I found the question intriguing. Successful species have an extraordinary ability to adapt quickly to ensure procreation. In humankind, adaptability tends to be behavioral rather than physiological, but the ability is there because the mandate is so strong.
I wondered vaguely if Gail Calloway’s strange behavior was symptomatic of some deep need to reacquire a full-time male partner.
From what Amanda had told me, her acceptance of Jackie Merlot had been so quick, so unquestioning that it had the flavor of panic. Maybe she was reacting to some powerful internal drive that was deeply coded. I’d heard the wartime stories of total strangers desperately copulating in bomb shelters. To be abandoned by a husband of many years had to be no less traumatic, no less terrifying than war.
Tomlinson was right. Divorced middle-aged women were easy targets indeed. I’d never given it much thought before, but I’d seen enough of them to know. And there is no shortage. More than half of America’s marriages end up in divorce and, in a generation of Baby Boomers, it means there are a lot of forty-something women out there going it alone. By the dumb measure of generations past, too many of these women see themselves as failures because they failed to maintain a marriage and “keep their man.”
What nonsense.
Women between thirty and fifty-five are at the height of their intellectual and physical powers. That they and their former mates have separated effectively obscures that fact. Nor are they necessarily victims. What these women illustrate is the changed dynamics of a changing society. Yet their sense of desperation proves that the self-image of modern women has yet to catch up with the realities of modem times. That’s why they are so very vulnerable … and way, way too eager to reprove their worth.
Why else would a woman like Gail Calloway give herself to a man that her own daughter had described as a pile of mashed potatoes beneath a face that made her skin crawl?
Clearly, she was troubled, desperate. The question was, what kind of man was Jackie Merlot? And to what degree would he try to take advantage?
Frank Calloway called me the next morning, Tuesday, talking at first on a speakerphone—the bad audio was distinctive—but picked up the handset when he realized that he had me on the line.
“Sorry I didn’t get back to you yesterday, Dr. Ford. It’s a busy time of year in my business.”
In a state that attracts nearly a thousand new out-of-state residents a day, I wondered if there was such a thing as a slow time of year in the land syndicate business.
“No need for the prefix, Frank. I’m not a physician.”
“Then is Ford okay?”
“Ford’s just fine.”
“In that case, Ford, I apologize for not getting back to you. I gather you’re in a rush. I should have made time.” Very easy, very congenial, not at all like when I interrupted his dinner party.
“Amanda’s the one in a rush. I’m not so sure what my approach should be. You apparently know Jackie Merlot, so help me out: Should we be in a hurry to find your ex-wife?”
“Aside from a recent and unpleasant reintroduction, I haven’t spoken to Mr. Merlot in fifteen years.”
“Was he a patient of yours?”
“I really can’t comment on that.”
“Frank, I’m trying to help your stepdaughter and your ex-wife. If you won’t answer the easy questions, what’s going to happen when we get to the hard ones?”
“It’s frustrating, yes, I understand that, but there are professional considerations here that I can’t—and I’m talking about state and federal laws—that I can’t breach. I’d tell you if I could. The law won’t allow me. My professional conscience won’t, either. When psychologists begin to breach the confidence of patients, psychology will no longer be a valid tool.”
“Would it make a difference if we met privately, just you and I?”
“It would make no difference whatsoever.”
“The inference is that, yes, Merlot was once a patient of yours.”
“If that’s what you infer, I won’t argue. The thing I can and will talk about is business dealings I’ve had with Merlot in the past. That might be useful.”
“He’s in development and construction?”
“No … what he now does for a living, we can talk about later. But back then he sold real estate. That, and he was involved with making … souvenirs? Something like that. T-shirts and hats, maybe. Some kind of cheap tourism scam. This was more than fifteen years ago. Merlot signed a note to invest in one of the first land packages I ever put together. It wasn’t for a lot of money. Five thousand. Not much. I let him in as a favor. He practically begged me to get involved.”
I said, “It was that good.”
“Yes, it really was. It was a beautiful little project. A kind of mini gated community; half a dozen duplexes built with enough taste and sufficient screening to give the impression of total privacy. At the center was to be a courtyard: nice little pool, Jacuzzi, propane grills, a small workout room with weights and sauna. This was before the fitness craze. We’d lowballed a chunk of riverfront near Wauchula that abutted a small state park and couldn’t really believe it when the sellers accepted.
“You ever hear of Highlands Hammock? Beautiful place and you can’t find a nicer town than Wauchula. So we had immediate land equity, a built-in buffer, guaranteed appreciation on the land and plenty of eager investors. But believe me, even a project as small as that one, five thousand doesn’t buy much of a piece. Like I said, I was trying to do the guy a favor.”
“Because …?”
“Because I felt it would be good for him. Good for his … well, let’s just leave it at that. Even in those days I occasionally tried to be a nice guy.”
“So what happened?”
“The gas shortage, that’s what happened. Remember how it was? An ineffective president, interest rates were close to twenty percent, national confidence was nose diving. Then all of a sudden you had to get up at four A.M. and wait in line for an hour, sometimes more, just to get a tank of gas. No one knew how long it was going to last. Maybe a couple of months … or maybe the United States of America really was on its last legs and economic collapse was just around the corner.
“Panic is contagious and people panicked. The contractor we’d subbed to clear and grade the property was only a week or two from being done, but he had to stop because he couldn’t get diesel. The construction guys had two of the units all framed and inspected, but they couldn’t buy gas for their cars. Most of them lived near Sarasota, fifty, sixty miles from the job, so how were they going to get to work? Same with our potential buyers. We planned to draw the young, upwardly mobile types; professionals who wouldn’t mind commuting twenty or thirty miles to work. Today, no problem. But back then, no way, not after a fuel panic like that. My investors got scared and the project died on the vine. We lost everything. The only project I ever did where my backers lost money. But it was good experience, a good lesson for me.”
“How did Merlot take it?”
“That’s what I’m getting at. Merlot didn’t. He refused to make good on his note. He hemmed and hawed and finally said, hey, it was all my fault, I should have planned a little better, so why should he have to pay?”
“You’re telling me the kind of guy he is.”
“Exactly. I’m telling you the kind of guy he is. Or at least was.”
Calloway went on. “I told Merlot that if he refused to honor his debt he could forget investing with me ever again or, for that matter, anyone else in Broward County. I also told him I was going to sue. Which I did. He didn’t even bother fighting it, but I never collected a cent. Not that I expected to. Turned out he’d passed bad paper to other investment groups around the state, and my little suit pushed his reputation over the edge. The district attorney got after him, and I think Merlot actually spent some time in prison. Four or five months, not much. I was deposed but never actually testified.”
“He blamed you for sending him to prison?”
“Pr
obably me among others. But without good cause. My suit was one of many. I never spoke with him again after that. I didn’t know he was still around until Amanda told me that he was involved with Gail.”
“How’d you take it? When you heard that Merlot was dating your ex-wife?”
“Is that question pertinent to finding Gail?”
“It might help give me a clearer picture of how it was between you and Merlot.”
“Before I answer that, I really need to ask: Have you done this sort of thing before? I mean, you say you’re a biologist, so what’s a biologist know about finding missing people? I appreciate your intentions, sure. You’re an old Navy buddy of Gail’s late husband. Military buddies stick together. Very noble, I’m sure. But if this is some kind of well-intended gesture, I don’t see the point of us wasting our time.”
I said, “I couldn’t agree more, Frank. But Gail and this guy Merlot are apparently in South America. Right?”
“That’s what Amanda says.”
“And Amanda wants to find her.”
“She wants to know that her mother’s safe. Of course.”
“Well, Frank, I’ve spent a lot of time in South America. I know a lot of people. So, yeah, it’s possible that I can help. Let me ask you this: Your ex-wife, do you consider her a good person, a valuable person?”
“Of course I do. I’ve never doubted that. Gail is a good person.”
“Is her well-being worth a minor emotional risk?”
“I’m not going to dignify that with an answer.”
“Okay, so the question hasn’t changed: How did you react when you found out about Merlot and your ex-wife?”
I waited and waited and finally he said, “Gail and Merlot together? I didn’t like it worth a damn. It made me … it gave me a sick feeling. That’s not easy to admit, by the way. I’m trying to broaden myself as a person. My wife and I are working very hard at enlightening ourselves, becoming wiser, kinder beings. But when I heard that Merlot was seeing Gail, I felt a kind of reflexive emotional revulsion. You’ve never met the man … and I really can’t go into all the reasons why I felt the way I did. But, no, it hit me hard when I found out. Men, all of us, probably,
tend to be more territorial about women than we’d like to admit. So that’s part of it, too.”
“When Merlot refused to pay off, did you two argue?”
“Years ago, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“I wasn’t very happy about it. No one likes to be cheated.”
“It got personal.”
“As in a shouting match? No. I … we had words, sure. But I’m a psychologist, remember. I don’t lose my temper easily. Don’t need to. I’m afraid I have a nasty gift for picking a person’s soft spot and saying exactly what will hurt worst. That’s something else not easy to admit, but I’m working on it.”
“What did you say to hurt Merlot? What’s his soft spot?”
“I’m not sure what I told him … and I don’t see why it’s pertinent. As I said, this was more than fifteen years ago.”
“I think it’s pertinent as hell.”
“Dr. Ford, if I can’t remember, I can’t remember.”
I said, “Look, there’s a chance I may have to go hunting for this guy, Frank. I need to learn all I can about him.”
“I appreciate that. I’m not trying to be difficult.”
“Then tell me what you said to really piss him off.”
There was a silence. “You know what we need to do? Maybe get together for a late lunch, you come up to Boca Grande. You asked if I believe we should be in a hurry to find Gail. The answer’s maybe. I’m in a tough ethical spot. You can understand that. So what I did was hire a private investigator to put together a dossier on Merlot. If someone else generates data, then I’m not responsible for how that data was assembled, right? Not ethically, not legally.”
“That’s an interesting finesse, Frank. Very smart. You told the guy you hired where to look but not why.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But that would be the smart thing to do.”
“Yes, I suppose it would. The guy’s retired FBI; got an office off A1A in Delray Beach. Castillo, that’s his name. He was very thorough, very competent. For what it cost me, he should have been. Yeah, I read the report, some of the stuff I already knew from a long time ago. Jackie Merlot has some problems. I knew that, too.”
“How do you think he found out that you and Gail were divorced?”
“I don’t have a clue. I hadn’t thought about him for years. As you’ll see when you read the report, he apparently spends most of his time outside the country.”
“In Colombia?”
“Colombia and Panama City. Over the last ten years, according to the financial stuff Castillo dug up, Merlot has done a number of money transfers between Lauderdale and some of their offshore banks. And he does real estate down there. Sells little bits of paradise to gringos who want to live like kings and queens.”
“Panama City, Panama.”
“Central America, yeah. But to begin with, he was mostly in Costa Rica. That’s what Castillo’s report says. I guess he left Florida after getting out of jail. Costa Rica is a favorite of Americans who want to retire outside the country. No taxes and the dollar’s worth three, maybe four, times what it’s worth here. But he apparently had to leave Costa Rica, too. Castillo wasn’t sure why.”
“And he’s got a place in Lauderdale, too.”
“Just a rental. He paid month to month. It’s in Coral Ridge. Not far from where Gail lived; the house where we all lived when Amanda was growing up. At least Merlot used to live there. He skipped without paying the last month’s rent when he and Gail left. Something that’s more interesting is, he started renting the place just a few weeks before he and Gail started seeing each other.” Calloway paused. “That was a little less than a year ago.”
“You think starting a relationship with Gail was a way for him to get back at you.”
“That’s exactly what I think. I think he realized that she was available and he targeted her. There’s no way to prove it, but I would bet on it. People like Merlot—he’s an example of a specific pathology, understand—people like Merlot can hold a grudge for decades.”
“Gail met Merlot through you.”
“No. He met her before she became my patient. Before I even knew she existed.”
I was surprised to hear that. “How?”
“Somehow Merlot was associated with a group that was organized to help family members traumatized by unexpected death or injury. This was way back, right after Vietnam, when the country needed something like that. He didn’t get paid for it, it was volunteer work. I think it was through some church. Scientologists? No, but it was a similar kind of thing. She was the newly aggrieved widow, he was the kindly social worker. It sounds like a noble calling, but … well, you learn a little more about him, you’ll see how he might tap into an organization like that as a way of picking out … picking out people to take advantage of. People like him, they’ve got a real gift for knowing how to manipulate the emotionally damaged. A genius for it, actually.”
“He’s a con artist.”
“Maybe. I don’t know that he’s capable of making ethical distinctions. I’m speaking as someone who’s dealt with him in business, understand. Healthy normal children progress from a completely selfish quick-gratification view of life to a more mature understanding that it’s necessary to give and take. I don’t think Merlot ever made it through that developmental stage. At least he hadn’t when I knew him.”
“Do you think he’s dangerous?”
“In a socially destructive sense? Yes. In a criminal sense, I doubt it. But it’s possible. He had very good people skills—not unusual for his … particular type. And physically, he’s huge. I mean massive. But he also struck me as being very tentative and sneaky and cowardly. A mama’s boy. That’s what we used to call people like him.”
“He served time in prison, you
said.”
“That’s right.”
“How would a stint in prison affect someone like Merlot?”
Judging from Calloway’s reaction, I got the impression he hadn’t factored in that component. “Well … he was only in for a couple of months. At least, that’s what I heard. I can’t see it affecting him one way or another. But … maybe. Depends on how he was treated, what happened while he was there. I think there was something missing in him before he ever went to jail. Something very basic.”
“How do you mean?”
“You need to read the report. That subject’s covered, plus a lot of other details.”
“Then have your secretary send me the file first thing tomorrow. Overnight it.”
Calloway said nope, he couldn’t do that, and explained why.
I said, “So I’ll come to Boca Grande and take a look. Probably by boat. Is tomorrow okay?”
“I was planning on flying to Lauderdale, but I’ll have my secretary check the calendar. Maybe tomorrow or Thursday at the latest.”
“Betty Marsh,” I said. “I spoke with her on the phone.”
He said, “Smartest woman I’ve ever met. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”
8
I keep a P.O. address at the Sanibel Post Office, Box 486. But I also occasionally get mail at the marina, and that’s where Amanda had the overnight package delivered: an envelope containing two photographs plus Xeroxes of several bank statements detailing activity on her mother’s personal account. Amanda called me Tuesday just before noon to tell me to go look, maybe the priority package had already arrived.
“You are one very efficient lady,” I told her.
There was a little frown in her voice this morning. Seemed distraught and a little impatient. “Damn right I’m efficient. What I sent you is a framed picture of Merlot I took from our house. Christ, Mom had it up on the mantelpiece over the fireplace. That face of his looking out like he owned everything around him. I’m sending it mostly to get rid of it. She doesn’t like it, tough. And a picture of my mom and Frank together. When you see Frank, you can give it to him. If he wants it.”
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