Proof of Intent by William J. Coughlin Read Free Book Online Page A

with
me
.”
    He picked up the bottle of Cutty Sark, made as if to pour some of it into a glass. “May I offer you a drink?”
    â€œThanks, no.”
    â€œThe shooting, quote unquote, was a publicity stunt.” He screwed the top back on the bottle of Cutty Sark and set the bottle down. “Late one night we brought in a sculptor from Hollywood and he carved the ‘bullet hole’ with some sort of diamond-tipped drill. Looks quite authentic, don’t you think? Then we called the
Times, Publishers Weekly
, a few others, gave them a ‘tip’ that this had happened. But it was all fiction.” Rourke sighed. “His career was on a bit of a slide by the early nineties. We were hoping to pump things up a little. But . . . In this life, when the sea decides to suck you down, you sink. That’s a piece of cheerful wisdom for you to take away with you.”
    I smiled in what I hoped wouldn’t seem a patronizing way. “I’ve heard there are a number of incidents,” I said. “Fights with movie stars. Things like that. Were they all staged?”
    Rourke studied my face for a while, then finally sighed. “Of course they were.”
    â€œYou’d be prepared to testify to that effect?”
    â€œIs he really going to be charged with killing Diana?”
    â€œI don’t know the answer to that.”
    Rourke scowled. “It’s ridiculous. Underneath the mask, he’s a sweet man. He’d never do a thing like that.”
    â€œSo you’d testify? If it came to that?”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œHopefully it won’t come to that.”
    â€œI’m sure it won’t.”
    I wished I was equally confident.

Eight
    Since there was nothing more for me to do in New York, I took an early flight home the next morning. My cell phone rang as soon as I got off the plane in Detroit. It was Miles Dane.
    â€œCharley?” Miles sounded shaken. “I’ve been trying you and trying you.”
    â€œI’ve been on a plane. What is it, Miles?”
    â€œI think . . . I think I made a mistake.”
    â€œ
What did you do?
”
    â€œI talked to that woman again. Chantall Denkerberg. The cop.”
    â€œMiles, what did I tell you? Talk to nobody without me? Remember that?”
    â€œThat’s not what I’m saying, Charley,” he snapped. “What I’m trying to tell you is she just called and asked if I was going to be home for the rest of the day. I don’t think she wants to talk.”
    â€œSit tight, Miles. Keep your mouth shut, stay calm, and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
    â€œThis is scaring me a little, okay?”
    â€œSit tight.”

Nine
    The largest, most expensive houses in Pickeral Point are on Riverside Boulevard. The view of the river that separates Michigan from Canada is spectacular, the trees are large and old, and the houses are grandly massive. These days the smallest house on the road would easily run you a million five.
    Riverside Drive is not the sort of place you expect to see squadrons of police cars, certainly not twice in one week. But as I pulled up in front of Miles Dane’s house, that’s what I found.
    I jumped out and found Detective Chantall Denkerberg standing on the street, her hands on her hips, a cigarillo dangling from her lip. Chief Bower was there, too, along with about fifteen patrol officers. More ominously, a black panel truck that read S-TAC in gold letters on the side was parked half a block down from Miles’s house. Standing around the van were six or eight muscular young guys wearing black BDUs and Kevlar, and carrying machine guns. Great. S-TAC was the Sheriff’s Tactical Unit, recently created by the megalomaniacal new sheriff of Kerry County. As I was pulling up, the Channel 5 news van screeched in behind me and began hoisting its satellite dish so they could broadcast live to the newsroom back in Detroit.
    I breezed past