PHELPS PICKED her up at 5 a.m., honking loudly and frightening the two patrolmen still out front. He brought coffee and bagels and drove slowly while she went through the process of waking up, bolstering her progress with slurps of caffeine.
Daylight was slowly seeping into the sky and the city was still magically silent except for early-morning delivery trucks. Phelps cut through the quiet streets toward Central Park. After crossing on 79th, he continued west until they found an on-ramp for the FDR.
“Sleep okay?” Phelps asked after she had absorbed a little of the coffee.
She thought about it. “Sat down on the sofa, and that’s all I remember. You?”
“Me and Maggie are sleeping in the basement—much cooler than the rest of that place.”
“Why don’t you get an air conditioner, Jon?”
“Wife says it’s cold enough all winter.” He shrugged. “She’s right.”
She raised the coffee to her lips to take another sip and it hit her. “Jon, pull over!”
“There’s no shoulder.”
“Pull over. Now!”
Phelps flashed the lights and swung over to the rightmost lane. He glanced in the mirror and stopped the car. “What the fu—?”
Before the car came to a stop, Hemingway shoved the door open, stuck her head out, and threw up. Her stomach clenched a few times, forcing the coffee and bagel out between gasps for breath.
Then, as quickly as it came, it was over.
She pulled her head back inside, closed the door, and wiped her mouth with a napkin from the bagel bag. “This girly stuff sucks, Jon.”
He looked at her, then down at the hand held protectively across her stomach. “I’m sure it does,” he said, and checked his mirrors before he pulled back into traffic.