Charley Davidson 01Bis For I Have Sinned by Darynda Jones

in disappointment. “I didn’t even think of that. I have one at my apartment, I’m sure. Why didn’t I think to bring it?”
    “Don’t start flogging yourself just yet.” I turned to the kid. “Can I get your name and number?” I asked him. “And that of the server on duty before you as well,” I said, looking at Norma.
    She tilted her head, hesitant. “I think I’d have to check with her before giving out that information, honey.”
    Normally I had a totally-for-real laminated private investigator’s license that I could flash to help loosen people’s tongues, but Cookie dragged me out of my apartment so fast, I hadn’t thought to bring it. I hated it when I couldn’t flash people.
    “I can tell you the server’s name,” the kid said, an evil twinkle in his eyes. “It’s Izzy. Her number’s in the men’s bathroom, second stall, right under a moving poem about the tragedy of man boobs.”
    That kid missed his calling. “Breasts on men are tragic. How ’bout I come back tomorrow night? Will you be on duty?”
    He spread his arms, indicating his surroundings. “Just living the dream, baby. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
    I took a few moments to scan the area. The diner sat on the corner of a busy intersection downtown. Or it would be busy during business hours. The dead silver screen star with the fedora kept staring at me, and I kept ignoring. Now was not the time to have a conversation with a guy nobody could see but me. After a few hefty gulps of some of the best coffee I’d ever had—Norma wasn’t kidding—I turned to Cookie. “Let’s look around a bit.”
    She almost choked on her java. “Of course. I didn’t even think of that. Looking around. I knew I brought you for a reason.” She jumped off her stool and, well, looked around. It took every ounce of strength I had not to giggle.
    “How about we try the restroom, Magnum,” I suggested before my willpower waned.
    “Right,” she said, making a beeline for the storeroom. Oh well, we could start there.
    A few moments later, we entered the women’s restroom. Thankfully, Norma had only raised her brows when we began searching the place. Some people might’ve gotten annoyed, especially when we checked out the men’s room, it being primarily for men, but Norma was a trouper. She kept busy filling sugar jars and watching us out of the corner of her eye. But after a thorough check of the entire place, we realized Elvis just wasn’t in the building. Nor was Cookie’s friend Mimi.
    “Why isn’t she here?” Cookie asked. “What do you think happened?” She was starting to panic again.
    “Look at the writing on the wall.”
    “I can’t!” she yelled in full-blown panic mode.
    “Use your inside voice.”
    “I’m not like you. I don’t think like you or have your abilities,” she said, her arms flailing. “I couldn’t investigate publicly, much less privately. My friend is asking for my help, and I can’t even follow her one simple direction, I can’t…Blah, blah, blah.”
    I considered slapping her as I studied the crisp, fresh letters decorating one wall of the women’s restroom, but she was on a roll. I hated to interrupt.
    After a moment, she stopped on her own and glanced at the wall herself. “Oh,” she said, her tone sheepish, “you meant that literally.”
    “Do you know who Janelle York is?” I asked.
    That name was written in a hand much too nice to belong to a teen intent on defacing public property. Underneath it were the letters HANA L2-S3-R27 written in the same crisp style. It was not graffiti. It was a message. I tore off a paper towel and borrowed a pen from Cookie to write down the info.
    “No, I don’t know a Janelle.” she said. “Do you think Mimi wrote this?”
    I looked in the trash can and brought out a recently opened permanent marker package. “I’d say there’s a better-than-average chance.”
    “But why would she tell me to meet her here if she was just going to leave a