Room 3113.
A single shot stirred up a tempest.
Melvin, like Carl, believed Little Frank was full of lies. He even admired Carl for staying clear-headed and finally seeing through Little Frank's deceit. The hotel and the room were all fabrications, just another game.
However, they weren't.
This meant that Little Frank had just told the truth. If Carl sent someone to Stevenson Arms, they could corner Little Frank.
Huh.
Suddenly, Melvin felt his breath cut off—
Loneliness.
An intense loneliness. Unconsciously, Melvin's mind replayed the look in Little Frank's eyes from the shadow—a heart-wrenching bewilderment and loss.
At this moment, Steven Spielberg uncharacteristically didn't switch the camera angle or edit the scene. He just focused on "3113," but thoughts in the screening room intermingled and collided:
Carl's mockery and taunting, Little Frank's embarrassment and vulnerability, all surged forth.
But why?
Like the audience and Carl's suspicion, Little Frank, who had always lived in lies, seemed trapped in his own lies, unable to land no matter how hard he tried, unable to feel reality. He hid himself layer by layer, and the more Christmas-like the atmosphere, the deeper it cut—
His reality could no longer be shared with anyone, not even his father.
So, the only person who could glimpse Little Frank's truth was an FBI agent.
Does this mean that in that moment, when Little Frank gave the real address, he genuinely entertained the thought of getting arrested?
Was it Carl's mockery that woke him up?
There was a gentle rustling of movement in the screening room, but it quickly subsided. Everyone had their own thoughts brewing a storm, quietly sinking into their reflections. All the restlessness and noise were swallowed, and the air fell silent again.
Carl didn't know he had missed the chance to capture Little Frank, but at least he had inadvertently cracked the truth behind "Barry Allen."
Even when heading to the restaurant for breakfast, Carl was still at work. He listed everyone named "Barry Allen" in New York, preparing to investigate them one by one. Unexpectedly, the restaurant waiter refilling his coffee took an interest in the list.
"Are you a collector?"
Carl: ???
Clearly, Carl had no idea what the waiter was talking about. But he had patience. After some discussion, the answer that was within reach finally came to light.
"Listen!"
"He reads comics. Comic books!"
"Barry Allen is The Flash."
"He's a kid. Our target is a kid, which is why we never found matching fingerprints—he has no criminal record."
"Now, I need you to contact the NYPD and look into all the runaway kids."
"Also, don't forget the airport. He's scattering checks everywhere."
Finally!
Carl finally found a breakthrough—
All along, they believed Little Frank was a young man between twenty-seven and thirty years old. But now, it seemed they had been completely fooled, even about his appearance and age. They had made mistakes right from the start of their investigation.
No wonder they never found this suspect.
Leaving the restaurant, the first thing Carl did was use a public phone booth to call the FBI headquarters, ordering the agents to adjust the keywords for a comprehensive search.
Time was of the essence!
But why New York?
"Because of the Yankees."
"He mentioned the Yankees."
Connecting all the clues, Carl applied his skills as an FBI agent, starting from the details, and finally found a breakthrough.
Sure enough, Carl was correct.
Carl successfully found Paula Abagnale.
To be precise, it was Paula Barnes, the remarried Paula Barnes, living in the suburbs and leading a middle-class life again.
Clearly, Paula already knew from the police that Little Frank was using the checkbook from Chase Manhattan Bank to issue bad checks. But she didn't think it was a big deal. Leisurely, she lit a cigarette, trying to defend her son in front of the FBI agent.
"It's only a thousand dollars."
"Kids his age, half of them are on powder, throwing rocks at cops. They scare me to death, just because my son made a small mistake."
"A seventeen-year-old kid needs to eat, needs a place to sleep…"
Just like at the school before, when she learned that Little Frank pretended to be a substitute teacher, Paula gave her son a reproachful look but didn't really discipline him.
Now, it's the same. Paula even found a bunch of excuses to exonerate her son.
Only when Carl identified Little Frank Abagnale through a photo in the yearbook, confirming it was the figure he saw in Hollywood, did the atmosphere suddenly become tense, even startling Paula.
"Is Frank okay? Is he in trouble?" Paula hurriedly followed Carl and the FBI agents as they stormed out, anxiously asking.
"Ma'am, I'm sorry, but I have to tell you, your son is forging checks."
"Forging checks? Wait! I'm sure we can pay it back." Paula quickly turned around, rummaging through her bag to find her wallet, giving a polite smile. "I work part-time at the church. Just tell me how much he owes, and I'll pay you."
Carl's expression remained calm. "So far, it's $1.3 million."
Paula was stunned, completely losing her ability to respond. She watched Carl leave as the door slowly closed, her face falling into shadow.
And where was Little Frank?
Georgia, Atlanta.
Little Frank lived in a villa and was hosting a grand party. Boys and girls were reveling, even in the cold winter. The whole house felt like the height of summer.
But clearly, Little Frank wasn't into the party. Though the house was full of people, he only found it noisy.
It wasn't until a friend had an accident and the party had to end that Little Frank had to go to the hospital to visit.
In the hospital, Little Frank saw a nurse, Brenda, being scolded by a doctor to the point of tears.
Once again, Little Frank used his charm, gently comforting Brenda, asking her to help check on his friend's condition.
Changing his outfit and style, Little Frank showed a charm completely different from that of a pilot. The suave playboy image was striking, exuding a kind of casual and lazy freedom, making him even more seductive and charismatic. When Little Frank looked at Brenda, he was actually looking directly at the audience in the screening room.
Those deep blue eyes filled with smiles made the women in the screening room's hearts race, holding their breath, twisting into knots in their seats.
If this was Steven Spielberg's goal, clearly, he succeeded—
Who would have thought that a crime film, a biographical movie, would turn into a fashion film, showcasing Anson Wood's charm to the fullest?
Now, Melvin finally understood why Edgar hired him. A surge of excitement and enthusiasm quietly brewed in his abdomen, turning into a storm in an instant.