Cat in a hot pink Pursuit

gilt-paper box. Had Mariah performed one of her random acts of preteen sweetness?
    Molina opened it, not surprised by the array of fancy chocolates but by the unfamiliar handwriting on the tiny envelope inside.
    She pulled the flap loose to withdraw the stiff note card. The same handwriting that had written “For you” on the envelope had written “Sweets to the sour” on the card inside.
    She stood there staring at the black-ink block lettering in the dim light of the overhead ceiling fixture.
    Was this some clumsy attempt at humor, or a threat?
    Mariah, veering wildly in the bipolar state that was ‘tweendom, might be apologizing and complaining at one and the same time. Or...
    This might be from someone else. Like Dirty Larry. Was he a colleague, a would-be boyfriend... or a stalker? He was the only new man in her life... or was this a calling card from a former man in her life?
    Rafi Nadir. Now that they’d finally run into each other, he knew that she lived and worked here in Las Vegas. He had a lot of reasons to resent her. Sweets to the sour. The line reeked of bitter anger; was it for leaving him without notice? Like you’d mention to a strike-poised rattlesnake that you’d decided to back off.
    Had he found her address after she’d visited him the other night without warning to give him a warning? Turnabout foul play?
    Molina spun on her bare heels and padded through the hall and living room into the kitchen. There she ransacked drawers looking for something she ought to remember right where it was.
    Damn! Whoever had left that candy was no friend and maybe a lot worse. She marched back to her compromised bedroom, plastic sandwich baggies in hand. The note went in one baggie via the offices of the new tweezer from her adjoining bathroom. The box went into the quart-size bag, for analysis by forensics. She’d think of some reason in the morning.
    For now... she went through the house from garage to seldom-used front door, checking closets and locks.
    All secure, doors dead bolted, sashes nailed shut yet easy to open in case of fire. The place was a freaking monument to advocated domestic security measures, courtesy of your local police department.
    So. Someone had gotten in, and gone. And left the poison. Maybe not literal poison but mental poison. Who’s been creeping into my bed with Ethel M candies?
    She didn’t even want to finish undressing to don her Land’s End sleep-size T-shirt.
    But she did.
    Then she unlocked the gun safe, set the semiautomatic on her nightstand, and shot the bolt on her bedroom door so Mariah couldn’t wander in.
    The illuminated nightstand clock said four-twenty A.M.
    Molina was thinking now that she might actually welcome having Mariah out of the house and under the constant surveillance of reality TV show cameras for the next couple weeks.
    What’s a mother to do?
    If she’s a homicide lieutenant, maybe a lot more than some cowardly stalker might imagine.



Macho Nachos

    “Dinner? At your place?”
    Matt knew he had sounded unflatteringly shocked, but it was too late to backpedal. That was another disadvantage to years spent in the priesthood: an inability to shift rapidly into glib social lies.
    “Just casual,” Molina said quickly. “I’ve got some issues I want to bounce off you.”
    These must be some issues to merit a social occasion at Casa Molina, Matt thought.
    “Yeah, fine. I’m always available for dinner.”
    “Usually, I’m not. But, what say, six thirty tomorrow?” Very pressing issues. “Sure. That’s perfect. Saturday night supper. I’m leaving town for a few days early next week.”
    “Glad I caught you before you left. We’ll have something, oh... something. See you then.”
    Matt stared at the phone receiver for a moment before replacing it. Molina was always busy when she was at work, and she was almost always at work.
    He immediately dialed Temple’s number, but after five rings her slightly raspy voice informed him she’d had to leave town on a family matter and would be back in two weeks or so.
    This time he stared at the receiver as if it were an alien artifact.
    Curiouser and curiouser. Guess he’d have to go take two hours’ worth of lonely hearts phone calls at WCOO-AM, which is what paid his bills, and find out what was going on with the hearts and minds he thought he knew later.

    The morning paper had a splashy front-page story about the young woman found dead outside the shopping mall.
    Matt skimmed the report,