Cat in a hot pink Pursuit

town at night alone, why have a firearm or a shield?”
    “I’m trying to be a regular guy here.”
    “Why?”
    “Maybe because I think you might have a regular girl in there somewhere.”
    “Regular equals helpless?”
    “Regular equals liking company.”
    “Not now. I’m not a babysitter for insomniac narcs. I’ve got my own baby to sit.”
    He backed off, literally. “Sorry. You’re right. I shouldn’t have come out. I’m just not used to being out of the loop, that’s all. Guess I just wanted to bullshit about the crime scene, whatever. Talk the talk. See a... friendly face.” She could’ve sworn he was about to have said “pretty.”
    Unbelievable! But maybe she was doing him an injustice.
    Sensing her irritation, he shifted topics. “That guy you tried to con me out of. You know, the address the other night. I’m betting that he’s personal.”
    “If he is, then it’s really none of your business.”
    He ignored her warning. “Ex-cop. L.A. I see that’s where you came here from.”
    “I see that you’ve been digging deeper into personnel records.”
    “You did it first. Karlinski in Records mentioned it to me.”
    Molina felt her face heat up, whether from annoyance or being caught, she couldn’t tell.
    “Listen.” He came closer and lowered his voice. “Undercover cops know better than most that the lines between professional and personal can get blurred in police work. You wanted to take something from me without my knowing it. Think what a lot more you could get if you were up front about it. That Nadir guy is trouble, I can smell it, and he worries you. Accidents isn’t putting me to work 24/7, the way I used to work. I got a lotta free hours. I could help.”
    “You’re volunteering? For what?”
    “Whatever you need.”
    “Why?”
    “I’m bored.”
    “Not what I need.”
    “And I think you could use more of a social life.”
    She pushed off her car. “What would give you that idea? That’s the last thing I want, need, have time for.”
    “Case closed.”
    “I don’t even like you.”
    “Not a problem.” He grinned. “I’m still losing my street persona. I’ll get cuddlier.”
    “Give it up. You are not my type.”
    “Oh, you think you have a ‘type.’ That’s progress. Let me guess: tall, lean, and mean. Early Clint Eastwood, right?”
    Molina felt herself flush for real. “You’re pursuing this, not me.”
    “That’s the way it’s supposed to be, have you forgotten?”
    “Maybe. And I like it that way.” She opened her car door, paused, considered, and said “Good-night.”
    He backed away to let her drive out of the parking slot, hands in the pockets of his nylon shell jacket, watching her with head lowered, a bit boyishly.
    She headed into the maze of access roads that circled the mall.
    Not her type.
    But better than Rafi Nadir.
    Although, who wasn’t?

    At home, sweet home Dolores napped on the couch while early-morning TV blared. Molina hated to awaken her, but she knew Dolores would want to be home with her own kids and husband. So she saw her out and watched her cross the street to her own door and safely enter.
    In the distance, low-riders grumbled like very disgruntled thunder. That was a negative of living in a Latino neighborhood, but in Anglo neighborhoods it would be costly car stereo systems cranked up loud enough to keep the canals on Mars awake. One way or another, the young bucks in the neighborhood have to make their presence known.
    Mariah was sleeping hard in her room, face buried in a tangle of covers.
    Molina went to her bedroom and deposited her weapons in the closet gun safe. She could never open the large metal cabinet without brushing against Carmen’s array of vintage velvet gowns. Velvet and steel. It sounded like the title of a supermarket romance novel.
    Carmen hadn’t come out to sing and play at the Blue Dahlia lately. Maybe the on-premises body a few months back had accomplished that. Maybe Molina had just been too busy.
    She started taking off her clothes... shoes kicked off first. She slipped out of her jacket and blouse, slacks, then sat on the bed to pull off the dark socks she wore with her working “uniform.”
    Something slid into her back as her weight created a sinkhole for whatever was on the bed.
    What was on the bed? Shouldn’t be anything. She kept a military-neat room, unlike her darling daughter, the mistress of mess....
    A box lay there on her grandmother’s patchwork quilt. A gaudy