Naughty Neighbor - By Janet Evanovich Page 0,29

reviewing bird feeders of the past, recalling gourmet sunflower seeds and suet balls. Maybe his head was filled with dreams of foreign lands, just as hers had been the night before.

“Go for it,” she said to the bird. “Take a chance! What have you got to lose?”

The bird cocked his head and smoothed fluffed feathers. Then he took off from the porch and smacked into the kitchen window.

Louisa jumped out of her chair and ran out the back door. The bird was lying on the frozen ground with his head at an odd angle and his bird feet uncommonly limp. Louisa felt time stand still for several seconds while she stared at the bird. She could see his heart beating under his breastbone. His eyes were open but unfocused. Several more seconds passed and the bird started flopping around, staggering a few steps and falling over. He stopped staggering, sat very still, and rested a bit. Finally he flew away.

“Damn stupid bird,” Louisa said.

She turned and found she was locked out of her house.

Each of the row houses had a small backyard, enclosed with a privacy fence, which sloped up to a narrow, pockmarked macadam alleyway. Houses on the other side of the alley had ramshackled wood, single-car garages.

Louisa’s side wasn’t so affluent. Louisa’s side only had room for garbage cans. To get to the front of her house she had to let herself out the back gate, walk down the macadam lane for four-house lengths to a driveway connecting the lane to 27th Street and 28th Street. She gave her doorknob one more try, but it was useless. It was definitely locked.

She kicked the door and swore. Then she looked around to see if anyone was watching. No. No one was home on either side of her. Everyone worked. Everyone but her. She didn’t think Pete Streeter counted as legitimate employment.

She swore again and hustled up to the alley, saying a fervent prayer that by some act of God her front door wouldn’t be locked.

Pete pulled up to the curb just as she was approaching their house. She had her mouth set into a grim line, her nose was red from the cold, and she had her shoulders hunched and her arms wrapped across her chest. No coat. No hat. No gloves. It wasn’t hard to figure out. “How’d it happen?” he asked.

“Some idiot bird crashed into my kitchen window, and I went out to see if he was okay.”

“Ahh.”

She stood her ground in silent obstinacy, mentally daring him to make a wisecrack.

“So, did kamikaze bird go to the big bird farm in the sky?”

“Flew off without so much as a chirp.”

“The front door locked too?”

“Probably.”

He took his jacket off and stuffed her into it. “Wait in the Porsche where it’s warm. I’ll see if I can get in.” A few moments later he returned and slid behind the wheel. He tapped a number into his cell phone and explained to Horowitz that he was locked out. “They’re on their way,” he told Louisa.

“You don’t suppose the bird was prophetic, do you?” she asked Streeter. “I mean, it couldn’t possibly be the word of God, making a statement to the effect of bashing one’s head against a brick wall, or trying to fly to unrealistic heights, could it?”

“What kind of bird was it?”

“A little gray bird.”

“Definitely not the word of God. God uses big birds to send messages. Condors and eagles. Maybe an occasional albatross. Your little gray bird probably forgot to put his contacts in when he got up this morning.”

Louisa wasn’t so sure. “I don’t know,” she said. “It has to make you think.”

Pete looked at her and decided she was a woman at a crossroads. “He didn’t actually hurt himself,” Pete said.

“But he could have.”

“But he didn’t.”

They stared at each other, and they knew they weren’t talking about birds. Pete was a risk taker, and all her life she’d been risk averse. The previous night, change had sounded exciting. Now it was intimidating. What was right for Pete Streeter wasn’t necessarily right for her. He was his own person.

She’d spent a few hours that morning at the library, reading back issues of the trades. She’d discovered there was very little written about Pete’s personal life and early childhood. He was obviously a much more private person than she’d originally thought.

He was also much more wealthy. Good screenplay writers were well rewarded, and Pete Streeter seemed to be one of the best. Screenplay writers also enjoyed less