Proof of Intent Read Free

coming up as Miles turned a large, unusually shaped key, unlocking the massive door of the office in the back of his house. The lock was exceptionally sturdy, with a bolt as big around as a banana, and the door itself was made of two-inch-thick mahogany. I’d seen bank vaults that looked like sissies next to that door.
    As soon as we walked into the room, I nearly turned around and walked out. One wall of the office consisted of a large window with a spectacular view of the harsh white sun as it rose over a glittering St. Clair River, the slow-moving half-mile-wide body of water that separates Michigan from Canada. There was nothing wrong with the view. But the other three walls were a problem: They were covered with weapons. Everything from expensive English shotguns and hunting rifles, to antique cavalry sabers and Japanese swords, to cudgels, to a bewildering array of martial arts weapons. It looked like the
sanctum sanctorum
of a man who was preparing to invade a small West African nation. Talk about a poorly chosen place for a murder suspect to let himself be interviewed by the police.
    Denkerberg looked around the room with obvious interest. She was a good four inches taller than Miles, I noticed. “Quite a collection,” she said.
    â€œYeah, I had all this stuff appraised last year. Well over a hundred grand, you believe that?” Miles said loftily. “That’s why I keep the door locked.”
    I suddenly felt a prickling on the back of my neck. It wasn’t just the weapons. Something seemed to have changed in Miles’s countenance the second Denkerberg had entered the room. It was as though a mask had dropped over his face: Suddenly he seemed a harder, tougher man than the one who had led me to his dead wife. Miles had a reputation—in the press, at least—for belligerence. And friction was the last thing this interview needed.
    I cleared my throat. “Shall we get started?”
    Miles and I sat on the couch, but Denkerberg continued to circle the room, hands behind her back, examining every item carefully. Each weapon was perched on its own small pair of wooden hooks—each hook, from the look of it, custom-made from mahogany to fit the individual weapon and to match the room’s wooden paneling. Under each rack was a small brass plate detailing the weapon’s particulars.
    Denkerberg finally sat down, crossing her long legs primly. She took a pack of Tiparillos out of her purse, stuck one in her mouth, clamping the plastic holder between her teeth. She reminded me of a hateful nun from back in my parochial school days, Sister Herman Marie, who was always whacking me in the back of the head with her prayer book when I fumbled in catechism practice. You stumbled over a couple words, then KA-WHACK!
    â€œI’m deeply sorry about your wife, Mr. Dane,” the detective said, lighting the Tiparillo. “And I know this is a difficult time for you. But if we’re going to find the person who committed this horrible thing, I’ll need to speak with you while your impressions are still fresh.” She examined Miles Dane’s face with frank curiosity. The writer might as well have been wearing a kabuki mask for all the expression he showed. The vulnerability he’d shown just minutes earlier seemed to have entirely evaporated. “First, Mr. Dane, if you’d tell me what happened tonight. Everything you saw, everything you heard. When you’re done I’ll ask you some more questions.”
    Miles looked at me and blinked. “I’m not being thin-skinned, am I? I mean, this is my house. Isn’t it customary these days to ask before you fire up tobacco products in other people’s houses?”
    â€œI’m sorry,” Denkerberg said, not sounding sorry at all. “I wasn’t thinking.”
    Miles’s eyes widened. “Oh, no. I don’t mind in the slightest. I just was a little surprised you didn’t ask.”