Hidden Agendas

Columbus, Ohio

On the third day, after observing no life patterns at the Falter house, I wanted a rest and a shower. The hotel was what I needed to recuperate from a hard two days of waiting, waiting, waiting.

 I placed a camera near the Falter's porch, so I opened my laptop and rewound to where I left the scene.

All this nothing leads to questions. 

If not in the house, where are the Falters?  

Brad Falter tried to kill Natalie in Maine; forensics from the crime scene in Aspen, Colorado, linked him to the murder of Charlie Lopez. The cops had not yet identified a subject. 

Natalie clued me in after recalling the face of the person who tried to stab her. 

So, where is Brad Falter?

Could he be on the road to try and kill another cast member of Stanley's Girls?

Would he be trying to kill the whole cast, or was killing Charlie Lopez a smoke screen?

Only one cast member of Stanley's Girls, Natalie, may have killed Brad's brother, which is a pretty strong motive.

Would this guy double back to finish off Natalie now she is out of the hospital and all over the tabloids again?

He might be on the way to kill Natalie now.

I came to that conclusion and made a decision to break into the Falter home now.

Tango loves it when I have a Bingo moment and swing into action. His tail is going as I do a quick sweep of the hotel and pick up everything I came with. I have a bad habit of leaving charging cables at motels, so I grabbed those first.

We hopped into the Bat...

We got in the truck, and Wonder Pooch and I were on our way to the Falter house.

I did one thing out of respect for two thousand elderly eyes. I parked one street over and left Tango in the truck with the window all the way down. He will stay put unless I call for him. I walked around the block, coming up the street from the opposite direction of everyone checking up on me during the last two days.

I had a short punch list and a few pieces of equipment. My phone was in the truck and had been turned off since I left the hotel. I had it in a small lead-lined bag inside the glove compartment. (Thanks Ben Mason) 

The Punchlist...

-Stay in the house for no more than ten minutes.

-Leave my gloves on.

-I will leave with everything I came with. These items were a small multitool used to pry a door at the lock, a small digital camera, and a piece of tape for pulling the camera off the front porch. This will be the last thing I do as I leave.

I walked up the street and went up the side of the house. I poked the timer on my watch, and ten minutes started counting down. I dove in. The back door was no challenge, and I pushed it open, announcing, "Gas Company Anyone Home?"

There was no response. I'm in the kitchen, and the first thing anyone will detect when they come into the house in the future is the stench of cigarettes, cheap laundry detergent, and long-term bachelor living. The place needed to air out for maybe five years.

The kitchen is classic 70s, done in avocado. 

The fridge, the stove, and the dishwasher all match. 

The window plants in macrame hangers were long dead from a lack of water and fresh air. 

I opened the fridge door and saw beer. I gave the Falters a thumbs up for having USMC-approved cheap beer in a large quantity. Nothing was growing in the fridge, and as I viewed it and the cupboards, it looked like the Falters shop in a big box grocery and buy in quantity.

From the kitchen, I went into the living room near the front door. 

The sofa was covered in thick, yellowed vinyl, and it looked like Mom's rule of staying out of this room was still obeyed despite her passing in the nineties, according to her neighbor.

 I looked at the bookcase with books about Transcendental Meditation, Cooking, and Running Joyfully. 

The standard family photo is on the bookcase.

Mom and Dad look so proud in the picture, but the two boys wearing the same pattern shirts and buzz cuts to the bone look angry and ready to run, not so joyfully.

I studied Dad for a minute; in my mind, he was a mixture of clueless and sternness. I looked at Mom. So proud of her boys, she smiled and looked down at them and the camera. I laughed at how hard it must have been for her to get these two into a dog and pony show for five minutes. If the news clips I read were correct, these two would kill the dogs and ponies in a dog and pony show.

The dining area is still museum-pristine except for a layer of dust. The good china never used was in place, and a wedding photo of Mr. and Mrs. Falter was on the wall. They looked happy, and Mrs. Falter had rice in her hair. The "I Do" deed had been done.

The bathroom is another avocado green extravaganza, with soaps, a shrink-wrapped but open 50-pack of bargain toilet paper, and a few magazines near the toilet, both pornographic but nothing too wacky.

The medicine cabinet contained allergy medicines, cold cures, and a prescription bottle of Lorlatinib. I photographed the bottle and looked at my watch. I was in the house with five minutes to go.

The next room is a bedroom with a Steve nameplate on the wall.

This room is museum-quality, with neat stacks of Mad Magazines from way back, Comic Books from the Silver Age, a neat line of Executioner paperbacks (all), and a Howdy Doody puppet in the corner. 

For many years, this room was also untouched, like the living room and dining area.

I entered a room, a rat's nest. This bedroom was lived in. It contained a TV, a big oversized chair, and a queen-size bed. At one point, this was Mr. and Mrs. Falters' room. It stunk, with piles of clothes on the floor and girlie magazines everywhere.

I quickly moved to another room with a nameplate like Steve's, but this one said Brad. In the corner was a desk. I went to it and looked down.

There is a notebook. It scared me right from the first page. It is a confession with stacks of instant photos of dead girls.

I had to hurry to photograph each page. I laid out all the photos and took a couple of shots.

I had less than a minute to rearrange the photos, go down the stairs, and out the front door to grab the tiny camera I hung.

I entered the kitchen and grabbed a Tupperware container the size of a lasagna.

I walked out the front door and pulled down the tiny camera.

My wrist peeped. I took inventory and left to see Tango the next street over.

I swung around the block and dropped off some OG Tupperware on the porch of my Marine Buddy.

According to page one of Brad Falter's notebook, his brother Steve was dead, Natalie killed him, and my client was in danger.

Lobster! Lobster! Steak! Steak! - A Restaurant In Portland, Maine

Natalie and Eve were silly whenever they were together. They really got along well. The steak was on the menu, so bourbon was on the table with some crusty Italian bread and an olive oil dip.

They were having a good time in a dark corner booth when Natalie got serious.

"Eve, how solvent is The Cardinal And The Jack?"

Eve thought this was an odd question, but she responded.

"We have the challenges that most small businesses do." "I sometimes struggle to meet payroll, our largest expense, so I go without a salary from time to time, but at the end of the fiscal year, I do okay. My grandfather helped me buy the building, which makes a difference for us."

"Do you and Allston own the business?"

"He owns his business, and I own mine." "It keeps things tidy."

Eve neglected to tell Natalie about the two million dollars under their deck.

"I want to make an offer to Thomas to take him on full-time as a live-in bodyguard," Natalie said.

"Maybe three million dollars a year."

"How hard would it be for you to see Allston maybe one day a week?"

Natalie could not believe this was happening and she went outside of herself and looked down at the situation.

This bitch is trying to buy Allston it's now plain and clear, Eve thought.

Natalie said, "I'll invest in The Cardinal as a silent partner that will make your shop beyond solvent."

Eve summed it up in her mind again. This bitch is trying to buy Allston and also trying to pay me for him to soothe her guilt.

Eve said, "Well, it's a free country and market. That would be Allston's choice, not mine."

"You can make him the offer, but he won't take it." 

Natalie thought to herself, "Once I slam him all Kentucky in the sheets, he won't be going back."

Even when they returned to Eve and Allston's house, the rest of the evening was frosty.

Eve was sure of Allston, but one thing Natalie knew after living in Hollywood for many years was that everyone and anything could be bought.

TEXT ALLSTON: Nat, I believe you are in danger. If you are home, please go to my house. I'll let Eve know. TEXT NAT: I am with Eve now and we will stay in your home. What's going on? TEXT ALLSTON: Please stay with Eve, you are in danger. I'll explain in just a bit.

FBI Regional Headquarters - Chelsea, Massachusetts

Tanaka was in a situation room with three other Special Agents and SIA Wallace Q. Hughes. They were all watching something play out in real time on a large screen.

They watched a waterfront warehouse in Salem, Massachusetts, north of Boston and Chelsea. The screen went from dark to lighter as a large aluminum roll-top door rose above the water. The audio was superb, and you could hear the door ratcheting up to the open position. 

Five—no, six—people were visible in the camera, and facial recognition positively ID'ed all of them. 

They were all Russian, all known special forces operators operating as a team on U.S. soil charged with disrupting arms manufacturers in the United States who were replenishing Ukraine with weapons. 

They were inside the warehouse when a boat, looking like a small fishing vessel, came through the tall roll-top door and was moored by the Russians on the inside. Once in, the aluminum door lowered closed.

The picture quality and the audio remained stellar as the view adjusted to the change in light.

The Chinese men who stepped onto the dock were why Tanaka missed her dinner with Brad Mason. 

They were delivering advanced weaponry to the Russians, who were going to attack factories in three locations in America.

She listened as two men, one from each side of the exchange, embraced and then shook hands.

Here are the over-the-shoulder weapons you need. The man said in Chinese. He paused and Tanaka repeated the phrase for everyone in the room. He continued, "Your government has paid for them. Please count and inspect them, and we will be leaving.

Fourteen wooden crates were unloaded, and the Russians pried each open to inspect the weapons inside. Each man had been trained in China last year to use the weapon.

The FBI's Russian translator in the room said, "All fourteen look like they are good."

Then Tanaka said, "We will be on our way then."

They got back on their boat, and the roll-top door slowly went up. Then, they were out in the harbor, heading for a mother fishing vessel in international waters.

This was a passage of Chinese weapons to Russian Operators in The United States. How the FBI knew this would happen and when it would happen was well above any pay grade sitting in the situation room. 

Nobody in the room dared ask why nobody was tasked with stopping the transfer at the point of delivery.

That, too, was many pay grades up the food chain.

Wallace thanked everyone and told them, "I'll need your summaries and translations by the close of business tomorrow. Tech can get you all the video files."