The Deliveryman (Lincoln Rhyme 11.50)

She certainly didn't hem or haw. Archer let the silence unspool. It was the way Rhyme himself won arguments. She then smiled a lipstick-free smile. "You checked me out, didn't you?"

"I did."

"You thought I was a spy? Working my way into your good graces, steel case secrets or something?"

Had occurred to him.

A shrug, a gesture he was capable of. "I did a bit of homework." Rhyme had in fact learned a number of things about Juliette Archer. She was a former medical researcher. She lived on the Upper East Side. She had a bachelor's degree from NYU, where she'd favored science classes. And she'd earned credits toward a masters in organic chemistry, no less. Not an easy subject, as he well knew. Her son, by a former marriage, was a star soccer player. She herself had gotten some favorable notices for her modern dance performances in Manhattan and Westchester. She'd lived in Bedford, New York, before the divorce. There'd been a few other things, as well.

None of them relevant to deciding how to respond to her request.

No, those factors were her intelligence.

And her brash pigheadedness.

She continued to gaze into his eyes. An eyebrow rose.

On impulse--exceedingly rare for him--he said, "All right."

"Thank you. I can start today?"

"Tomorrow."

Archer seemed amused. As if she might easily have negotiated an earlier time and won but was simply choosing not to do so.

"I'll be there."

"You need the address?"

"I have it," Archer replied.

In lieu of shaking hands they both nodded, sealing the agreement. Archer smiled and then her right index finger moved to the touchpad of her own wheelchair, a silver Storm Arrow, the same model that Rhyme had had until a few years ago. She turned the unit and eased up the aisle and out the doorway.