CHAPTER 12Corinna had an apartment on a quiet street not far from Golden Gate Park. Kintyre had been told by Bruce that she worked on the staff of a small art museum, belonged to a little theater group, owned a light target rifle, and made most of her own clothes. He had seen for himself that she spoke Italian. That was all. He felt ridiculously like a schoolboy on his first date.
She opened her door and smiled him in. High heels put her almost on a level with him. She wore black, which set off her pale hair, but the sleeves flared and the skirt swirled: it was not mourning.
“I’m nearly ready, Dr. Kintyre. Won’t you sit down? Watch out for the cat, she bites.”
Kintyre enjoyed cats; he would have kept one himself if he had wanted to assume obligations. This was that loveliest of the trib
