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

Detective Denkerberg and went straight to Chief Bower.
    â€œWhat in the name of God is going on here?” I said.
    â€œHi, Charley.” Chief Bower gave me the dry, appraising look that is about the most enthusiastic greeting I can expect from law enforcement people. “Your client seems to have wigged out on us.”
    â€œMeaning what?”
    â€œDetective Denkerberg was coming to talk to him, and he assaulted her.”
    â€œWhat do you mean assaulted her?”
    â€œHe pulled a gun on her, punched her, and now he’s barricaded himself in the house with a weapon.”
    â€œDid she come to talk? Or to arrest him?”
    Chief Bower briefly avoided my eyes. “We haven’t released the crime scene yet. She’s well within her rights to come back for a crime scene follow-up.”
    â€œAnd what’s up with S-TAC?” I said. “Do you really need those trigger-happy morons here? This isn’t even their jurisdiction.”
    â€œI requested their assistance,” Bower said. “Your client is making threats and waving a pistol.”
    â€œI’m extremely upset about this,” I said. “I told your pit bull Denkerberg if she wanted to talk to him, to call me.”
    â€œLook—”
    â€œForget it. I’m going in to talk to him.”
    â€œYou can’t go in there,” Bower said. “He’s got a
gun
.”
    â€œSo do half the people in this state,” I said. Then I smiled pleasantly and started striding across the yard toward the front door. I admit, I don’t cut much of a figure, but I do my best. Chin up, big smile on my face. I knew some eager cameraman over in the Channel 5 van was rolling tape by now, so every move I made counted. The spin was starting this very minute. If I went creeping in like I was afraid of being shot, that would show up on the news, making Miles appear to be a dangerous nut.
    My rational mind told me I was in no danger, but my heart was beating hard as I knocked on the door. I turned and waved pleasantly at the mob of police, gave them a big cheesy thumbs-up.
    After a moment the lock clicked and the door opened. Miles Dane stood there, ashen-faced, hair uncombed, clutching a big Smith & Wesson with a custom grip. Every time I’d seen him before, he had looked taller than his five-foot-six-inch frame; he was enlarged somehow by his physical energy. But now, he looked very small, like something had been drained out of him, causing his body to wither and shrink. I forced my way past him, quickly slammed the door shut. I didn’t want any visuals of Miles Dane and his trusty revolver showing up in the media.
    â€œHave you lost it, Miles?” I said.
    Miles looked around vaguely. There were bags under his eyes and the skin sagged in the hollows under his cheekbones. “I got . . . I got scared, Charley.”
    â€œWell, I’m here, and we’re going to work things out. Now put the cannon down for a minute, okay?”
    Miles nodded, locked the door, then walked into the living room, where he set the Smith on the coffee table.
    â€œExplain to me
precisely
what happened here,” I said.
    â€œI got a call from Denkerberg,” Miles said. “About an hour and a half ago. She said she was calling to make sure I was home. I go, ‘Obviously I’m home.’ She goes, ‘Well, don’t go anywhere. I need to talk to you.’ That’s when I called you. If she really needed to talk, she’d have been all peaches and cream. As much as she’s capable of it anyway. Plus, she’d have called you first so that you’d be present for the interview.”
    â€œSo you figured she was coming to arrest you.”
    Miles nodded miserably.
    â€œWhat did you do when she got here?”
    â€œShe showed up on the doorstep. I told her she couldn’t come in. She got real insistent. So I . . . ah, I kind of . . .”
    â€œYou pulled your