Meade checked his watch. It was nine-thirty p.m. local time, which meant that it was five-thirty A.M. in London. Sir Derek had ordered him to phone at eight o’clock sharp.
Meade nervously slapped a pair of black calfskin gloves in the palm of one hand. The front door opened and out walked a thin man with a mass of dark curly hair, wearing a dark leather jacket. The man threw a briefcase onto the passenger seat of the Jeep, then climbed behind the wheel. The engine ignited with an explosion that echoed off the canyon walls. As the Jeep sped down the driveway, Meade noticed its vanity license plate: PW ESQ.
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.