Texas Charm, the ending (Patreon)

Okay, now I'm going to go back through and edit for the mistakes readers have already found. If you have comments, good, bad or indifferent, this is your chance.  I have an artist (for the cover) and a professional editor lined up for this one, so I'm going to put the money into creating a professional ebook (*fingers crossed*)

Chapter Twenty-One

Zach could read Art’s guilt from across the room. If it weren’t for Vanderkonk and his lawyer waiting in the conference room, Zach would annoy him out of it, but no time for that now. Zach would have to pull out his superpowers later. “Ready?” Zach asked.

Art gave a small nod. His collar was damp with sweat, and his shirt wrinkled, but he didn’t offer any explanation. He caught Zach’s arm, pulling him around so they faced each other. “You didn’t deserve that,” Art said.

“Nope, but I snap at you just as much. Wait until the next child abuse case, and you’ll be on the receiving end,” Zach said. Each of them had buttons that—when pushed—made them less than nice people. He was fairly sure that made them normal human beings. Magic just happened to be Art’s biggest button. Zach had a much larger number of buttons, and he could be an obsessive asshole, so he wasn’t about to start throwing stones at anyone else’s glass house.

Art’s smile was almost shy. Then he nodded, and turned all business. “After you.”

Zach led the way to the conference room where the front desk had directed their interviewees.  

The lawyer stood when Zach and Art walked into the room. He had on an expensive suit but old shoes, and Zach wasn’t sure what to think of that contrast. “My client would like to speak to the prosecutor in charge of this case,” the lawyer said before anyone could offer introductions. Zach raised his eyebrows and looked to Art. As the lead detective, Art would have to make that call.

Art turned to Vanderkonk. The man was huge and he had balls of iron. He sat calmly as the lawyer faced off against Art. “Is this a confession that you killed Jon Minton?” Art asked. Zach was still surprised at the confrontational tone. Art usually handled witnesses and suspects with a little more finesse. 

“Don’t answer that,” the lawyer said loudly. “Detective, my client has committed no felonies, but I will not allow him to speak about what he may or may not have witnessed unless the district attorney promises immunity.”

Art studied Vanderkonk. After a few seconds, he said, “I can make that call.” With that, he turned and left, leaving Zach to follow.  

Zach had never seen Art shut down a conversation so fast, but he waited until they were in the monitoring room before he blasted Art with both barrels. “What the hell?” Pochi appeared out of nowhere and hovered in the air.

“He’s not going to talk,” Art said.

“And you’ve decided to pass the witness over to the district attorney’s office without even trying to get anyone to talk?” Maybe this whole Talent fiasco had upset Art more than Zach suspected because this was not like him.

When Art sighed, Zach knew something was up. “I used to be mysterious and hard to read,” Art said sadly.

“No you weren’t. People just didn’t want to call you out and deal with your attitude. Now what changed?”

Art put one leg up so he was half-sitting on the small table where the video monitor sat. “Vanderkonk is locked down tight and his lawyer has all the control. He won’t start talking without that lawyer approving it, and that’s going to require getting Hernandez down here.”

Zach frowned. “You got all that without him saying a word?”

“I got that from my Talent.”

Zach’s mouth fell open. Of all the things he expected, that hadn’t been one.

As if on cue, Art’s cat showed up and sat on the opposite corner of the table from Art. It wasn’t exactly nuzzling up to Art, but it wasn’t keeping its distance either. Art could reach out and touch it if he wanted. “I apologized to my guide for being an asshole.” Art shrugged as if none of it meant much. “Now I can see shadows that didn’t exist before.  Vanderkonk has a mist rising from him, but there’s something that extends out from the lawyer, and it’s like a sheet of clear glass. Nothing is getting past it.”

Zach slowly sank into a chair. “Holy crap.” Pochi landed on Zach’s shoulder and projected a sort of triumphant glee that made Zach suspicious about what the meddling little bird might have said or done. 

Art took out his phone and started texting, so apparently he wasn’t getting Pochi’s emotion overshare.

Since Art clearly didn’t know much and poking the magic button was almost guaranteed to set him off, Zach changed the subject. “Did you catch what the lawyer said about felonies?” For a lawyer to make a distinction between a felony and a misdemeanor was significant. Most states allowed a witness to decide for themselves whether or not to come forward. In Texas, witnesses had to come forward if they saw a felony that resulted in bodily harm or death.

“Yeah. I’m thinking it’s a 38-171,” Art said, which was the exact law Zach had been thinking of. “If he only witnessed a misdemeanor, he’s clear. But that lawyer is cagey enough to make me suspicious. Besides, Vanderkonk is big enough to snap someone in half.”

“Yeah, but with Minton’s physical disability, any conflict would have ended in seconds. Vanderkonk had no reason to shoot him in the back.” Zach knew he was missing something.

Art shrugged before he put his phone in his pocket. “Hernandez is on his way, and I’m betting transporters work in pairs and don’t panic.”

“So we have our witness or witnesses if you’re right about a partner, but we’re stuck sitting on our asses. So, do you want to talk?” Zach asked.

“About what?” 

Zach glared at his idiot partner.

With a sigh, Art pulled a second chair out from under the table and sat. “I hate that we’re lying by omission to the captain. He’s a good man, and he doesn’t deserve to feel like he did something wrong by asking me to handle Talent issues. He really doesn’t deserve to worry that he broke the law by singling me out because of my Native religion.”

Zach got that. He did. However, he didn’t see any solution outside of giving the captain the whole story, and if he knew about the danger, he would want to brief the mundane authorities and create action plans and contingency plans. It would be a fucking disaster.

“I see that face,” Art said, “and I get it. I do. I just maintain my right to hate the situation, even while I admit that it’s the best solution we have.” Art glared at Pochi. He fluffed up, his head swiveling form one side to the other. Art poked a finger in Pochi’s direction. “Things were simpler before you showed up.” 

Pochi stretched his wings and fluttered them.

“Hernandez is down in holding, so he should finish with his paperwork pretty quick.” Art propped one foot on the edge of the only chair in the room. “My mother thinks we’re idiots.”

Ah, that explained why Art had vanished. Zach respected how close Art was to his family, and he’d long ago given up any illusions about having privacy from Nelba Lammas. Sometimes her sharp tongue was too much for him, but she was Art’s biggest champion, and Zach would always love her for that. 

“She’s probably right,” he said. “Did you tell her about the engagement?”

Art shook his head. “You want to tell your mother in person, and my family can’t be trusted with any secrets. I love them, but I’m no fool.” Art looked toward the wall that separated them from the interview room where Vanderkonk waited. Art frowned. “Jon Minton was an asshole. How many detectives would have scaled back their investigation once they figured out he was on his way to raping women again? I mean, I have a lot of respect for Carson, but I partnered with him long enough to know he wouldn’t have busted his ass on the case. He would have worked it, but if something else hit his desk, he would have thought other victims deserved justice before Jon Minton.”

Zach hated to admit it, but Art was probably right. Hell, Zach wasn’t sure the captain would have given them as many resources and pushed as hard only the press had been on a real anti-police kick lately. The higher-ups needed a little good press, and solving a high-profile case would provide that. 

“Luckily we got the case.”

Art caught Zach’s hand. “I was well on my way to becoming Carson and picking the cases I busted my ass on. If I haven’t said it lately, thank you for making me a better cop.”

Zach sat, his eyes wide as he stared at Art. He had no idea what Nelba had said, but she’d outdone herself this time. Zach wasn’t sure if he appreciated Art’s willingness to talk about feelings or if he hated that, once again, Art seemed to be speaking out of guilt. Zach grabbed Art’s arm. “Now you listen to me. You are a great cop. You were before me, and you would be without me, not that I ever want to test that theory. So knock it off with the guilt before I buy mass market salsa.”

“You wouldn’t.” Art’s smile was slow, but genuine.

“I so totally would. I would eat it with my Monterey jack cheese on tortilla chips.”

“Heathen.” Art pulled Zach into a quick hug. “Let’s go see if Hernandez is up here yet.” Zach allowed Art to pull him to his feet.

“Deal. Did you tell Hernandez our theory about Vanderkonk witnessing the crime?” Zach headed toward the observation room attached to where they’d left Vanderkonk and his lawyer.

“Yeah. That’s the paperwork he’s preparing. I told him this lawyer was too sharp to fall for verbal promises. He’s going to want something in writing.”

After opening the hall door, Zach gave an exaggerated shudder. “I hate disinterested lawyers. Lawyers who are effective enough to get guilty clients off and committed to remaining neutral on their clients’ guilt should be voted off the planet or sacrificed to the gods of justice or something.”

Art snorted. “And people think I’m the asshole in the relationship.”

“You are,” Zach said. He opened the door to the Vanderkonk observation room expected to see the captain. Surprisingly, it was dark and empty. Hernandez was opening his briefcase and had clearly already introduced himself.  “What does it look like now?” When Art gave him a confused look, Zach clarified. “Talent-wise. What do you magically see?”

“Can’t shamans use up the magic their guide gives them if they use their Talent too often?” Art asked.

“I don’t know. Does your cat seem stingy with the magic?”

Art focused on the window without answering, and Zach decided to quit while he was ahead. Art was talking to his cat and his cat was communicating in return. For now, that was more than enough. Besides, the conversation was getting interesting in the interview room.

The lawyer finally put down the paper Hernandez had handed him. He glanced at his client before taking off his reading glasses and setting them next to the papers. Hernandez didn’t bother addressing the lawyer; he spoke directly to their transporter. “Mr. Vanderkonk, this paperwork immunizes you from any prosecution under penal code 38.171. If you witnessed a crime and failed to report it, the state will forgo prosecution under the condition you testify in any proceedings. However, if you participated in this murder, we will seek charges.”

Vanderkonk looked at his lawyer, and the man nodded. Only then did Vanderkonk answer. “I didn’t participate in anything, and this wasn’t murder.”

“Limit yourself to answering direct questions,” the lawyer said.

Zach looked around, but Pochi hadn’t returned. Zach said aloud, “I wish I could use Talent to see what these guys are thinking.” Zach waited, but nothing happened. 

In the interview room, Hernandez quickly got the basics out of the way. Daniel Minton had hired the company because his son was still addicted to sex. The company had gotten a judge in California to sign the custody order, and the lawyer surrendered those documents.

Hernandez kept his voice neutral and his gaze on the legal pad where he was making notes.  “Mr. Vanderkonk, why were you at that lot?” he asked.

Now Vanderkonk really squirmed in his seat, but after a brief hesitation, he spoke. “When we do transports on adults, it can get dicey. With kids, we prefer to catch them in the early morning when they’re tired. But Minton said his son was up and down all night with no predictable sleeping pattern. We didn’t want to start a fight in the house and have his neighbors calling the police. That’s the sort of neighborhood where people like to pretend nothing bad happens. Minton suggested that he bring his son to some out of the way spot and we could transfer vehicles.”

“Who picked the location?”

After a second, Vanderkonk  admitted, “I did. I scouted a number of areas. That one isn’t used by the homeless much. The trucking company on the corner has a night watchman. I thought it would make a quiet spot to get Minton in the van. I called Mr. Minton and told him where to meet us.”

“Us?” Hernandez pounced on the word, and Vanderkonk visibly flinched. 

The lawyer spoke up. “Miguel Walker did not see the altercation as he remained with the vehicle. I advised him to go home since he was not involved.”

Hernandez turned toward the lawyer. After a long silence, he said ominously, “You did?”

The lawyer glared back. 

“When did you arrive at the lot?” Hernandez asked Vanderkonk.

“Around midnight. We expected the Mintons at one, so we were working on some paperwork when Minton’s car got there at a quarter of one. Minton parked on the far side and started walking his son across the lot to us.” 

“How did Minton get his son to come with him? Was Minton dragging his son—threatening him with a weapon?”

Zach held his breath. If Daniel Minton brought the weapon—if he forced his son into the vehicle—the death would become a capital murder case. Zach crossed his fingers.

“What?” Vanderkonk blurted. “No. He was just walking with the kid. I got out of the van and went to meet them and Miguel went to the back to open the rear doors and text the boss that we were meeting Minton.”

“And then?” Hernandez prompted the man. Again, Vanderkonk glanced over to his lawyer and got a nod before he continued. “Jon started demanding answers. We’d warned Mr. Minton to avoid engaging in arguments, but he tried to explain that he loved his son and wanted him to get help. Minton went crazy. He had this plastic shopping bag over his shoulder, and he reached in and pulled out a gun. We were all shocked. I thought maybe the kid was bluffing, but then he fired a shot right into the ground in front of his father. There wasn’t a lot of cover, and Daniel Minton and I were standing out in the middle of the field, so I took a chance and tackled the kid. He went down like a sack of potatoes and the gun went flying.” Vanderkonk rubbed his face. The lawyer sat unmoving as his client visibly shivered and struggled to hold it together.

“And then?” Hermandez asked, his voice softer.

Vanderkonk  shook his head. “I’m not sure. I was struggling to hold onto Jon without hurting him. His one arm was pretty withered, and I was hesitant to wrench his hands behind his back the way I normally would. But I had a firm hold on his good arm.” Vanderkonk’s voice shook and his lawyer finally reached out and put a hand on Vanderkonk’s shoulder. Zach hated the guy a little less. “Jon got back up onto his feet. He was attacking me—punching me as hard as he could. I’m sure it looked bad, but he wasn’t doing any harm with his weak arm.”

Zach closed his eyes as he imagined the scene. Daniel Minton thought his son was hurting Vanderkonk. He’d panicked, believing he needed to save the transporter from his out-of-control son. Christ.

“I don’t think I want to watch the rest.” Zach turned his back. 

“Yeah,” Art said softly. “God, what a fuck up. No wonder his father was eaten with guilt.” Art opened the observation room and held the door as Zach headed out into the hall. 

Usually this was the moment of triumph—they’d put all the pieces together and they could offer someone justice. This didn’t feel like justice as much as a Greek tragedy. It didn’t feel good to know Daniel Minton had killed his son to defend someone who hadn’t needed defending. 

In the hall, Captain Williams was waiting. “I have Daniel Minton in my office. He just offered up a confession, so I was waiting for Hernandez to see what sort of charges he wants brought.” The captain looked worn, like a pencil that has been used down to nothing, which described how Zach felt. He didn’t even want to know how the father’s story lined up. He could only pray that Daniel Minton never found out that the transporter hadn’t needed any help. 

Art said softly, “Head shot. They didn’t call an ambulance because they knew.”

Captain Williams nodded, but he said, “That’s up to the D.A.” For a time, all three of them were silent. Finally Captain Williams said, “You two did amazing work on this.”

Art strode off down the hall, leaving both of them behind.

Captain Williams frowned. “Is he okay?”

“He’ll be fine.” Zach deliberately didn’t put a time frame on that promise. 

“Detective Johnson, I’m going to ask you to warn me if I cross a line with Lammas. He doesn’t always share what he’s thinking. So if he needs something—if either of you needs something—I’m trusting you to tell me.”

Zach smiled at the captain. It was a kind gesture, although Zach was endlessly grateful he hadn’t given Art the same speech. Art had enough guilt without Williams adding to it by being more accommodating. “Yes, sir. We’ll finish up the paperwork and get it over to Hernandez. Do you want us to interview Daniel Minton?”

“No,” the captain said quickly. “The DAs office has this clusterfuck, so let them handle it.”

“Yes, sir,” Zach said. Captain Williams shook his head and walked away. Zach felt like none of them were winners on this case.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Zach felt the weight of the world ease as he came in the front door. One of them had left a glass of ice tea on the coffee table, and a dead fly floated peacefully. That seemed like a metaphor for their week. Zach grabbed the glass and headed to the kitchen to dump it before he even took off his suit jacket. “This case—” Zach sighed and dumped the tiny corpse into the sink and rinsed it all down. “Part of me wishes we hadn’t solved this one.”

On his way to the bedroom, Art called out, “Don’t go there. We don’t get to pick our suspects.”

Most of the time Zach thought of their suspects as normal people who made a stupid mistake. But Daniel Minton’s only mistake had been his determination to save everyone else from a son he didn’t trust. It was hard to blame him. Zach stripped off his jacket and headed into the bedroom. 

The toilet flushed as he was hanging it up, and a few seconds later, Art came out. Zach said, “I feel sorry for Daniel Minton, and now the press is all over him.” Minton had looked broken as he walked past the reporters, and that had been like sprinkling blood on the waters above sharks. Within the hour, every press organization had someone camped out at the station entrance.

“So far, the press seems pretty positive,” Art said.

“I don’t think that’s what he wants.” Zach got the feeling that the man would prefer a little flagellation. “He loved his kid,” Zach said softly.

“Yeah, but that’s why I’m glad we caught Minton,” Art said. Zach gave him an incredulous look. “I’m serious. Hopefully Hernandez will set him up with mandatory counseling as part of any plea deal. We thought he was suicidal before we knew he was the killer, so that sort of guilt, over time, tends to destroy a person. He needs professional help.”

Art headed out into the kitchen, and Zach followed. “Do you think he’ll do time in prison?”

Leaning on the counter, Art seemed to really consider that. He finally said, “Doubt it. When he shot his son, he believed Jon was a threat. Hell, if Hernandez puts this in front of a jury, they’ll name a street after the man.”

Zach snorted. Texans did love their self-defense.

Art continued. “But I do think Hernandez is going to look for him to face some charges. Thousands of police hours have been wasted tracking down a murderer when we didn’t even have a murder.”

“It’s not the sort of case that makes you feel good.” Zach settled in on one of the stools and waited for Art to give him something to do. Sure enough, Art pulled the cheese out of the fridge and delivered it, a plate and a grater to Zach.

“You should feel good about this,” Art said. “We made sure that Jon had justice, and now Daniel Minton will get help. This kind of secret would have been like cancer.”

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right.” Zach slowly grated the cheese, watching white shards fall from the grater into a pile. “I still wish it had turned out different.”

Art sighed. “Me, too.” Lately Art had been carrying so much weight. Zach needed to find something to take the pressure off. Maybe they could have a marathon of fifties bad sci-fi movies. Art loved to complain about corny special effects. Zach realized he had one piece of information that would cheer up his partner. “Hey, Salma emailed us.”

“Do I want to know what she said?” That was Art’s cranky voice.

“She had to go back to DC.” 

Art whirled around and stared at Zach as though waiting for a punchline. Zach just smiled. “Are you going to get pissy with me if I’m happy she’s gone?” Art asked.

“Nope. In fact, I’m relieved. She’s a little frightening in her dedication.” Zach shivered. She had treated every comment like a royal proclamation, and Zach had zero illusions about his ability to rule. His acute personality flaws made him a poor choice as anyone’s anointed one.

“You call it dedication; I call it obsession.  That woman needs to have a life, but as long as she’s convinced that the ifrit are the center of the universe, I suspect she won’t. But, I don’t want to spend my night talking about her.”

“No?” Zach had a fairly large pile of shredded cheese, so he headed over to where Art was dicing vegetables. “What would you like to spend the evening doing?” He wrapped his arms around Art’s waist and looked over Art’s shoulder.

Art smiled. “Reminding you why you agreed to marry me.” He added in a little hip wiggle.

“Of course I’m going to marry you. You make me completely unauthentic American quesadillas,” Zach pointed out.

“Is that the only reason? Maybe I should find a boyfriend with a greater appreciation for huitlacoche.”

“God bless you,” Zach said.

Art rolled his eyes at the stupid joke, but the tension eased a little. This case had been hard on both of them. 

“You know, I don’t want to wait to tell our families about our engagement. I want to do something happy. Something absolutely, ridiculously happy, like celebrate the fact that I’m going to have a really hot husband.”

That surprised a burst of laughter out of Art. Zach tightened his arms, and when Art turned his head, Zach stole a kiss.

“That sounds like a wonderful idea. But here’s the problem. Whose family are we telling first?” Art asked. 

Wrinkling his nose, Zach said, “If we tell my mom first, she’s going to be on the phone with my sister two seconds after we hang up.”

“My mom is the exact same. The only difference is your mom only has to call your one sister and my mom’s going to be on the phone all night.” Art used the flat of the knife to transfer the piles of pepper and onion into the hot pan. The smell blossomed, and Zach’s stomach rumbled in anticipation.

“Yes, but think this through logically. If I call my mom first, she is going to call my sister the minute she hangs up the phone. And then my sister is going to post something stupid on social media about ten seconds after my mom tells the big news. That means if one of your siblings is online, they’re going to immediately call Nelba and tell her about the engagement.”

Art shuddered. He should because his mother was a force of nature, like a hurricane or volcano. While beautiful from a distance, up close she tended to decimate towns. If she felt like they had slighted her, she would not hesitate to share her unhappiness. “If she realizes that she was mother number two to get called, we will be getting the hairy eyeball every Thanksgiving from now until the end of time.”

“Oh hell, yes.” The thought was terrifying.

Art gave him a dirty look. “But if I tell my mother first, your mother is the queen of passive aggressive. At least with my mother she comes right out and tells you what she thinks of you. Your mother just makes me feel like I’m not quite fit to breathe air in the same room, all while telling me that she’s perfectly happy and the world is perfect and shit doesn’t smell bad.”

“And you think I feel safe breathing around Nelba? My insecurity complexes breed when that woman is in the room. But the nice thing is that she has that effect on everyone. Which means, if we call her first and she calls, say Sylvia, there is no way Sylvia is going to risk the wrath of her mother by getting on social media while they’re still on the phone. I mean, Sylvia has balls, but she’s not stupid.”

Art went silent for several seconds before he turned to face Zach. “You might actually have a good argument there.”

“I have a great argument,” Zach corrected him. “If we tell Nelba first, then I have time to call my mom, and by the time my sister airs our business on social media for everyone to see, we have avoided the entire family feud. I think this is brilliant.” Zach was proud of himself for navigating his first in-law minefield. He was going to be good at this marriage stuff.

“You might be right. I just hope you can maintain this good humor of yours all the way through the wedding.”

“I’m marrying you. Of course I will.”

Art’s expression turned devious. “Even when my mother tries to pressure your parents into buying thirteen real gold coins, and she turns her full fury on them if they don’t? Even when we have to figure out who are going to be our padrinos, and we alienate the half of the family we don’t pick? And that’s not even counting the food and the fights over who makes which food and the lazos and the hundreds of guests we only remotely know showing up.”

That sounded vaguely horrifying. “What are you talking about?” 

“A Mexican wedding. A real Mexican wedding. You thought the holidays were scary—wait until you see Mama plan a wedding.”

Zach shivered dramatically. “We could elope.”

Art graced him with a disgusted look. “Do you want fifty years of Nelba Lammas’s disappointment?”

“Right. Mexican wedding, huh?” Zach figured that couldn’t be half as scary as disappointing Nelba.

Art smiled and stirred his vegetables. “Yep.”

Zach thought about thirty years of Christmases with Art’s family, watching nieces and nephews grow up while Nelba ruled from the kitchen, a wooden spoon for a scepter. In summer they would visit one of Zach’s parents, and listen to the other one complain. They’d have forty or fifty years of arguing over which cheese to use and whether mold on corn counted as food or garbage. “If you can put up with American quesadillas, I can put up with Mexican weddings,” Zach said, but what he really meant was that it sounded slightly perfect. More emotion leaked into his words than he’d intended. Art turned and rested a hand on Zach’s face. Suddenly Pochi was there, followed shortly after by Art’s cat appearing on the counter. 

Art sighed. “Really? Do you have to walk where I cut my food?”

Art’s cat twitched his tail and then reappeared on the couch and gave a yowl.

“Yes, that’s better,” Art answered the guide. “Geez, I’m surrounded by pushy people with no respect for a man’s kitchen.” Art smiled fondly at Zach. “You guys are just lucky I like you. Now go cut up some chicken, and this time try to get the pieces close to the same size. I’m going to call my mother and get this out of the way so we can have some us time tonight.”

“You got it,” Zach happily agreed. Us time sounded great.