The Billionaire Throuple

Gregor No Last Name

[Unofficially adopted by the Rothschilds]

I've arrived across the street from the subject's home where he currently resides with his parents, Martha and Robert Wallace, ages thirty-nine and forty-one, respectively. It is a pale yellow, single-level home with one rear exit. The property is enclosed by a chain link fence with a beware of dog sign zip tied to it, despite not having one of the property.

Its presence suggests the family is overly cautious or has a history with theft or trespassing. Regardless, the intel Samuel has provided me with suggests this should be a straightforward operation with low potential for violence or suspicion. It has been ten minutes since I notified him of my arrival.

Silence means the mission is a go, which is preferable. It's not quite dawn. The streets are clear and there are no lights on at any of the neighboring houses.

I step out of the vehicle wearing tan khakis and a blue windbreaker with a badge embroidered near the right breast—standard PO attire for this county. I have a badge clipped to my belt that looks authentic enough, a holstered gun, mace, cuffs and a baton. If everything goes according to plan, I'll only need one of those. I lift the latch on the fence and walk up the single step to the front door. It's white with a small fan window near the top.

Ignoring the doorbell, I rap the door five hard times with a fist, then take a few steps back and to the left. I'm not entirely hidden. They'll see the badge if they look through the window, but not my face. I also have a better view of the living room window. The blinds are drawn, but I'll be able to tell if any lights come on.

Bingo!

Someone is on the way. I wait. The front door curtain shuffles and I knock three times to raise urgency. Putting civilians in rushed situations, greatly improves the chance of compliance, especially when they already feel compelled to follow orders.

"This is Officer Phillips from the County Probation Office. I'm here for Cameron!"

The front door swings open nearly all the way. I'm standing on the opposite side it opens from to achieve that effect. A weary Hispanic woman dressed in a Merlot robe with a matching nightcap appears in the doorway. She fits the description of Mrs. Wallace.

She yawns, shaking her head at me. "With all due respect, do you realize how early it is?"

I nod. "Ma'am." I watch her eyes follow my hand as I place it on my waistband near the badge, and gun. "I assure you, I wouldn't be here if it wasn't urgent." I move closer to the door. "Cameron won't be surprised I'm here."

Martha gasps and cups a hand over her mouth. Her shoulders slump a bit as she tears up. "Oh my God. What did he do this time?" she asks, "I can't believe this. We let him leave for a couple hours last night. He's been doing good lately!"

She starts speaking frantically to herself in a different language, Spanish most likely. I lean in toward her to look inside the house, in case this is a distraction. I can see the sliding doors of the rear exit through the kitchen. There is no movement, but view of the hallway leading to bedrooms is obscured by her and the door.

"Ma'am, I need you to go get Cameron for me, right now. I can search the home, though I'd prefer not to make your day any less pleasant." I turn up my palms, leaving it in her hands.

She crosses her arms. "Don't you need a search warrant?"

I shake my head. She's choosing the hard way.

A voice from behind her calls out. "No, they don't. Not since I'm on probation."

Thank you, Cameron Wallace. A Hispanic male, about five feet, ten inches and one-hundred fifty pounds steps into view. He has thick eyebrows and curly black hair of medium length. He's fully dressed with a black, hooded bomber jacket on. Samuel's intel is spot on.