kelly eased back into the seat again and smirked. “Swank.”

“That is on the way to the Northeast,” the driver said happily. Not that anyone was asking.

The knot in Jack’s stomach tightened. Severely. He doubled over, as if his midsection were a giant hinge. He couldn’t help it. His head ended up near Kelly’s lap.

Then she did something strange. She gently eased his head down into her lap and started gently stroking his scalp. “Relax, Jack.”

Her fingers felt surprisingly good. They distracted him from the twisting knife in the middle of his lower intestines.

The cab continued up 1-95, toward Center City.