“A suitable place for friendly conversation. I’ve scouted out two potential meeting rooms already.” I walked to the end of the alley and spokesmodel-waved my hand south. “In that direction, we have the ever popular abandoned warehouse. Spacious, yes, but you run the risk of unwanted roommates, particularly at this time of the evening.” I gestured north. “In this direction you have my personal favorite, an empty shop. Cozy, but secure.”

“Let’s see the shop.”

I led him down the alley to a steel door. “The shop fronts onto the street, but I’ve looked through the window and there are a few rooms back here. From the looks of the For Lease sign, it’s been vacant for a while. The only security system is a barred front window.”

Jack examined the lock on the steel door and shook his head. “Can’t do it.” He lifted the tool pouch he’d brought from the car. “Wrong tools.”

“That’s okay. I’m sure it opens fine from the inside. Here. Trade.”

I handed him my purse, took his tool pouch and glanced inside.

“Perfect.”

I wriggled out of the tight cowboy boots, flexed my toes and looked up. Ten feet over our heads was an unbarred, unbroken window. I walked to a Dumpster a yard away and climbed onto it. With the flashlight from the pouch, I took a closer look at the wall, locating a couple of toe-and fingerholds, where the brick had broken. Flashlight off and in the pouch, pouch strap looped over my arm, and I crawled onto the wall.

Once at the window, I grabbed the wide cement sill and hoisted myself onto it. With one hand, I unzipped the pouch. Out came the glass cutter. Out came the suction cup. Then, very carefully, out came the window.

I slid the pane through the sill and lowered it to the floor beneath. Then I climbed through and sprinted into the hall.

A minute later, I was at the rear door. A simple dead bolt lock. I allowed myself the faintest smile before I opened it.

Jack shook his head. “You make me feel old.”

“It’s the makeup. Spend too long looking that age and you’ll start to feel it.”

I was damned tired of talking. We’d been nursing our drinks for almost an hour, and I’d done nothing but talk.

What else was there to do in a bar? Dance? Jack would sooner shoot out the bar lights for target practice. We couldn’t drink; we had to keep our reflexes and wits sharp. So that left conversation—which wouldn’t have been so bad, if Jack had actually participated.

After a while, I’m sure everyone around us pitied the poor guy stuck with the ditz who wouldn’t shut up. When I tried to stop, though, he’d always prompt me with a question.