Bertie doused the car lights and parked up the block. He checked his service revolver, then opened the glove box and withdrew his backup .38. He held it out to me. “Now that’s my style,” I said. “C’mon. Let’s head up the alley behind the house.” “Want to call for backup?” “We don’t want a landing party just yet.” We cut through a sideyard to the back alley. There was only one street lamp, so we kept to the shadows pretty easily. When we approached Miss Brennan’s one-car garage, Bertie risked turning on his flashlight. Shucks, no Jag. Instead, a late-model Ford sedan, most likely Miss Brennan’s. Bertie clicked off the light, and I followed him through the chain link gate to the backyard. Postage-stamp sized, it was neatly ordered with flower beds on both sides. We stayed to the left and softly approached a window facing the back.
