I’ve done my share of stake-outs in my time. From sleazy motel rooms to million-dollar penthouse spreads, I’ve seen it all. So spending my Friday night on the Upper East Side, parked opposite a nondescript brownstone, is nothing out of the ordinary.

Neither is the woman I’m waiting for, at least on paper.

Alice Jones, 28. 5 ft 7. Brown hair, brown eyes. You couldn’t get more average than that. According to my research, she’s worked for The Agency for five years now, lives alone, has a taste for Thai takeout, and enjoys old movies, crochet, and herbal tea. Snooze. She’s sure as hell not the kind of woman who would usually catch my eye, but I’ve already checked out every other woman on Olivia’s roster, and none of them fit my specifications. I’m on a deadline here, and I need something I can work with.

Come on, Alice. Surprise me.

I take a gulp of hot coffee and flip the pages of the newspaper I’m pretending to read. Sure, I could have just called and made an appointment, but even though The Agency has a great reputation, one of the most discreet places around, I like to do my own recon before walking through the door. If I’m going to use them on my next job, I want to know exactly what I’m paying for.

The front door opens right on cue at six, and a pretty, nondescript woman emerges. I check my phone for the photo I pulled from Alice’s social media.

Bingo.

I toss my coffee and cross the street, falling into step behind her, far enough back that she doesn’t even notice I’m here.

Up close, she’s exactly what I would have expected from her file. A decent figure under a plain navy dress, her hair pulled back in a neat braid. Sensible. Practical. She could be the parody of a prim secretary at the start of a porno, but I would bet my entire bank account she won’t be stripping off and getting down to dirty business any time soon. At least, that’s what I figure, until I catch a look at her shoes.

Well damn.

They’re hot pink, with cross-cross straps and a wicked stiletto heel. Not the kind of shoes I would ever have picked for Miss Secretary here, but just the sight of them makes me snap to attention.

Maybe there’s hope here, after all.

I follow Alice another few blocks downtown. She stops for coffee, and then arrives at an old movie theater and goes to the ticket window. They chat like old friends, and then she disappears inside.

I saunter over. The clerk is a pimply teenage guy, yawning as he scratches his balls. “What’s playing tonight?” I ask, expecting a rom-com or classic weepfest.

He points to the display behind him. It’s a double-bill. James Bond. Sean Connery and Pussy Galore. “Want a ticket?” he asks.

“Sure, why not.”

I pay and head inside, grabbing some popcorn before I step into the theater. It’s already dark, but the light from the trailers on screen illuminates the handful of people already in their seats. Alice is sitting midway, so I find a place a few rows back and settle in to watch.

As the movie starts, her expression is rapt, and she mouths along with a few of the lines, making it clear she’s seen this one a dozen times before.

Huh. Pink shoes and old Bond movies, now that was something I didn’t see coming. In fact, the more I think about it, the more Alice Jones might just be perfect for this gig, after all.

That is, if she agrees to take the job. My line of work is . . . unpredictable, to say the least, and everything I’ve learned about Ms. Jones says that she likes a quiet, routine life.

So, what will it be, Alice? Are you ready for an adventure?