Cat in a hot pink Pursuit

better.
    “Maybe we can go for a spin in the Crossfire after dinner,” he suggested.
    She laughed, and looked beyond him to the fancy car a bit ruefully. Maybe Sister Seraphina was right.
    “This is a no-diet zone tonight,” she warned as she led him into the modest one-story house.
    “You diet?” He was surprised. She was a strong five-ten, at least. Neither heavy nor thin. Sculptural, like a pillar, especially in those long, lean vintage velvet gowns from the forties she wore when singing at the Blue Dahlia.
    Few knew that Carmen the occasional chanteuse was C. R. Molina, the 24/7 Vegas homicide cop. Those who did found the contrast perplexing.
    “I thought you’d call this off,” he commented as they entered the homey living room, complete with two cats. What was it about cats and the Our Lady of Guadalupe neighborhood?
    She turned to fix him with a Lieutenant Molina interrogatory stare. Her vivid blue eyes were her best feature, and against this Ole Mexico getup they made her electrically exotic.
    “Why?” she asked. “Oh. The murder. There are always murders in Las Vegas, my friend.”
    “I just thought you’d need to be on the job.”
    “What makes you think I’m not?” she asked with some irritation.
    “I don’t see myself as part of your job.”
    “No. No, you’re not. Sorry. Sit down, get some cat hair on those khakis. I’m glad you could come.”
    She clattered and rustled in the kitchen until the microwave tinged and then she brought out several small vivid pottery dishes of various salsas and a big platter of nacho chips wearing a mantle of cheese and sliced fresh jalapeños.
    Matt grabbed a big blue linen napkin and dug in. “This is better than Friday’s,” he said.
    “Yeah. A lotta Velveeta, a little Rotel, some fresh peppers to tart the whole thing up. Sorta like tonight.”
    Matt stopped scarfing and got wary. “Oh?”
    “I got you out here on false pretenses,” she admitted.
    “Fast food?”
    “Fast talking. I need your advice.”
    “Oh. Well, that comes with the territory. ‘Will advise for food.’”
    “I’m not good at plying my... acquaintances for free advice.”
    “Well, then break out the Dos Equis. That’ll get me talking. You do have some?”
    “Oh, my God! I forgot the beer.”
    Matt smiled as her bare feet slapped kitchen tile and the refrigerator door shot a sliver of light into the dim living room.
    The cats yawned and stretched, as if used to slapdash improvisation in feeding at Casa Molina.
    Matt hated to admit it, but the nachos with bottled salsa sauce were superb: hot, greasy, and crispy.
    A condensation-dewed long neck of Dos Equis landed on a cork coaster on the coffee table in front of him. By now the jalapeños had hit pay dirt on his tongue and he downed several swallows.
    “Milk would be better,” she observed.
    “Not manly,” Matt said, still choking a little. “Okay. What’s it all about, Alfie?” he looked around, suddenly aware. “Is Mariah off with her friends?”
    “Yes, and no. And, yes, we are alone here. I arranged it that way.”
    “Really? Is this entrapment? This is very low-alcohol-content beer.
    “Only entrapment for your professional opinion.”
    “You didn’t have to ply me with dinner for that.”
    She sat back on her tailbone in her chair, balancing her beer bottle on her stomach. This was no Molina he’d ever imagined.
    “Mariah is away from home for a couple of weeks.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “It means that my naive, gutsy daughter got herself accepted by some stupid, exploitative reality TV show, and Mama couldn’t say no without being cursed for life. So..
    “Wait a minute! Is that the Teen Queen thing?”
    “And ‘Tween Queen,” she corrected with loathing. “Mariah thinks she wants to be a singing star and win a date with the latest Boy Toy nonsinger around. What’s a mother to do? I could take any casino boss in town in for questioning, but I can’t put a leash on my only daughter.”
    Matt chewed some nachos while he thought about it. “No, you’re right. You can’t. She got accepted? On her own?”
    “Yeah. Every kid has access to a video recorder nowadays.”
    “Mariah? She’s just a baby.”
    “Are you out of it! This is not what I want your advice on. Here. Watch her homemade video. The one that got her on the show.”
    Molina got up, skirts swaying, to pop in the offending video.
    Matt began to understand her mixture of panic and pride. Mariah had shot up. Those chubby