Switch by William Bayer Page B

the time, he thought. Maybe she'd put him on about Al. Maybe she liked old guys, dried-up old detectives. Maybe she had a thing for them, was into handcuffs, authority and thirty-eights. Or maybe, since she was the new kind of woman who lived like a man, could screw around like a man, maybe this was just another night in the sack which didn't mean anything to her. If that was true he knew he would feel awful, more alone than he had felt when he was alone before.
    He fell back to sleep. In the morning, when he awoke, he groped for her but she wasn't there. He almost panicked until he heard her moving at the galley and then he smelled the aroma of coffee, and heard her steps as she came back to the bed, sat beside him, set down a tray.
    "Hey, Janek ." She was sipping from a mug. She said his name softly, sensuously, as if she loved the sound of it, not the harsh way people called it out at precinct stations or on the street. He pulled himself up so he could sit beside her, his legs still beneath her sheets. She stroked his cheeks, whiskery now, kissed him lightly, then motioned toward the tray. He reached for the second mug, raised it. They toasted each other with coffee. It was six-thirty in the morning, and he still couldn't believe all this had happened, was still happening even then.

Interviews
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    T en A.M. at the Market Motel: Amanda Ireland's father came down to meet Janek and Stanger in the lobby. Mid-fifties, clear blue eyes, a weatherbeaten face. He had a shock of gray hair that fell across his forehead and the look of a man from whom something very valuable had been stolen away.
    Mrs. Ireland, he told them, was too upset to talk but would be available if Janek needed her. There were three chairs and a glass-topped coffee table in the corner of the lobby. They sat down. Ireland chain-smoked. His teeth were yellow and there were brown stains on the thumb and first finger of his hand.
    "My wife always worried about her living here. She'd read an item in the paper about a murder or a mugging or a rape, and she'd say to me, 'Let's call Mandy tonight. She's scared to admit she's scared. We have to let her know that anytime she feels like it she can give up the city and come home and live with us.' So we'd call her and she wouldn't know what we were talking about, wouldn't even know about the crime. She didn't pay attention to any of that. She loved the city and didn't feel threatened here. She loved her job at Weston too, and going to plays and chamber-music concerts, and the excitement—she kept mentioning that. She said she thrived on the energy of New York."
    "What did she mean by 'excitement'?" Janek asked.
    "All the people, I guess. The crowds. All the different things going on at once. The pace. The way people walk and talk. She certainly didn't mean bars and discos. She was home most nights unless she went out to a concert or to dinner at a friend's."
    "People we've talked to say she didn't date."
    "Yes, that's true, I guess. She lived a quiet life. She had some boyfriends when she was in college, and when she went to France to study she met a boy in Grenoble and they were engaged for a while, but then it got broken off. We never knew whose decision—his or hers. She didn't want to talk about it, but we had the feeling she'd been hurt. She didn't seem interested in getting married or having a family or anything like that. We have another daughter who lives in Hawaii, and Margaret has four kids. Mandy didn't want that kind of life. She liked being by herself."
    "Excuse me for saying this, Mr. Ireland, but it seems a little implausible that your daughter never went out with anyone at all."
    "I don't know whether it's implausible. I think that's the way it was. Maybe it was just a stage she was going through. She was an adult. She chose her own life. She didn't care what anybody thought."
    "Did she ever speak about her friends?"
    He shook his head. "Not very often. Occasionally about colleagues at the