Naughty Neighbor - By Janet Evanovich Page 0,15

were extremely ambitious. Both cared a great deal about public opinion.

“Are they buddies?”

“Not that I know of. Maislin’s been around longer. Carries a lot more clout. He travels with the Big Boys.”

“You ever have to sit on any bad publicity for Nolan?”

“Nope.”

“Any sexual indiscretions?”

“Nothing past the leering stage since I’ve been with him.”

Conversation momentarily stopped while the food was served.

“How about Maislin?” Pete asked.

Louisa picked at her sandwich, eating the bacon first. “I don’t know much about Maislin. As far as I know he keeps himself clean. He’s on some powerful committees, his constituents are fond of him, and he’s not too bright.”

“There has to be more of a connection,” Pete said.

“After lunch I’ll go back to my office and clean out my desk. I’ll get a profile on Maislin while I’m there.”

It was dark when Louisa staggered up the porch stairs, carrying a large cardboard box filled with personal belongings, daily calenders, her Rolodex, and as much information as she’d been able to gather on both Maislin and Nolan Bishop. She fumbled in her purse for the key and let herself into the empty apartment. She slid the bolt on the lock, turned the light on with her elbow, and collapsed into an overstuffed chair with the box on her lap.

Her heart stopped beating at the sound of a key turning in her lock, and she let out a bloodcurdling scream when the door opened. It was Pete. She closed her eyes, clapped her hand to her chest, and sunk deeper into the chair. “Good Lord.”

“Did I scare you?”

“Hell no. I always scream like that when people come into my apartment.” She looked up at him. “How did you do that? How did you unlock my door?”

“I have a key. I own this place.”

“Wonderful. That makes me feel so much safer. Not only do I have to worry about the pig people; now I have to worry about my sneaky landlord.”

He took the box and tucked it under his arm. “Good thing I have a healthy ego. You’re not the most supportive girlfriend I’ve ever had.”

“I’m not your girlfriend.”

He pulled her to her feet and pushed her toward the door. “Whatever.”

“Where are we going?”

“My place. We’ll brainstorm over dinner.”

She followed him up the stairs to the kitchen area, and gaped at the big orange cat sprawled across the butcher-block table. It had one ear half chewed off and a pronounced kink in its tail. “You have a cat on your table,” Louisa said.

“Yeah. That’s Spike.”

Spike opened one eye and looked at Louisa. The eye was yellow and unblinking. It stared at Louisa for thirty seconds and closed, leaving Louisa with the impression she’d been less than interesting.

Pete set the cardboard box next to the sleeping cat. “Ten years ago Spike sort of adopted me, and we’ve been together ever since.” He scratched the cat’s head, but the cat didn’t move. “He’s very demonstrative,” Pete said.

“I can see that.”

Pete took a bottle of wine from the refrigerator, filled a crystal wineglass half full, and handed the glass to Louisa. “Were you able to get much on Maislin?”

She sipped her wine. “The usual whitewashed press release.”

Pete slid three steaks under the broiler and threw two potatoes into the microwave. He accepted a blue folder from Louisa, flipped it open, and began reading.

“I can’t see anything in here to help us,” he finally said.

He scooped Spike off the table and replaced him with a tossed salad he took from the refrigerator. Spike dangled bonelessly from the crook of Pete’s arm. He slowly opened his eyes, yawned, and yowled. Pete speared one of the steaks from the broiler, flopped it onto a plate, and set cat and steak on the floor.

Louisa couldn’t keep the astonishment from her voice. “You’re giving him an entire steak?”

“Hey, this guy’s a stud. He has to keep his strength up.”

“Is that good for him? I mean, shouldn’t he be eating cat food? You know, a balanced cat diet?”

Pete put a potato and a steak on a plate for Louisa. “We don’t eat steak every night. Sometimes we eat fish. Sometimes we order out for pizza. His favorite is hamburger with a lot of fried onions. We eat that a lot.”

Tell me about it, Louisa thought. Everything in her apartment smelled like Pete’s fried onions. The odor had permeated her wallpaper. His apartment, she noticed, had no such problem. His apartment smelled fresh and clean, slightly of coffee. She glanced at the vent over the stove. It was busy