Free Void in Hearts by William G. Tapply

understand,” she said as I slipped my arms into the sleeves, “you must know a lot of compliant women.”
    I thought of Becca Katz. She had been compliant. But somehow the word didn’t work for her. She had been lonely, empty, desperate. “I suppose so,” I said.
    “And I bet you don’t go through great moral debates before you go to bed with them.”
    “It depends.”
    I hunched my shoulders into the topcoat and then turned around to face Gloria. She was frowning. “It depends on what?”
    “On whether I like them or not.”
    She turned her face so that she was peering at me out of the corners of her eyes, a sly, almost flirtatious look. “Just so I understand,” she said, “do you go to bed with the ones you like, or the ones you don’t like?”
    I smiled. “The ones I like, of course.”
    She shook her head slowly. “Then,” she said, “I deduce that you don’t like me.”
    I reached for the doorknob. “No,” I said. “That’s not it. With you it’s much more complicated.”

7
    C HARLIE PICKED UP A pencil and tapped at the photographs I had spread out on his desk. “Maybe if you could give me some names I could help you,” he said to me.
    “If I had the names, I wouldn’t need your help.”
    “Well, I certainly don’t recognize these people.”
    “I didn’t really expect you to.” I sighed and lit a cigarette. “I just figured, you’ve been in prosecution for a long time. There must be some tricks.”
    “Legwork. Paperwork. Cooperative witnesses. Plea bargains.” He waved at the smoke. “No tricks, counselor.”
    Charlie had a lavishly furnished office high in the Federal Building in Government Center on the back side of Beacon Hill. I gazed past his shoulder at the slate-colored winter sky. The big floor-to-ceiling window looked out toward the arches of the Mystic River Bridge. Uncle Sam had spared none of the taxpayers’ funds in providing thick carpeting, chrome and teak furniture, and fancy electronic gear for his employees in the Justice Department.
    Charlie lounged back in his Moroccan leather swivel chair. He tapped his teeth with his pencil. “Actually, when you think about it,” he said, “it’s all pretty farfetched anyway. So this guy”—he pointed with the eraser end of the pencil at the photograph of the man—“knew that Katz had found out about him and his lady friend. Katz sells him the pictures. The guy doesn’t trust him to keep a secret.” Charlie shrugged elaborately. “Hardly a motive for murder.”
    “I’ve heard less impressive motives.”
    “Oh, sure. You want to talk about wackos, that’s a whole ’nother thing. For instance, guy’s sitting in a movie theater. Suddenly he jumps up, turns around, yanks out his thirty-eight Police Special, and pumps five slugs into the chest of the fourteen-year-old girl sitting behind him. Know why?”
    I shook my head.
    “The guy tells the police, ‘She was crunching popcorn in my ear.’ Like that explained it perfectly. Or the broad in Queens who had the barking dog. Her neighbor calls her on the phone to complain the dog’s keeping the family awake. So the broad burns down their house. Said she didn’t like being harassed by those phone calls. So you’re right. There are less impressive motives. With crazy people, it’s unproductive to bother trying to understand motives. They’ve just got some weird logic twisted around inside their heads. Look, Brady. I’m not sure what you want to do even if you actually do identify this guy. You plan to have him arrested or something?”
    I stubbed out my cigarette. “I don’t know. That’s something else I’m asking you, I guess.”
    He began to doodle on a legal pad. “Okay. Maybe you do a little sleuthing. Find out where whatever-his-name-is was on the night in question. Sneak a look at his automobile, see if there’s a big dent on the right front fender. Or see if he’s had it in the body shop recently, go talk to them. Say you turn up this lady.”