picks locks

I reached out and tried the doorknob.
Locked.
"Hey, Murph," I said. "Look at that zeppelin."
I heard her sigh and turn around. I popped a couple of stiff metal tools out of my duster's pocket and started finagling the lock with them. My left hand wasn't much help, but it was at least able to hold the tool steady while my right did most of the work.
"Hey," Thomas said. "When did you get those?"
"Butters says it's good for my hand to do physical therapy involving the use of manual dexterity."
Thomas snorted. "So you started learning to pick locks? I thought you were playing guitar."
“This is simpler," I said. "And it doesn't make dogs start howling."
"I might have killed you if I'd heard 'House of the Rising Sun' one more time," Thomas agreed. "Where'd you get the picks?"
I glanced over my shoulder at Murphy and said, "Little bird."
"One of these days, Dresden," Murphy said, still stubbornly faced away.
I got the tumblers lined up and twisted with slow, steady pressure. The dead bolt slid to, and I pulled the door slightly ajar. I rose, put the tools away, and took up my staff again, ready for instant trouble. Nothing happened for a moment. I Listened at the door for half a minute, but heard not a sound.


Proven Guilty Chapter 34, Page 282-283