Proof of Intent Read Free Page A

He smiled without warmth as he fixed his cold gray eyes on the detective.
    I rested two fingers gently on the back of his forearm. “I’m sure the detective didn’t mean anything by it. She’s got a lot on her mind.”
    â€œNot a problem,” Denkerberg said, drawing on the Tiparillo. “Mr. Dane?”
    â€œSome people describe the writing process as being something like entering a fugue state,” Miles said. “If you’re not a writer, you probably don’t know what I’m talking about. But at a certain point the characters on the page seem to get up and start walking around on their own. Once that happens the writer’s job is almost like taking dictation. But that doesn’t mean a writer just sits on his ass. Ever learn shorthand, Ms. Denkerberg? Taking dictation requires a great, great deal of concentration.”
    â€œI can imagine,” Denkerberg murmured.
    â€œI write at night.” Miles’s face had changed subtly once he started speaking, taking on a pugnacious look, like a drunk who was hoping to get in a fight with somebody. “I require complete and utter quiet, so I located this office at the far end of the house.”
    This caught me by surprise. Why had he told me he was blasting Beethoven when his wife died? Denkerberg must have caught me frowning because she said, “Something to add, Counselor?”
    â€œPardon?” I said vaguely. “What? Oh, no, sorry I was just . . . I sort of drifted off for a moment there.” I smiled pleasantly. Over the years I’ve perfected the art of acting marginally competent. It’s an act that fits with my rumpled clothes and scuffed wing tips, my forgettable face, my cheap haircut. But it
is
an act.
    â€œAnyway,” Miles said, apparently irritated at the interruption in his narrative, “I started working at around midnight. I only work at night. I don’t see how writers get anything done during the day. I’m suspicious of these sanctimonious jerks who always go on about how much they accomplish bright and early in the morning. Seems like some kind of character flaw to me.
    â€œAnyway. Me, I’m lucky. I never have writer’s block. My view, writer’s block is an excuse for chumps and dilettantes who don’t like working. You don’t want to be a writer, hell, go dig ditches, be a secretary, whatever. But don’t whine to me about writer’s block.” He glared at the detective as though expecting some kind of objection. When Denkerberg continued to sit silently, pulling on her Tiparillo, Miles continued.
    â€œSo I’d written about eight pages by around three-thirty. Goddamn good work, too, if I may say so myself. The juices were really flowing. Then I heard something.”
    The room was silent for a while. I noticed that Denkerberg wasn’t looking at Miles. Her gaze was fixed on the wall. I followed the direction her Tiparillo was pointing, saw that one of the weapon racks was empty. There was a brass plate next to the two mahogany hooks, but nothing rested on them. I wondered if she found any significance in that.
    â€œWhat did you hear?” Denkerberg said finally.
    â€œA noise,” Miles snapped.
    â€œA noise.” She didn’t say it with any particular inflection, but still there was that vaguely accusatory Sister Herman Marie quality about the way she said it.
    â€œWhat.” Miles didn’t seem to like her tone. “A
noise
. A
noise
, that’s all.”
    Denkerberg raised her eyebrows slightly. “As an accomplished author, I’m sure you appreciate the need for precise description. ‘Noise’ is a rather vague term.”
    â€œHow should I know? I’m in the middle of a gripping scene, characters stomping around in my brain, then suddenly something reaches in, some kind of goddamn noise, and yanks me out of what I’m doing.”
    â€œBut you don’t know what kind of