sake. Which was probably why she was going out of her way to show me that she was now an adult woman making adult decisions.
Mostly we sat around and waited.
I used her cell phone to make a couple of calls. She gave me the number and the name and I reached Deputy Melissa Grendle at the general investigations desk, Broward County Sheriff’s Department. Amanda had already told Grendle about the money that had been withdrawn from her mother’s accounts, but I decided to give it a try myself. Grendle was still uninterested, unimpressed. Polite indifference is a common buffer mechanism and she used it.
I hung up disappointed, but not surprised. Law enforcement may be the most demanding yet thankless job in America. Cops are underpaid, overworked and held up to public inspection and public ridicule to a degree that no other profession would tolerate. Which may be why the demarcation between outstanding cop and incompetent cop is becoming increasingly wide. The good ones, the really good ones, do it because they love it and they are intelligent enough to accept the job’s drawbacks philosophically. The bad ones do it because it answers some tough-guy film fiction they have chosen to portray, and they are too stupid or lazy to actually do it well.
Officer Grendle was one of the lazy ones. Perhaps one of the stupid ones, too, although I didn’t speak with her long enough to pass judgment.
When I clicked off, Amanda gave me a look like: See? I told you.
FBI agent Mitchell Wilson, however, was neither stupid nor lazy. “It’s like I told the daughter, Mr. Ford, we’ve got a copy of a written report, the local sheriff’s department, saying the woman stated that she planned to leave the country willingly. That’s not kidnapping, no matter what the daughter thinks. Now, okay, this other business, the money, all those withdrawals, yeah, I agree, it has an odor to it. Maybe it stinks. I want you to keep me informed about it because you sound like a reasonable guy and, like I said, what’s going on has an odor. A little bit of a smell; something may not be right. But we don’t know enough yet to warrant an investigation. Understand what I’m saying?”
I understood.
The last call I made was to Frank Calloway’s Lauderdale office where the hardworking Betty Marsh confirmed that Mr. Calloway hoped to meet with me tomorrow afternoon in Boca Grande, but that, yes, he would call me personally to confirm.
“Thursday,” she said, as if double-checking an appointment book. “In the late afternoon. He said something about you coming by boat?”
I said, “Yep. But have him call me early, just in case the weather’s bad and I decide to drive.”
I gave her Amanda’s cell phone number as well as my home number.
A couple of minutes later, I heard an electronic voice say: “ Welcome. You’ve got mail!” And then Tomlinson was calling us: “Hey! Looky, looky, looky at all the letters this lady got. Your mother, I’m talking about. Lots of letters. They were all deleted, but I got ‘em back.”
Shouting because he’d cracked the code.
There were a couple of hundred letters, counting the junk mail ads for porno shows and moneymaking schemes. Maybe three hundred letters. A bunch.
I said to Tomlinson, “So this is the great educational network you’ve been telling me about. Finally, I get to see what I’ve been missing.”
The cursor was highlighting one of the letters. It was titled Betty Bell and Her Twin liberty Bells. Free Sex Show!
“You see, Amanda?” Tomlinson said. “You see how cynical he can be? At least admit that this one’s patriotic. Man… we’ve got a lot of reading to do, huh? Your mom had plenty of spare time on her hands.”
A middle-aged divorced woman, yeah, with enough money. Nothing to do but sit at the computer.
We started going through the letters at random, concentrating on the ones written by people whose screen names reappeared over and over. Merl was one of the two most common screen names. The other was Darkrume. There were dozens of letters from each and dozens of replies.
“Merl,” Tomlinson reasoned. “Pretty safe bet that’s Jackie Merlot. One of those friendly sounding screen names. Harmless. Trying hard to sound harmless anyway. The other one… what? Someone who likes fantasy novels? Darkrume…”
Yeah, Merl was Jackie Merlot. According to the status bar, the first E-mail that Gail received from him was dated just less than a year before. The three of us scanned the first couple of letters. He wrote long, windy sentences. They seemed stuffy-formal. Had a pseudo-intellectual tone that masked a false sincerity impossible to miss.
Well, not impossible. The lady had apparently been fooled…
“Dear Gail, It has been a long time since we talked. I heard it thru the executive grapevine that you and that salesman you married, Frank something, are divorced. So here I am to say that he has to be a very unstable person to let go of someone as beautiful as you. You may remember from the past that I loved doing volunteer social work. I love helping people. I want you to know that I am volunteering to help you any way that I can. My business is so big now and demands so much time but I don’t care. It is an international company and I am C-E-O and C-F-O. I cannot live in the United States because it would be an unwise move due to tax obligations. It does not matter. Fifteen years ago I was there for you and I am still your loyal servant if you require assistance.”
“My God,” Amanda said. “I can’t believe she even bothered writing the guy back. What a jerk. I’ve got all kinds of E-mail friends but none that illiterate. This noble-knight-on-a-steed stuff tells you how lonely she really was. The fact that she would write him back, I mean.”
The next letter was dated two days later. Yeah, Gail had replied, so Merlot repeated his offer to help. He wrote: “I would love to be the shoulder you need to rest your head on. I am a man of honour. You never judged me by the way I looked but how I looked in my heart. These small people who are losers and quick to judge make me sick. That is because you are smart enough to see me for the real person I am. Anytime you need my shoulder, write me. I’m thinking about renting a place in Lauderdale for a few months to take care of some business…”
She said, “It was like he could sniff the wind and smell how lonely she was. Thinking about renting a place in Lauderdale, my ass. He was tracking her.”
“It does indeed seem that way.”
“He sounds like he dropped out of school in the tenth grade.”
“Let’s skip ahead twenty-five or thirty letters just to see where it takes us.”
I was in the chair now and I used the mouse to scan down. Most of the letters from Merl were labeled NO SUBJECT. But there was one from Darkrume that was labeled HOW YOU MAKE ME FEEL, and that’s the file I opened.
Amanda was apparently a faster reader than I. I was only a couple of sentences into the letter when she grasped my shoulder and said, “Oh… God. I’m not up for this.”
She had a strong grip; I could feel her nails digging in.
She said, “This is just… just sick. I can’t read this crap. Anybody who’d write that kind of trash to my mom is… and I thought Jackie Merlot was an asshole.” Then she turned quickly and left the room.
I returned my attention to the letter as Tomlinson said, “Know what? I don’t blame her.”
The letter wasn’t just sexual, it was detailed, graphic, aggressive. It combined the language that I assume is in porno novels with terms of endearment that I associate with people who feel genuine affection for one another. Gail was “My dearest darling.” She was “My soul mate, the kindest, funniest, sexiest woman of all time.” She was the woman who “writes like an angel and thinks like a whore.”
The first several paragraphs of Darkrume’s letter described in detail what he wanted to do to her, what he wanted to use on her body and inside her body to help bring her to the brink of “ecstasy.” The second part of the letter described what Darkrume wanted Gail to do to him.
At least, I assumed that Darkrume was a him. From the way he described himself, there was nothing left to the imagination and little doubt. The letter was picturesque, playful, and left me with the impression that this was a game that he and Gail enjoyed playing and it wasn’t the first time.
I was struck by a line in the letter: “When we finally do meet, I want to photograph you. Maybe find a secluded beach near a harbour I know. On the Pacific, of course. A woman as beautiful as you deserves to be photographed by an artist. I am an artist…”
Tomlinson was apparently reading the same passage, because he said, “Ah-h-h, a photographer.”
