Typing in the Facebook website into the search engine, I hoped that Esteban had checked the box that allowed his user name and password to be saved, allowing him to be automatically logged in when the webpage loaded. Kids, being so naïve, thought the saved- password feature was great because of its convenience and the lack of brain power required to truly memorize their passwords. Esteban was one of those kids. Hell, I was one of those kids.
Within seconds of the page loading, an instant message popped up in the lower right corner of the screen. Anonymity was not a concern of the Facebook creators and true identities were revealed for everyone to steal. It was a message from Joey Alvarez, Esteban’s best friend. It read: “Sup.” Such a simple phrase yet it quickly told me so much. I instantly concluded that Joey didn’t know his best friend was missing and I should not waste my time questioning him. I sat for a moment, deciding how I should play this. I knew I was going to reply but I had to get into the mindset of an adolescent troublemaker.
I typed: “Sup.” Subtle.
“Where u been? How did it go?” The next message read. It didn’t take long to receive what I was afraid of- a question I didn’t know how to answer. I thought some more.
Assuming kids had the short- term memory of a tea kettle, I typed: “What?” There was a delay before Joey replied.
He wrote: “You know, dick. The run the other night.” I wondered what Joey was talking about. The run? The other night? What did Esteban do the other night? He didn’t seem to be type who would be health conscious and go jogging at night. What teenaged boy did? And he didn’t seem like the type to join the track team. I started to consider paying Joey Alvarez a friendly face- to- face visit. He appeared to know a lot about something but I didn’t want to sound too clueless about it since I was posing as Esteban. I didn’t want to ask too many questions and have Joey start growing suspicious. I wanted him to give me answers.
“It was good,” I typed. Then there was another delay, longer this time. While waiting for Joey’s reply, I browsed the rest of Esteban’s Facebook page. His News Feed was that of a typical teen. Friends commenting how much they hate their teachers in school. Friends posting how much they hate their parents. YouTube links to a guy getting hit in the nuts with a baseball bat at a picnic. Song lyrics, photos, and opinions about the latest movies. I clicked on the inbox and was surprised to see it empty. Esteban didn’t have any pending friend requests and his notifications listed Candy Crush, something called Clash of Clans, and requests to a few other games offered on the website along with a slew of comments made by his friends on some of his own posts.
The screen sounded, showing that Joey had finally replied to my last comment. I clicked on the conversation box and read what Joey had written.
“How much he give u this time?” Was he talking about money when he asked, ‘how much?’ He had to be. My instincts told me so. More importantly, who was Joey talking about?
I replied like a teenager: “????”
“U not tellin’? How much u get? More than last time?” A lot of questions. None of which I could confidently answer the way Esteban would.
“I don’t remember,” was all I could think of as a creative reply.
“Bullshit. Jamal be hookin’ you up bro. You musta gotten paid!” Joey wrote. I nearly leapt out of the folding chair. Jamal? Gotten paid? What the hell was Joey talking about? More so, what the hell was Esteban into?
FORTY
Drugs was my first thought. Why else would Joey ask how much Esteban got paid for the run he made the other night? What else was run by a teenaged boy in a city riddled with petty drug use that ended in a monetary profit? The terminology used was right on target and I could sense the curious anticipation in Joey’s fingers from the wording of his questions and how quickly he had sent the initial message as soon as I- I mean Esteban- logged on.
I wanted out of the conversation before Joey caught on to my lack of current, up- to- date slang or began asking tougher questions for me to answer. I told him I’d ‘hit him up later’ and clicked out of the website.
I left the Machado/Cruz household feeling as if I’d hit pay dirt. I wasn’t completely sold that this was it but it was sure a hell of a lot more than I had an hour ago. Walking to my Santa Fe, I pulled out the slip of paper with Jamal’s phone number on it. It was about the size of a standard piece of loose leaf paper, haphazardly torn in half. On the back I made a few notes so I wouldn’t forget what I’d just learned from Joey. I made another list: (1) Esteban’ dealing drugs, (2) Is Joey dealing drugs too?, (3) Contact Jamal, and (4) Does Jamal have something to do with Esteban’s disappearance?, (5) Find out more about Felix Cabrera.
I saw it was close to seven when I put my car in drive and entered traffic onto Main Street. Looking at the time makes me sometimes realize how long it’s been since the last time I’d eaten. I wanted to get out of Paterson before I found a place to eat. Even thought it was still light out, dusk would soon be rolling in. I sped down Main as quickly as I could, hitting most of the lights. The adrenaline rush was slicing through my veins. The rush had taken over my inner being and sitting behind the wheel made the rush shoot out my toes. The center of town was thick with traffic but moved at a steady pace. I lowered the windows to feel the damp breeze on my face. I sometimes wished my blond hair was much longer so I could feel it blow in the wind. Like the guys on the covers of Lindsey’s trashy romance novels.
Coming up Hamburg Turnpike I pulled into a Burger King that doubled as a Popeye’s. After I placed my order I began to think that the private investigator business might be life- threatening, not for the dangerous people I might encounter in solving cases, but for being constantly on the road the convenience of the fast food. Pizza yesterday and Burger King today. Yikes.
My cell phone buzzed in my pocket. I removed it to see Fitzgerald that was calling me. It was the call I’d been waiting for.
“Hey, Fitz,” I said by way of a greeting.
“Barnes, how’s it going?”
“Actually really well. I might have a few solid leads to follow up on.” I told him about my latest visit back to Esteban’s house and my Facebook conversation with Joey Alvarez. I told him about Jamal and his possible ties to Esteban’s drug dealing and his disappearance. I kept my thoughts and concerns about Mr. Machado, Esteban’s father, being connected to all of this to myself. I didn’t want to lead Fitzgerald down a path that didn’t need to be travelled. Lastly, I told him to run Felix Cabrera through the system.
Fitzgerald had me on speaker and I heard him tapping his pen on his desk, which means he’s thinking and processing what he just learned. “I’ve got a few things for you,” he said.
“Good news or not so good news?”
I always like to hear the good news last. It makes me feel better in the end. Fitzgerald said he didn’t find anything noteworthy on Barry Klein. A handful of speeding tickets and a pair of public intoxications from what he guessed would be his college years. Then Fitzgerald filled me in on his research into Esteban’s older brother Javier.
Javier Machado was nineteen years old when he was picked up for possession. He had twenty- six pounds of cocaine and enough syringes to keep a phlebotomist busy through Christmas in the trunk of his car when he was pulled over for not coming to a complete stop at a stop sign. Not the typical combination to possess on a drug run but the syringes led to eight pounds of heroin stashed away in Javier’s bedroom closet. Fitzgerald told me that Javier was small time on the local scene but with the amount that was found in the trunk of his car during his routine traffic stop put him away for seven to ten.
Yes, the drugs, but what Fitzgerald found to be most disturbing was that Javier would drag his younger brother along for his rides. The younger brother? Esteban Machado.
FORTY ONE
Esteban was doomed from the start, I thought. How could a kid that young be wrapped up in such a dangerous game? The worst part about it was that Esteban had no idea what was going on. It made me not want to
eat any more and I think I heard my arteries screaming for joy.
Before I ended my call with Fitzgerald I asked him for another favor. I gave him Jamal’s phone number and asked if he could trace the number and possibly find me a last name. I told him why and Fitzgerald said he’d get back to me as soon as he had something.
I couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that Klein turned up clean. Parking tickets and public intoxication. There had to be more. I just didn’t like something about him. He didn’t seem to fit the educational profile. Education is filled with just as much politics as the presidential races but Klein seemed to play the game all too well. I’d like to think I’m a pretty good judge of character and reading people’s personas and Klein’s gimmick was like a new shower door. I saw right through it. Don’t get me wrong, there have been enough times where I’ve been wrong in my character judgment. But if character judgment were a course I could take for some sort of career advancement, I’d surely get an A.
I powered through the rest of my dinner because I wanted to get on the move again. Lindsey sent me a text asking how I was doing. I simply told her I was making progress and would fill her in later whenever I got home.
Back in the Santa Fe I headed back into Paterson, going back the way I came. I couldn’t wait to hear back from Fitzgerald about Jamal so I chose to head to the station. On my way I called Esteban’s phone, using the number his mother gave me. As I suspected, it went directly to voicemail. Then another attempt into Esteban’s father, which continuously rang and I surrendered after about a dozen rings. I disconnected the call and tried the number to the mysterious Jamal. It rang.
“Who dis?” the strong voice on the other end demanded. I hesitated as I expected it to go directly to voicemail. “Hello?” he shouted after listening to the silence on my end.
“Sorry, yes. Hello. Is this Jamal?” I said just to be saying something.
“You called me, bitch.” I had the first name verified and he apparently had mine verified as well. He was going to call me ‘bitch.’ Now I had to figure out how to drag a last name out of him.
“Yes, yes I did.”
“So what the fuck do you want. I got shit to do.”
“I heard from people on the street that you can hook me up.” I found my voice to carry a bit more slang. There was a pause.
“How you get this number?”
“Javier Machado. I knew him on the inside and he told me to hit you up when I got out,” I said.
He seemed to know who Javier was since he said, “For a fix or a run,” Jamal said. Simple terms: To buy or to sell.
“I need a fix. I’ve been in the joint too long and need something to get me jumping again. I wanna meet up,” I said. I cut myself off, wondering if I was saying too much too quickly.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he said and before I could ask if we could meet up somewhere Jamal hung up. I wasn’t sure how Jamal would get back to me but I figured this wasn’t his first rodeo and he’d know how to find me. All I could do was wait.
FORTY TWO
“I spoke to Jamal,” I said to Fitzgerald by way of a greeting. He gave me a strange look. I wasn’t sure if it was from what I said or my presence in his office. It was good to be indoors and get a few minutes of rest because the long hours I was logging was draining my energy with every passing minute. Knowing Fitzgerald would still be in his office, I paid him a visit rather than calling him on the phone again.
“Well, lookie here,” Fitzgerald said. “I told you I’d call you once I found something.” He was surprised to see me standing in front of his desk in his office.
“I know you did, but you didn’t think I’d stay away that long, did you?” I said, helping myself to a seat. My new found confidence emitted a new image and I could see Fitzgerald immediately pick up on it. He adjusted his slender frame to face me. His black hair was undone but neatly managed in an organized mess on top of his head.
Keeping his hands busy stacking case folders, Fitzgerald asked, “So, I see you’re enjoying yourself on your own. You’re Magnum reincarnated.” He was comparing me to the quintessential private investigator, Thomas Magnum from the vintage television show, Magnum PI, starring a young Tom Selleck. My grandmother could solve crimes if she lived on the beach in Oahu, Hawaii.
“I’m no Magnum, however, I am enjoying my first week or so on my own,” I said. “Did you hear what I said? I spoke to Jamal.”
“I heard you. Where did you get his number?” I told him again about my discovery in Esteban’s bedroom and my conversation with Joey Alvarez on Facebook. I wasn’t sure if he heard my explanation on the phone before. Was it because I was talking too fast or was he just not listening?
“Were you able to get a trace on the number or any more information on Jamal?”
“I haven’t gotten anything back yet. You only asked me about twenty minutes ago,” Fitzgerald said. “Since it’s not priority for me, it’s not priority for you. It’ll take a little while. Just hang in there. Again, how’d you come across this Jamal’s cell number?” he asked.
I told him again, not knowing why he insisted that I repeat the story a third time. Then he asked: “What did he say when he picked up?”
I laid out my entire conversation and how quick-thinking I was on my feet and how cool I sounded when I added a bit of slang to my talk. We also discussed my thought process on setting up a meeting with Jamal, posing as a potential customer. Try and lure him out of whatever evil darkness and shady façade he hid behind. Fitzgerald hesitated but eventually bought into it, with a smidge of coaxing on my end.
Fitzgerald was a guy who normally didn’t need to put up a front as a tough guy. He genuinely was a tough guy. Growing up in the upper- middle class town of Hasbrouck Heights, centralized in the heart of Bergen County. Donald Fitzgerald was the prototypical athlete. Lettering in four sports: football, baseball, basketball, and wrestling. Fitzgerald ultimately had his pick of the litter with girls and with college scholarships. He was the captain of each sport at one time or another and had an unlimited amount of offers to play any of his sports at top- notch college programs. Who wouldn’t want a six- four, two- hundred fifteen pound specimen of a man to be the poster boy of their university? The University of Iowa wanted him for wrestling. The University of Florida, Florida State and Alabama were his top choices to attend as a wide receiver. The University of Miami, the University of Texas, and Stanford wanted him to be the ace of their pitching staff and the University of Kentucky, UCLA, and Duke wanted him to be the point guard of their basketball team.
Fitzgerald eventually chose the University of Florida because it was the only school he talked them into letting him play football and basketball. Then it all came crashing down. Literally. In the spring of his senior year of high school, Fitzgerald was out with Bonnie, his girlfriend at the time, and while driving home from the movies, was blindsided by a drunk driver. The driver slammed into the driver’s side of Fitzgerald’s car and the velocity of the impact demolished the car as well as Fitzgerald’s dream of being the next Bo Jackson or Deion Sanders- playing multiple professional sports. Somehow, during the crash, Fitzgerald’s foot was pinned underneath the gas pedal, causing severe structural and ligament damage. The national sports media quickly learned of the accident, causing the University of Florida- and all of the other high- profile schools- to retract their offers.
Feeling like he was left with nothing and after vigorously rehabbing his foot, Donald Fitzgerald joined the Marines. After his time served, with tours in Iraq and Afghanistan, Fitzgerald joined the police force. And after a handful of years as a beat cop, he worked his way up the ranks.
Every once in a while I’d catch Fitzgerald walking with a slight limp and even grimace every now and again. He tried his best to conceal his periodic pain and would get upset when he was caught and someone would ask if he was all right.
I always felt like Fitzgerald looked out for me, never really sure why. He consistently appeared to work in my favor and
allow me to make my own decisions. I likened it to a bold sense of confidence he had in my abilities but I never asked. I was satisfied with my own belief.
“So what do you think my next move should be?” I asked. But before he could respond, the phone rang. My eyes quickly floated out to the floor and I saw the room buzzing with detectives busy with phone calls and cops busy with rowdy perps in handcuffs. As my eyes were drifting back into the office and back on Fitzgerald I spotted Drew, my former partner, shoving a perp into a holding cell.
Fitzgerald’s call didn’t last very long. I don’t even think he spoke a word or uttered a sound. He hung up and still didn’t answer my question and I assumed he wanted me to figure it out on my own. “One more thing,” I added.
“What’s that?” Fitzgerald asked.
“If this Jamal thing works in my favor I’m gonna want you to lay off him. We know he’s a small- time drug pusher but he could potentially be my eyes and ears on the street for the future.” I saw Fitzgerald ponder this and if I read his facial expression correctly he was going to side with my thinking.
“Let’s see how this plays out first,” he finally said.
“Sure,” I replied just to appease him.
FORTY THREE
I aimed my attention out to the floor again and watched Drew talking to some plain- clothed detectives. I swiveled my chair to give my full attention to what was going on and in the background I heard Fitzgerald carrying on with another phone call that just came through. Once he realized who it was, he put it on speaker so I could listen. The voice on the other end was in the middle of a statement. I thought I recognized the voice but couldn’t place the face.
The Incident (Chase Barnes Series Book 1) Page 12