Proof of Intent Read Online Free Page B

collection, how could you lose it?”
    There was a long silence.
    â€œOkay, now that I think about it, I believe it
was
here yesterday.”
    More silence.
    â€œMaybe he . . .” Miles frowned. “I went to the bathroom right before I heard the noise. This son of a bitch must have snuck in here and taken it off the wall while I was in the toilet.”
    Denkerberg took some notes, then looked up. “My experience tells me that thieves look for four things. In descending order: cash, guns, jewelry, electronics.”
    Miles’s jaw clenched.
    â€œYou’re the author of all these famous crime novels—I assume part of what you do requires you to be able to put yourself in the mind of a criminal?”
    â€œSo?”
    Denkerberg gave him a hard look. “So imagine that you’re a sneak thief, a common burglar. Probably stealing to pay for your next drug hit. You come into the house, I don’t know, through a window or something. You walk into this room. What’s the first thing you grab?”
    Miles didn’t say anything.
    The detective pointed at a beautiful double-barreled shotgun hanging over Miles’s desk. “I’m not a burglar, I admit. But nevertheless my eye is drawn to that, Mr. Dane. Tell me about it.”
    â€œIt’s a Purdy. A twenty-gauge English best gun.”
    â€œ
Best
gun?”
    â€œThat’s the terminology they use in the English gun trade to describe the highest quality custom-made shotguns.”
    Denkerberg strolled over to it. “Boy, that’s a pretty thing. Look at the detail in that little hunting scene engraved on the side. Pheasants flying through the air and such.” She leaned closer. “My heavens, that sure looks like gold inlay, too.”
    â€œIt’s gold, yes.”
    Denkerberg wrinkled her nose. “What’s a gun like this worth?”
    â€œSeventy, eighty grand,” Miles said softly.
    â€œMy heavens!” she said again. Sister Herman Marie’s favorite expletive, as I recall. Denkerberg turned to Miles. “Okay, let’s try this again. You’re an imaginary crook, looking to make a quick score. You walk into this room. Do you grab the eighty-thousand-dollar gold-inlaid shotgun? Or the black stick?”
    Miles shrugged. “Look. I got up to go to the bathroom a couple times. Let’s say the perp sneaks in here at three in the morning while I’m in the john. Naturally, that time of night, he thinks everybody’s in bed—until he hears the toilet flush. So he goes,
Oh, shit! There’s somebody in here! What am I gonna do?
He’s frantic, he’s in a rush, no time to think, he just reaches out and grabs the closest weapon to his hand and runs out the door.”
    â€œHm.” Denkerberg squinted skeptically. I could see she didn’t buy it. I wasn’t sure I did either. “Alright, Mr. Dane, I know this is unpleasant, but could you tell me about discovering your wife? What happened then?”
    Miles slumped backward into the soft cushions. His eyes slowly closed. “I don’t know,” he said finally, his voice coming out in a hoarse whisper. “My legs just got all weak, and I couldn’t stand up.”
    â€œDid you touch your wife?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œYou didn’t check her vital signs?”
    Miles’s eyes opened. “Check her
vital
signs! Jesus! Have a heart, lady. She was dead as a doornail. Any fool could see that. You’ve seen her! My God! I couldn’t touch her when she was that way!”
    â€œEasy, easy,” I said softly.
    â€œAnd how long did you sit there, Mr. Dane?”
    He shrugged.
    â€œMr. Dane.”
    â€œHow should I know? Five minutes?”
    â€œYou had no urge to pursue the murderer?”
    â€œI already told you. He was gone by then.”
    Denkerberg nodded. She jotted down some more notes, stubbed out her Tiparillo. “Can you think of anyone who would want to