We spent the next ten minutes prowling the executive floor of Cortez Cabal headquarters—probably second only to major government buildings for security—and no one even noticed.

We slid easily back into our old roles. Karl as the ever-patient, ever-entertaining teacher, instructing not with lectures but by example. Me as the eager student, lapping it up—both the lessons and the chaos, that steady low-level thrum that set my heart thumping but left my brain clear.

I watched and took mental notes. Paid attention to how he could predict where every security camera would be. Noted how he avoided people just as deftly, not darting out of their way, but turning so they saw only his back and passed, intent on their work, presuming he belonged.

If trapped between a group approaching from either end, he always chose to walk past the suits rather than the clerical staff. He’d square his shoulders, his usual gliding walk shortening to a self-important strut saying to me something like, “And to the left are the photocopiers…”

This seemed the riskier choice, exposing himself to a VIP over a secretary, but soon I understood. Clerical staff knew names and faces, so they could easily run a file down to “Jones in accounting,” and they’d have known Karl didn’t belong. But the executives? They caught a glimpse of a guy in a suit showing a new hire around, and they presumed he belonged there.

We turned yet another corner, and found ourselves in a long narrow hall of unmarked doors.

Karl leaned down to murmur, “Now this looks like a place where they might keep a few things worth stealing. But which door?”

I glanced at each as we passed. “Stockrooms, but nothing important. Nonconfidential files, cleaning supplies, miscellaneous storage…”

I stopped at one with dual locks. “Ah, here’s something.”

Karl slanted a look my way. “You think so?”

“You don’t?”

“I’m willing to make a wager on it.”

“Twenty bucks.”

A small smile. “Twenty it is.”

He didn’t even glance around to make sure no one was coming. He’d hear footsteps. He picked the locks, opened the door and flicked on the light.

“Office supplies?” I stepped in. “No way. There must be something else. They’re using the supplies as a blind.”

“A good idea, but if there was anything more valuable, there’d be more than locks on the door. I think this is all you’ll find. Office supply theft is a serious problem in every business.”

“Guys making a quarter-million a year are going to pilfer—” I reached into the nearest box, “—stick pens?”

“Not just any stick pen.” He took it from me and flourished his hand at the lettering. “An official Cortez Corporation stick pen.” He tucked it into my pocket. “A memento.”