He took the sheet from her and frowned as he studied the note he’d placed next to a certain charge on the rap sheet.

“Ha!” she exclaimed.

He glanced at her. “What do you mean, ha?”

“You can’t read it, either, can you?” she accused.

He lifted his chin. “Of course I can read it,” he scoffed. “I wrote it.”

“So, what does it say?”

He stared at it again. He had to puzzle it out or she was never going to let him forget this. While he stared at the scribble and tried to make sense of it, the phone rang.

He tossed the sheet back on her desk. “Phone.”

“Excuse,” she said under her breath.

He glared at her as he pulled his cell phone out of its holder. “Banks,” he said.

He listened. His face grew harder. He glanced at Clancey, who was still waving the sheet at him, and turned his back. “Yes, I can do that,” he replied. “Sure. I’ll stop by on my way home. No problem. See you.”

He put his phone back and looked pointedly at his watch. “I’ve got to see the assistant DA on a case I’m working, that Reed case from five years ago. We hear that Morris Duffy, who was suspected in his disappearance, may be getting out of prison a year early for good behavior, and soon,” he remarked, missing the sudden worried expression on his assistant’s face. “We could sure use a break in the case.” He glanced again at his watch. “I’d better go on. Almost quitting time.”

Clancey got her composure back before his eyes fell on her face. “You still haven’t translated this for me,” she said pointedly, indicating the sheet.

He glared at her.

“Well, it’s not my fault you can’t write,” she said belligerently. “I’ll bet the teacher who tried to teach you cursive threw confetti on the last day of school and walked you all the way to the school bus.”

He glared harder. “I can write cursive just fine, thank you.”

“Then what does it say?” she persisted.

“I’ll take it under advisement and get back to you,” he said nonchalantly.

“You can’t read it,” she said, and grinned.

“I could read it if I wanted to,” he retorted.

“How am I supposed to type up this report if I don’t know what you’ve written?” she asked reasonably.

“If they question me about it, I’ll tell them you had a senior moment,” he said with a deadpan expression.

“I’m twenty-three, not eighty!” she huffed.

“I thought you were twenty-two.”

“I was, until last November, just after I came to work for you,” she said. “Birthdays come once a year. You don’t stay the same age forever.”

He didn’t react to the snarky comment. He slid his white Stetson over one eye. “If anyone calls, I’ll be out until tomorrow.”