"None of that is vodka," she criticizes, so deadpan it's impossible to tell if it's a joke or a true dig. The truth is it's more like a combination of both. In her point shoes in record time, she rises to her feet and strips off her jacket, unceremoniously flopping it over the arm of the sofa. She narrows her eyes. "What kind of cookie?"

She's ready to get started pretty much immediately, but she was sent here to do a job and that means talking to her mark for better or for worse. While an expert at extracting information, she doesn't always have the softest approach, especially not right off the bat.