“And the rest of the time?”
“A six when I forget I have a bum leg and do something without thinking, and an eight when I’m really stupid.”
“Forget your leg is hurt a lot, do you?” Hank asked dryly.
“Been tryin’ to.”
“And how’s that going?” Hank asked even more dryly.
“It hasn’t magically healed up if that’s what you’re asking.”
His brother’s mouth twitched, but he managed not to smirk. Without warning he pressed his thumb down firmly on a spot just above the kneecap, and Reno yelped.
“That’s better than I expected,” Hank commented.
“Speak for yourself,” Reno retorted. “That hurt.”
“It’s supposed to. A nerve runs through there, and the swelling inside your knee is impinging on it. That spot won’t stop being tender until all the swelling in your knee is gone. And for Pete’s sake, don’t sit around all day pressing on it to see if it still hurts. It’s no good for the nerve or for the swelling, and it’s not going to get better for at least a few more weeks. Understood?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll leave it alone.”
“I’m serious. I’m speaking as your doctor, not your brother.”
Hank headed for his desk and the laptop sitting on it. He typed a few notes in Reno’s file, then said, “I heard Grace over at Buns ’N’ Roses got a twelve-dollar tip on a cinnamon roll Tuesday.”
Reno blinked, surprised. “Now where did you hear that?”
“Where else? At the diner.”
Reno just rolled his eyes.
Hank picked up a wide elastic bandage from the desk and wound it efficiently around Reno’s knee. “I heard you went back to the bakery Wednesday and Thursday, too.”
“The cinnamon buns are good. And I had some information for Grace about a security camera.”
“Twenty-five-cent question. Two-dollar answer.”
“You’re keeping pretty close track of my receipts, there, Bro.”
Hank shrugged. “How’s Grace doing? I haven’t seen her for a few weeks.”
Reno picked up the brace from the floor and strapped it on his leg. He knew better than to ignore the question altogether, or Hank would start speculating on why Reno was suddenly so reluctant to talk about a woman.
It was Reno’s turn to shrug. “She’s fine. Nice lady.”
“She is.”
“I met her daughter. Spitting image of her mama.”
“Lily’s a cutie, all right. Reminds me of the cherubs painters like Raphael and Rubens painted.”
“If you say so,” Reno replied dubiously.
“I thought you got a decent education at that fancy Ivy League school. Didn’t they teach you anything about art and the old masters?”
“I’m a cowboy lawyer from Texas, which means I know two things: cattle and criminals,” Reno retorted, exaggerating his drawl.
Hank said, “Grace lost her husband in the Shoemacher fire, you know.”
