"I expected you'd be up and dressed by now."

"I was in the early stages of death by somnolence, but you disturbed me."

"There's always tomorrow."

"Exactly," she said, finishing off her first doughnut, selecting a second. Maybe she wouldn't starve to death, she decided. Maybe she'd eat herself into obesity and explode. Death by doughnut.

"Have plans for the day?"

"Nothing past these doughnuts." She made the coffee, poured two cups, and gave one to Pete.

He took a piece of lined paper from his shirt pocket. "I made a list of things we should do."

"If any of this involves taking my clothes off, you can forget it."

"Undressing is optional."

She looked at the list. "You want me to proofread your rewrites?"

"I can't spell, and I don't have time to use the spell check on the computer. Then I want you to systematically call all your Capitol Hill friends and catch up on gossip. Try to steer the conversation around to pigs and Stu Maislin."

"What are you going to do while I'm gossiping?"

"I'm going back to Pennsylvania. I want to take a look at the pig farm. Then I'm meeting a friend for lunch."

He downed his coffee and stood. "Horowitz Security is supposed to show up sometime this morning. They'll be working on both apartments." He tossed a key onto the table. "This is for my front door."

He thought about kissing her but decided against it. She didn't look as if she wanted to be kissed, and she had her mouth full of jelly doughnut. "See you later."

She had a third doughnut in her hand. "Mmmphf."

Chapter 6.

It was twelve-thirty when Pete pushed his way into the McDonald's on K Street. Kurt Newfarmer was already there. He was sitting in a front booth with what looked to be a firebreak around him. He wasn't the sort of man people naturally gravitated toward.

Pete got a coffee and joined him, counting up the cartons and crumpled wrappers on the table. "Two Big Macs, one fish filet, three large fries, McNuggets, and a chocolate shake. Not hungry?"

"Watching my waistline."

They were the same age, late thirties, but Kurt's brown hair had already started to recede, and what was left had been cut in a Marine Corps buzz. Kurt Newfarmer was six feet with a corded neck and tightly muscled body that looked deceptively lean and loose. He was wearing a grimy ball cap, grimy jeans, running shoes, and a hooded sweatshirt of indeterminate color. Stained thermal underwear showed at the neck of the sweatshirt. He had a three-day-old beard, his eyes were lined and narrow, and years ago his nose had been reshaped by a gun b.u.t.t. He reminded Pete of a down-and-out homeless hundred-and-eighty-pound ferret.

Pete had first met Kurt when he was in Argentina, and Kurt had been the signal man for a ranger unit. Kurt was a communications genius. Two years ago he'd quit the army and started doing freelance wiretap. It was rumored he was also semi-officially on the payroll for one of the three-word agencies.

"I've got a problem," Pete said.

"Don't we all."

Pete pointed to his eye. The swelling had gone down, but he had a cla.s.sic shiner. "Three days ago this problem broke into my house."

"I like the part along the bridge of your nose that's turning green," Kurt said.

Pete knew Kurt had him pegged as a bad apple. Pete figured that was pretty funny since next to Kurt he thought he looked like Mr. Nice Guy. "I might need some help."

Kurt gave the bulge under his left armpit a pat. "Just tell Uncle Kurt, and he'll take care of it."

"Must be awkward to get at your gun with that sweatshirt on."

"h.e.l.l, I hardly ever use it. It's been days since I've shot at anyone." Kurt took a cigarette from the pack on the table and lit up. He dragged smoke into his lungs until there was a half inch of glowing ash at the end of his Camel. Smoke curled from his nose and rolled out the side of his mouth. He squinted at Pete through the haze. "So what's going on? b.u.mmed-out husband?"

Pete felt dizzy with nicotine deprivation. He automatically leaned forward to catch the secondary smoke, caught himself in midlean, and reluctantly shoved himself away.

Kurt caught the movement. "Trying to stop smoking again?"

"Could you look like you're enjoying it a little less?"

The grin broadened. "It's great, man."

"You available for hire?"

"What do you want done?"

"For starters, I want to listen to a couple of people."

"You've come to the right place."

Louisa sat at her kitchen table and stared out her back window. There was a small gray bird sitting on her bird feeder. It wasn't eating, it wasn't preening, it wasn't chirping. It was just hunkered down, its feet automatically clamped onto the wood dowel.

Louisa supposed it was wondering what to do next. She was in a similar state. She was the firstborn in her family and like most first children, she'd been the achiever. She'd been the honor roll student, the responsible daughter, the first to graduate from college.

Despite all this, her sense of purpose had never been well defined. For all her intelligence and discipline, she'd been a drifter. She'd made the major decisions of her life by default. She'd worked hard to excel at whatever task was before her, but she'd never charted a course for herself. She'd never felt impa.s.sioned about a career choice, so she'd simply traveled the path of least resistance.

It hadn't been so bad, she thought. But it hadn't been great, either. At best, it had paid the rent and kept her too busy to dwell on the fact that her life lacked zest. Looking at it in retrospect, she decided her life had been...adequate.

All that had changed since she'd met Pete Streeter. Pete Streeter was to her life what the big bang had been to the creation of the universe. She imagined herself as traveling in a new orbit, amid cataclysmic forces. Plague, pestilence, volcanic destruction were now hers for the asking.

She continued to watch the bird, feeling a special kinship, wondering at his next move. He could be contemplating a flight to Florida, or debating a love affair. He could be wrestling with a dinner choice, reviewing bird feeders of the past, recalling gourmet sunflower seeds and suet b.a.l.l.s. 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 c.o.c.ked 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 pa.s.sed 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.

"d.a.m.n 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 doork.n.o.b 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.d. G.o.d 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 recognition by the public than other members of the movie community.

She'd seen all his movies, yet she hadn't recognized his name when he'd introduced himself four days before. When she'd done a mental review of his movies, she'd been able to reach a few perfunctory observations on style. All movies had content. All movies were fast paced, filled with action, laced with humor. He had a decided preference for political thrillers. He'd been nominated for an Academy Award three times. One nomination had resulted in an Oscar. And as they were known to say in Hollywood, Streeter was big box office. His movies had all been financially successful.

He'd put a lot of himself into his screenplays, she'd decided. Under all that incredible hair was intelligence and sensitivity and an understanding of human nature. She also recognized that her judgment of him might be colored by his ability to inspire pa.s.sion, the likes of which she'd never before experienced. It wasn't enough to make her want to spend the rest of her life with him, but she didn't want to minimize the accomplishment, either.

She wasn't ready to deal with her conflicting, rapidly changing feelings for Streeter, so she turned the conversation back to business. "Did you find anything interesting in Pennsylvania?"

"It'd be easier to get into CIA headquarters in Langley than to break into that pig farm. The place is surrounded by an electrified fence and razor wire. I only got as far as the front gate. They don't give guided tours, and the guard wasn't impressed with my Mr. Charm routine."

"Low cholesterol bacon is very high tech."

"How about you? You have any luck?"

"I got three invitations to lunch and found out Beverly Kootz is having an affair with her hairdresser."

"Anything else?"

"Nolan hired a new press secretary. Some bimbo from New York. Worked in broadcasting. Supposedly has a lot of contacts. Rumor has it, she's been seen going in and out of motel rooms with Stu Maislin."

Pete leaned closer so he could smell her hair. "The plot thickens."

"Mmmm. I think Nolan probably owed Maislin a favor, and they used my a.s.sociation with you as an excuse to give the s.l.u.t a job."

"Nasty."

"Hey, that's life."

"You're being very philosophical about this," Pete said.

"Getting fired has forced me to reexamine my life."

"Did it come up short?"

She thought about it a moment. "Not exactly short. Maybe a little undernourished."

"Needed a kick in the pants?"

Louisa laughed. "Yeah. Something like that."

He'd promised himself there'd be no more groping in a car, and he decided it was going to be a d.a.m.n hard promise to keep. He was besotted, he ruefully admitted. He wasn't sure how it had happened, only that he'd been hit fast and hard. It had started out as an innocent physical attraction, had quickly grown into an amusing infatuation, and then the virus had skyrocketed out of control. He could feel affection and desire multiplying exponentially inside him. Two hours earlier he'd been able to joke about being in love. Now it had him by the short hairs.

He should be watching for Horowitz, he thought, but Louisa was silky and warm beside him. He ran his thumb along the line of her jaw and watched her lips part in expectation of a kiss. He suspected she wasn't going to be much help with the groping problem. He wasn't completely unhappy about that, he admitted. He twirled a curl around his finger while he debated if he should tell her his feelings.

"Listen, Lou, there's something I need to tell you. It's about last night-"