Cat in a Kiwi Con

Chapter 1 Wake-up Calls Carmen Molina brushed her heavy dark hair as if she were beating it, heaved a sigh at herself in the mirror, then slammed the brush down on the toilet tank top. The swamp cooler in the hall made the old house's air dank and faintly chill, and turned her usually straight thick hair into a fright-wig frizz. She scowled at her ungovernable mirror image. All the better to scare you with, you crooks! Who cared that a homicide lieutenant had split ends? Not she. Still, smearing a streak of Nearly Natural Rose lipstick over her mouth, which acted more as balm than cosmetic, she couldn't help noticing that her recent work schedule showed. Her half-Latina, light-olive skin always looked jaundiced when she was tired or sick. Her brilliant blue eyes only highlighted the tendency. "Thanks for the off-the-wall genes, Dad," she muttered to the mirror, fighting the tiny twist-off cap from a pot of the cream blush she used to simulate health. Then she dabbed some stuff the Penney's sales clerk had called concealer under her eyes. The fatigue smudges still leaked through, but less bruisingly. There. Reasonably presentable for another twelve-hour day. "Mariah!" she yelled into the house's other rooms. "Are you eating breakfast? We've got to get going this morning." "Yeah!" came the return yell. "Cereal and skim milk." "Good!" Carmen sighed again. Her resolve to lower the tone of domestic life by only talking when in the same room was not working out lately. "Be right in." "The cats want the cereal." "Let them get their own Special K!" Carmen rushed through the bedroom, grabbing essentials to stuff into blazer pockets: car keys, ID, wallet, change, file (a ragged nail would nag at her all day), pausing only to unlock the gun safe and move the .38 to her ankle holster. Some detectives-turned-desk-jockeys didn't carry, but she'd patrolled the streets of south L.A. for too long not to prepare for sudden violence anywhere, anytime. Tabitha and Catarina, the two half-grown tiger-striped cats, were indeed nosing the bowls of milk-drenched cold cereal on the kitchen table. Carmen swept into the room, swept the cats to the floor, and sat herself down. Mariah leaned against the countertop, slurping soggy cereal into the nooks and crannies of her braces. Off in another year, hallelujah! "You gonna be late again tonight?" her daughter managed between munches. "Probably. Why? Got a hot date?" "Fun-nee." Mariah made a revolted face that could have been inspired by either the cold breakfast or the maternal crack. Carmen started mashing her own cud, not too guilty about cold cereal as long as it was fortified with vitamins and fiber. Mariah was in that same mushy stage of development, her body amorphous with baby fat that might melt off (or might not), her glossy dark hair cut in a less-childish bob lately, her green-white-and-navy-plaid school-uniform jumper as loose and unrevealing as the sloppy T-shirts and baggy shorts the public school kids wore as their own uniform. At twelve-wanting-to-go-on-twenty, she was both intrigued and scared green by the boy-girl dance already rearing its preacne head in the sixth grade. "What about the weekend?" Mariah asked. "My, I'm in sudden demand around here. What about the weekend?" "Moth-er. You promised. Will you be off?" "1 don't know yet. What promise?" "You know." "Not any more." Carmen chewed amiably, intercepting CaDouglas, Carole Nelson is the author of 'Cat in a Kiwi Con' with ISBN 9780812584257 and ISBN 0812584252.