Rourke’s jaw dropped. He’d never seen the other man smile.
Chet gave him a haughty, arrogant stare, picked up his bag and walked out. “Hope things go well for you, Miss Drake,” he said as she came out of her room wrapped in a thick robe. He winced. “It will look much better in a week or so,” he assured her.
She tried to smile, but it hurt too much. “Thanks for helping keep me alive, Chet.”
“My pleasure. See you back at Scott’s place, Rourke.”
“You wait for me—I’m not paying cab fare back to Jacobsville all alone,” Rourke said. He picked up his own bag, shook hands with Bentley and bent to kiss Cappie’s undamaged cheek. “If he ever walks out on you, just get word to me, and I’ll bring him back to you in a net,” he said in a stage whisper.
“Thanks, Rourke. But I don’t think that will ever happen.”
Bentley smiled. “I can guarantee it won’t.”
“Cheers, then. See you.”
They waved the two men off. Bentley studied her poor, damaged face warily. “I wish there had been some way to prevent that.”
“Me, too. But it’s insurance. Let’s get breakfast. Then we can go down to Detective Marquez’s office and start giving statements. Later,” she added reluctantly, “we can go see Kell and try not to upset him too much when we tell him what happened.”
“Suits me.”
* * *
Detective Marquez had a small office in a big department. It was noisy and people seemed to come and go constantly. The phones rang off the hook.
“This looks like those crime shows on television,” Cappie remarked.
Marquez chuckled. “It’s much worse. You can’t get five minutes’ peace to type up a report.” He got up to retrieve the report he’d typed at the computer as he questioned her. He took it out of the printer tray and handed it to her. “Check over that, if you will, and see if I’ve got it right.” He pulled out another one. “This one’s for you, Dr. Rydel.” He handed the vet another sheet of paper.
They went over their statements, made a couple of corrections. Marquez inserted the corrections and printed the statements out again. They signed them.
“I’ll bet Frank’s foaming at the mouth,” Cappie mused.
“He really is, but this time he’s not going to fool any jury into thinking he’s the injured party,” Marquez assured her.
“I’ll bet that judge is feeling bad about now,” Bentley muttered.
“The judge did feel bad,” Marquez agreed. “So did the district attorney, especially after Frank and his cohorts beat up your brother. The whole justice system here in San Antonio went into overdrive to catch the perp.”
“Really?” Cappie asked, surprised.
“Really. The assistant district attorney who prosecuted your case was in the vanguard.”
“Somebody needs to take him out for a big steak dinner,” Cappie commented.
“I’m taking him out for one, at my mother’s café in Jacobsville,” he chuckled. “Of course, he’s eligible and so is my mother.”
“I see wheels turning in your head,” Cappie said.
He grinned. “Always,” Marquez said easily. “He and I have worked several cases together. I like him.”
“Me, too,” Cappie said. She hesitated. “Frank won’t get out until the trial, will he?”
Marquez shook his head. “The assistant D.A. is having the bond set in the six-figure range. I don’t think Frank knows a bail bondsman who’ll take a chance on him for that amount of money.”
“Let’s hope not,” Bentley said.
Marquez gave him a keen glance. “He’ll probably stay in jail voluntarily, to keep from having you come at him again. That was some tackle.”