Meade waited for the sweep of the headlights to disappear and for the roar of the engine to die away. He pulled on the gloves, working his fingers snugly into the soft leather.
The smooth rubber soles of his Clarks made no sound on the pavement. The front door was carved oak inlaid with brass. Meade removed a wire from a pouch that hung from his belt. He inserted it into the keyhole and twisted it around until the lock released.
The security system began to whine, warning Meade that he had sixty seconds to tap the proper four-digit code on the little keyboard mounted on the wall just inside the door. He swiftly pulled a tiny black box from his pocket and clamped it over the complaining keyboard. Four digits lit up in the box’s tiny LED screen. Meade removed the box, tapped out the numbers. The whining stopped and the panel’s blinking red light turned steady green. He let out a breath he had not realized he had been holding. Then he made a mental note to arm the security system again before he left.
The foyer of Pancho Weinstein’s house was lit by brass lanterns hanging from exposed beams. The floor was terracotta tile. Meade crossed the foyer to a darkened room with an arched door. Shining a flashlight, he saw a glass-and-brass desk, oak file cabinets, and shelves stuffed with thick legal texts. Pancho Weinstein’s office.
The cabinets were locked but opened with a twist of wire. The drawers rolled on silent bearings. Meade riffled through the files until he found one designated O’Donnell. It was empty except for a retainer agreement signed in a spidery hand by a Cornelius O’Donnell and several letters written by Weinstein in connection with a probate matter.
Meade squeezed the file back into the drawer. His breath was hot in his nostrils. Goddammit, he thought. He had to find out something about O’Donnell. Otherwise he would have to face an unhappy Sir Derek.
Meade searched through every drawer of every file cabinet. There was no other mention of any O’Donnell. He considered rushing into L.A. itself. Weinstein had another office downtown. Maybe the real O’Donnell files were stored there.
But there was scant possibility of making it in time to phone Sir Derek. He was about to fail, and Sir Derek’s tolerance for failure had been rather low of late.
The voice of a woman singing drifted into the room, then faded. Meade held his breath. The voice rose again. It seemed to be coming from far away. Upstairs or outside, perhaps. Meade returned the flashlight to his pouch and drew his 9-mm Beretta from its shoulder holster. Carefully, quietly, he slid the action back to jack a round into the firing chamber. Then he walked out into the foyer, both hands on the gun, breathing checked, ears alert for sounds. The singing had stopped, but he could hear the faint lapping of water.
He stole up the stairs. Light was coming from the open door at the end of the upstairs hallway, slightly veiled by a billow of steam. Meade stepped into the bedroom, noiselessly. The air was filled with the dewy sweetness of a woman’s bath oil.
The bathroom door was ajar. Meade edged along the wall until he could see inside. The floor was white marble, partially covered by an oval rug that looked like a black animal skin. In the center of the floor was a raised bathtub brimming with bubbles, and amid the bubbles was a woman. She had short blond hair, but after dipping her head back into the water it turned reddish brown. She lifted a leg and ran a razor along the back of her calf.
Meade leaned out of sight. The woman had to be Stacey, who Chakra Ramsanjawi discovered had once been O’Donnell’s girlfriend but now lived with Weinstein. Maybe, he thought, he wouldn’t need to read a file.
Meade pulled a nylon ski mask over his head. By the time he had all the holes lined up correctly, he could hear the slapping sounds of Stacey leaving her bath. He peeked around the door. She stood with her back to him, one foot on the floor and the other raised on the side of the tub as she toweled herself dry. She was small, almost boyish, with muscular legs and a lean bum.
His shoes made no sound on the marble floor. He grabbed her from behind, wedging her jaw in the crook of his arm and pressing the gun to the top of her head. Her scream died in her throat. She kicked back at him, but her heels bounced harmlessly off his shins.
He dragged her to the mirror. Condensation rolled down the glass, but she could see well enough to make out the ski mask and the gun. Her body went rigid with fear.
“Now, little lady,” whispered Meade. “All I want is to ask you a few questions about Hugh O’Donnell.”
Stacey mumbled into his elbow.
“We’re interested in the chap, you see. But we can’t find out much about him.”
Meade loosened his grip on her jaw so she could speak.
“Don’t know him,” her voice sputtered.
Meade raised her off the floor and leaned hard against her buttocks so that the sharp edge of the vanity’s counter cut across her crotch.
“I don’t have time for games, Stacey.” He felt her body shudder at the sound of her name. “We know about O’Donnell’s business, we know about the lawsuit, we know you threw him over for his lawyer.”
“Don’t know him,” she gasped.
Meade slammed her against the vanity and traced the gun barrel along her quivering lips.
“Don’t know him, eh? Well, he knows you. Talks about you all the time. He knows you went looking for him at the motorcycle club. Are we talking about the same person you don’t know?”
With great effort she nodded, her delicate chin burrowing into the crook of his elbow.
“You talk and I leave. Understand?”
She nodded again; Meade relaxed his pressure a notch.
“His name isn’t O’Donnell,” she said with a trembling voice. “At least it wasn’t when we were together. His name was Jack O’Neill. Owned his own biotech business. Had big ideas about turning it into a million-dollar company. Some environmental group took him to court and he hired Pancho to get him out of trouble. But they didn’t get along. Pancho’d try to give him advice, but he’d never listen. Screwed the whole case up. He couldn’t take things going bad. He used to dabble with drugs. Nothing much, maybe a gram of coke here and there. But that trial set him off. Did everything. Coke. Speed. Name it. Couldn’t work. Borrowed money. Lost friends. Lost me. Disappeared.”
“When?”
“Late ninety-five. Can’t remember. Owed me a lot of money. Pancho too. For the case. I didn’t care. Pancho did. Hired a detective. Found him at Simi Bioengineering. New name, but it was him.
“Pancho traced back. Jack was arrested on a drug charge under his old name, but the case was never prosecuted. Popped up at a rehab clinic in Encino as Hugh O’Donnell. Somebody was footing the bill. We never found out who. Then he landed the job at Simi. Started a motorcycle club for ex-addicts and ex-alcoholics. Yeah, I went looking for the motorcycle at the club. Title’s in my name.”
Meade noticed tears dripping down his elbow. Stacey was crying.
“That it?” he said.
“I don’t know what else you want!”
Meade had ideas, but he didn’t have time. He bent Stacey over with his elbow digging into her spine and her tiny breasts mashed against the countertop. His free hand groped through the equipment in his belt pouch until he found the syringe. It contained enough tranquilizer to knock out a hippopotamus.
Stacey saw the syringe in the mirror.
“What’s that?” she cried.
“Just something to make you sleep.”
“I don’t want that! I don’t know you! I didn’t see you!”
She bucked against his elbow, wrapped her legs around his ankles, tried to kick his feet out from under him. He concentrated on her trembling buttocks. They were still reddened from the heat of the bath, so perfectly shaped, so firm, like two ripe apples. Her face was white with fear. Her hair swept back in reddish-brown swirls. A thin blue vein, just like Sir Derek’s, beat beneath the china skin of her temples.