Switch by William Bayer

seemed to Janek that they melted into each other when he arrived that evening at the loft. Caroline took him in her arms, they moved to her bed without a sound and there made love magically, he thought, as if they were made for each other and had known each other for months.
    As a lover she employed no tricks, no actressy little touches she had learned from someone else. She was merely herself without pretense or illusion, more than enough, he thought, far more than he had hoped. Her lean young body was taut with craving. Her breasts pressed firmly against his chest. Her back was beautiful and proud. Her mouth was hungry. She played her fingers upon his shoulder blades, then thrust them deep into his hair.
    He kissed her throat and then her eyes, ran his hands along her perspiring flanks and marveled at the sleekness of her legs. She used her toes to stroke his calves. He was awed by her shudders of desire.
    He felt she was a sorceress, that in her embraces he was bewitched. They glided, joined, pulled back, then joined again, their bodies beating out a sweet slow rhythm, a long, slow, intoxicating dance. No frantic whisperings. No "What do you like?" and "Does this turn you on?" No need to ask, because they knew. There was a faultless surety to their every move, a deep, instinctive knowledge that told them how to satisfy.
    Afterward, lying back, they looked at one another and broke into smiles.
    She served him a simple dinner—salad, steak, Italian cheesecake—and as they ate they regarded each other with delight. Talking casually, he became aware he knew practically nothing about her. Family background, education, the men she had known and loved—such things were normally necessary knowledge if he was to fathom another human being. But now they seemed meaningless in the face of the things he had discovered: her vision of the world imparted through her photographs, and the smell and taste of her body, carnal knowledge he now possessed. It was such a relief not to have to care about the other things, to rely upon his feelings, to leave his detective's processes behind. He wondered why he hadn't learned to do this before, separate his life from his work. Until now repairing old accordions and playing them had been his only escape. How wonderful to have found this passionate woman who made him forget the awful sully of his job.
    "Have you talked to Mrs. DiMona ?"
    He looked up at her, a little startled to hear her speak. "Lou? Not yet. I was thinking about going over there Sunday," he said.
    "What are you going to tell her?"
    "Don't know. Haven't decided yet. I'm not going to tell her how Al met you and how he used to drop around. He told her he was working on an old case. That's what she wants to think."
    "You could go along with that."
    "I could. Though I hate to lie."
    "You could maybe smooth it out a little. Sort of turn it another way."
    He understood what Caroline meant: Tell Lou that Al had been looking into something, but it hadn't meant anything, he'd just been puttering around.
    "Trouble is I don't know what he told her. When she talked to me she seemed convinced. An idea like that, that he was onto something, had found something dreadful, unbearable—it gives her an explanation and she wants to hold on to that. It's unacceptable to her that she lived with him all those years and then on Sunday he shot himself and didn't even leave a note. It means she didn't mean anything to him, that he didn't care enough to explain. That's pretty hard to take, but if there was this old case, you see..."
    "Sure. She could pin it on that."
    "And be absolved."
    "Absolution—God!"
    "Yes, absolution. Cops are into absolution. And redemption too. And crime and punishment."
    "For themselves, right? The punishment. Not for the criminals."
    "You understand," he said. "Yes. For themselves."
    She shook her head, almost furiously it seemed to him, as if she were trying to clear that thought away. He mustn't forget, he