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.