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She had fried blond hair, an extra forty pounds on her small frame, a cigarette hanging out of the corner of her mouth, and a spray tan that had turned a toxic shade of orange.
“Mrs. Susan Cubbin?”
“Unfortunately.”
“You don’t like being Mrs. Cubbin?”
“For eight years I’ve been married to a man with a two-inch penis and one nut. The loser finally grows balls and steals five million dollars, and I can’t get my hands on it.” She took a long pull on her cigarette and squinted at me through the smoke haze. “And?”
I introduced myself, showed her my semi-fake badge, and gave her my card.
“Bounty hunter,” she said. “So I’m going to help you why?”
“For starters, this house was put up as insurance against the bond.”
“Like I care. It’s got mold in the basement, the roof’s falling apart, and the water heater is leaking. The mortgage is killing me, and the bank won’t take it back. I can’t even get this disaster foreclosed. I don’t want the house. I want the friggin’ money. I want to get my stomach stapled.”
“Have you seen your husband or heard from him since he left the hospital?”
“No. He didn’t even have the decency to tell me not to come pick him up to go home.”
“Has anyone heard from him?”
“Not that I know about.”
“Did he withdraw any money from your bank account?”
“Do I look like someone who has money in the bank?”
“Most people who skip at least take clothes, but your husband disappeared with just the clothes he wore when he checked in to the hospital.”
“He’s got five million dollars stashed somewhere. The jerk can buy new clothes.”
“Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”
“If I knew where he went, I’d be there, and I’d choke him until he coughed up the money.”
“Cranberry Manor would be grateful.”
“I don’t give a fig about Cranberry Manor,” Susan said. “Those people are old. They’re gonna die. I want the money.”
A police car angled to a stop behind Lula’s Firebird and two guys got out. One was sort of a friend of mine, Carl Costanza. We’d done Communion together, among other things. Costanza and his partner stood, hands on their gun belts, looking at Lula’s Firebird, then looking at me, sizing up the situation. I gave them a little wave and they walked over.
“We got a report from a neighbor that a woman was acting suspiciously, creeping around this house,” Carl said.
“That might be Lula,” I told him.
“Who’s Lula?” Susan Cubbin asked.
“She’s my partner,” I said.
“And why is she creeping around my house?”
“She thought she saw a cat. And she’s a real cat lover.”
“Oh jeez,” Susan said, “don’t tell me my cat got out again.”
“It could always be some other cat,” I said.
