The Steel Kiss (Lincoln Rhyme 12)

This was true.

She added, "But I'm not speaking of the case. The frustration in general."

The life of the disabled, she meant. And she was right. Everything takes longer, people treat you like pets or children, there's so much in life that's not accessible--in all senses, more than just second floors and restrooms: love, friendship, careers you otherwise would have been perfect for. The list goes on and on.

He'd noted her struggling with the phone not long before, trying to call her brother for a ride back to his apartment. The unit was on speaker but not recognizing her commands. She'd given up and used the controller with her right hand, angrily entering the digits. Her Celtic bracelet jangling with each number. Her jaw had been trembling by the time she got through.

"You fall into a rhythm," he said. "And you learn, you plan ahead, you take the route where you minimize frustrations. You don't need to make unnecessary challenges for yourself. Most stores are accessible but you learn which ones have narrow aisles and protruding endcaps and you avoid them. Things like that."

"A lot to learn," she said. Then seemed uncomfortable with the topic. "Oh, Lincoln. You play chess."

"I did. Haven't for a long time. How did you know?" He didn't own a physical chess set. When he played, he did so online.

"You've got Vukovic's book."

Art of Attack. He glanced at the bookshelf. The volume was at the far end, where the personal, not forensic, books were kept. He himself

couldn't read the spine from here. But he recalled that eyesight--and fingernails--were among her God-given strengths.

She said, "When we were together, my ex and I played quite a bit. We did bullet chess. It's a form of speed chess. Each player has a total of two minutes to make a move."

"Per move?"

"No, the entire game, first move to last."

Well, she was an aficionado of an esoteric form of chess as well as being a riddle-mistress. Not to mention well on her way to being a damn good criminalist. Rhyme could not have asked for a more interesting intern.

"I never played that. I like some time to strategize." He missed the game. There was no one to play with. Thom had no time. Sachs had no patience.

Archer continued. "We also played a limited-move variant. Our goal was to win in twenty-five moves or fewer. If we didn't, we both lost. Say, if you'd like to play sometime... I don't know anybody who's really into it."

"Maybe. Sometime." He was looking at the evidence charts.

"My brother won't be here for fifteen minutes or so."

"I heard that."

"So," Archer said, a coy lilt to her voice, "I can't hold two pieces behind my back for you to pick black or white. But I won't cheat: I'm thinking of a number one through ten. Even or odd?"

Rhyme looked her over, not understanding at first. "Oh, I haven't played for years. Anyway I don't have a board."

"Who needs a board? Can't you picture one?"

"You play in your head?"

"Of course."

Well... He was silent for a moment.

She persisted. "Even or odd?"

"Odd."

"It's seven. You win the virtual toss."

Rhyme said, "I'll take white."

"Good. I prefer defense... I like to learn as much about my opponent as I can. Before I trounce them."