about her job for a few hours."
“That would be an act of charity," Sister Mary Monica said slyly.
Matt laughed and headed for the door. "Gossip is a sin, sisters. Don't get any ideas.”
Their chorus of good-byes drifted out the screen door behind him like a breeze.
Trying to second-guess Molina was futile.
Matt pulled his new silver Crossfire to the curb in front of her house, got out, and heard a low wolf whistle.
She was standing on the threshold of her seldom-used front door.
“Not you. The car," she said. "When did you develop ambitions to race in the Grand Prix?"
“It just looks fast. And I finally didn't need an under cover car," he added, referring to his former stalker, as he came up the walk.
“ Better stay at the speed limit. That's a real ticket- magnet. At least it isn't red.”
This was a Molina he'd never seen. She was wearing a gauzy white puffed-sleeve blouse and paprika-andturquoise-pattern gauze skirt. Mexican casual. And shewas barefoot. She looked fifteen years younger and about twenty-five years more relaxed.
Still no jewelry, though, and no makeup except for a faint color on her lips.
Matt thought he'd never seen her looking 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 jalapenos.
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 pep pers 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 jalapenos had hit pay dirt on his tongue and he downed several swallows.
“Milk would be better," she observed.
“Not manly," Matt said, still
“That would be an act of charity," Sister Mary Monica said slyly.
Matt laughed and headed for the door. "Gossip is a sin, sisters. Don't get any ideas.”
Their chorus of good-byes drifted out the screen door behind him like a breeze.
Trying to second-guess Molina was futile.
Matt pulled his new silver Crossfire to the curb in front of her house, got out, and heard a low wolf whistle.
She was standing on the threshold of her seldom-used front door.
“Not you. The car," she said. "When did you develop ambitions to race in the Grand Prix?"
“It just looks fast. And I finally didn't need an under cover car," he added, referring to his former stalker, as he came up the walk.
“ Better stay at the speed limit. That's a real ticket- magnet. At least it isn't red.”
This was a Molina he'd never seen. She was wearing a gauzy white puffed-sleeve blouse and paprika-andturquoise-pattern gauze skirt. Mexican casual. And shewas barefoot. She looked fifteen years younger and about twenty-five years more relaxed.
Still no jewelry, though, and no makeup except for a faint color on her lips.
Matt thought he'd never seen her looking 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 jalapenos.
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 pep pers 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 jalapenos had hit pay dirt on his tongue and he downed several swallows.
“Milk would be better," she observed.
“Not manly," Matt said, still
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