Cat in a hot pink Pursuit by Carole Nelson Douglas Page B

mixture of panic and pride. Mariah had shot up. Those chubby baby features and limbs were starting to look coltish and graceful. Her eyes were as dark as her mother’s were light, making Matt wonder about the father again. Likely Hispanic. Molina was half and half, although what the other half was he couldn’t guess.
    Mariah’s voice was a contralto that blared like a boom box on occasion. She was a belter, unlike her crooner mother, and suited the pop music mode of her own day. But she had a voice. Too.
    Molina got up to eject the tape and dropped it atop the TV.
    Matt decided it was time to gently probe at the maternal wounds. “So the problem is... Mariah is unrealistic about a performing career?”
    “Who isn’t unrealistic about a performing career? Everybody dreams. Maybe a tenth of one percent lives the dream. No, the kid can try it. She might break the odds. I think this freaking show is foolishness, but that’s not the problem. It’s possible that a killer is stalking the contestants.”
    “My God.”
    “I’ve got people on the stalker thing. That’s not the big problem.”
    “What on earth could be, then?”
    Molina leaned back, drained a bottle of Dos Equis, eyed the pathetic level in his own bottle, and got up.
    “We’re out of beer, and the chili on the stove is about to desiccate. Come, sit down and eat.”



Bad Daddy

    The chili was red, full of beans and beef, and hot enough to fry the soles off a pair of Dr. Scholl’s sandals.
    Matt tucked in.
    He and Molina sat at a small round table in a tiny bay window off the kitchen. He sensed this nook was hardly ever used for dining. Instead, quick bites were taken at the elbow-height eating bar between the kitchen and the living room.
    Molina had poured their beers into thick glass mugs chilled in the refrigerator. Correction: Carmen had done that.
    “So the problem—” Matt began when the first edge of his hunger had been soothed.
    She had only picked at her chili—the plump bean here, the chunk of ground beef there. An occasional ring of soft-cooked jalapeño. She leaned back in her chair, suddenly Madame Interrogator again.
    “You know what it’s like to be a bastard.”
    Professional interrogator. Always went for shock value.
    “Yeah. It means your mother is called names for the sin of being trusting and honest. Is there a woman in the world who gets caught in such a situation who anticipated it, or wanted it?”
    “Maybe only the Virgin Mary.”
    “She got a warning from an angel.”
    “So. I know you resented, even hated, your stepfather. Have you also resented your real father?”
    “This business of ‘real’ parents is interesting. There are genetic parents, and spiritual parents, and stepparents. Any and all of them can be horrible, or great.”
    “I don’t need generalizations.”
    “That’s mostly what’s out there, like it or not.”
    “I like it not.” She took a swallow from the beer mug. “Mariah’s father is in town.”
    “The guy... from Los Angeles? Your—?”
    “Yeah. My ‘question mark.’ I tried to divert him by setting Kinsella on his trail but then I ended up with two snakes on mine.”
    “How does Max come into this?”
    “Max! Even that’s a damn anagram, not a given name. Michael Aloysius Xavier Kinsella. The man’s a puzzle from the most elementary fact.”
    “All good Irish-Catholic given names,” Matt said, savoring the effect.
    “Like Matthias,” she lashed back.
    “Not particularly Irish Catholic. Look, I know this is serious, but I also think you’re seriously hung up on Max Kinsella. He’s not the father of your child, and that’s who’s really got you riled.”
    She huffed out a sigh, part anger, and part exasperation. “You’re right about that. Screw Max Kinsella. He’s off my most-wanted list. It’s this other guy.”
    “You mentioned him to me a long while back. The one you were living with in L.A. who got you into that ethical corner of unwanted pregnancy. To abort or