apartment building. This was the address Mike Kerns had given him for Theacute;regrave;se Chambord. The place was quaint, picturesque, with a peaked roof and decorative stonework, and it stood in a row of similar structures that had probably been constructed in the late fifties or early sixties. Her building appeared to be divided into three apartments, one to a floor. There were lights on in windows in each story.
He turned and surveyed the street, where cars were parked with two wheels up on the curbs in the French way. A sporty Ford cruised past, its headlights shooting funnels of white light into the dusk. The block was short, porch lights and street lamps glowed, and at the end, near an elevated rail service, rose an ultramodern, eight-story hotel of poured concrete, also painted beige, perhaps to blend in with the lower apartment buildings.
Wary, Smith turned on his heel and walked to the hotel. He stood in the lobby a half hour, cautiously watching through the glass walls, but no one followed him onto the street or into the hotel. No one went into or left Theacute;regrave;se Chambord's building either.
He searched through the hotel until he found a service entrance that opened onto a cross street. He slipped out and hurried to the corner. Peering around, he saw no sign of surveillance at the lobby entrance or anywhere else in the neighborhood near Theacute;regrave;se Chambord's apartment. There were few, if any, places to hide, except for the cars parked on both sides. But all appeared empty. With a nod to himself, he moved briskly-back to Mile. Chambord's address, still surveying all around.
In the recessed entryway, there was a white calling card with her name engraved on it, slid into the address slot for the third floor. He rang her bell and announced his name and purpose.
He rode the elevator up, and when it opened, she was standing in her open doorway, dressed in a slim white evening suit, a high-necked, off-white silk blouse, and high-heeled, ivory pumps. It was as if she were an Andy Warhol painting, white on white, with a violent and focusing touch of blood red in a pair of long, dangling earrings and again at her full lips. Then there was the contrast of her hair, satin black, suspended in an ebony cloud above her shoulders, theatrical and appealing. She was an actress all right. Still, her dramatic flair could also be the simple reflex of talent and experience.
A large black handbag hung over her left shoulder as if she were about to go out. He walked toward her.
She spoke flawless English, no trace of an accent. "I don't know what I can tell you about my father, or that poor man in the hospital they say might've been in his lab with him whenhellip;when the bomb exploded, Mrhellip;.Smith, is it?"
"Dr. Jon Smith, yes. Can you give me ten minutes? Dr. Zellerbach is a very old and close friend. We grew up together."
She studied her watch, biting her lower lip with small, incredibly white teeth, as she calculated in her head. At last she nodded. "All right, ten minutes. Come in. I have a performance tonight, but I'll forgo a few minutes of yoga."
The apartment was not what he expected from the building's quaint facade. Two walls were composed entirely of glass, giving it a very modern feel. On a third wall, tall glass doors opened onto a wraparound balcony with a railing of stark, geometric wrought-iron patterns.
On the other hand, the rooms were large but not enormous, with elegant period furniture from Louis Quatorze to Second Empire, haphazardly mixed and heavily packed into the room in the Parisian fashion that never seemed cluttered and somehow ended up being totally, and improbably, harmonious. Smith glimpsed two bedrooms through half-open doors as well as a small but efficient kitchen. Regal, warm, comfortable, and contemporary.
"Please." Her swift glance looked him up and down, and she motioned to a sturdy Second Empire love seat.
He smiled. She had weighed him in that glance and seated him accordingly. She leaned back in a more delicate Louis Quinze armchair. At a distance, standing in the doorway, she had seemed tall, a large and imposing woman, but once she was up close and seated, he realized she was barely five foot six. It was her presence that was large. She filled a doorway and a room. He guessed that onstage she could appear any size she wanted, as well as coarse or delicate, young