The Incident (Chase Barnes Series Book 1) (16 page)

              “You wouldn’t happen to know his password to log on, right?” I asked.

              “I have no idea.  You can help yourself to look around his room and find whatever you find,” she replied.  So I did.

THIRTY EIGHT

            
 
Esteban’s bedroom, which he shared with his younger brothers, was designed like any adolescent boy’s bedroom.  Clothes everywhere but the hamper and the closet.  Skateboarding pictures and posters plastered the walls along with magazine photos of various musicians and teeny- bopper actors and actresses.  There were two twin beds pushed into each of the far corners of the room.  One bed was made while the other looked like a rhino had a dance party on the mattress.  Two beds for three boys?  What the hell did the third sleep on?  A variety of magazines were sloppily stacked on the floor near the bed on the left.  Adjacent to each of the beds were two IKEA- styled desks with folding chairs used as computer chairs. 

             
Go ahead!  Get in the room and find something!  Something that will lead you to Esteban and maybe you can let him die!  You’re good at that.

              I found myself standing in the doorway of Esteban’s room.  The sudden hesitation brought on an onslaught of inexplicable images of the night Jake died.  I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again and again- Jake and Esteban are two different people with two very different life experiences.  I felt a tingling headache quickly ensue.  Then I heard a voice from behind.  I jumped.

              “I know it’s a mess,” Ms. Cruz said.  “I gotta put this one down for a nap.  Let me know if you need anything else.”  I thanked her and I watched her carry the young child to another room down the hall.  I leapt over the threshold and felt like I was walking into hell. 

              Before she disappeared into the other bedroom, I asked, “One more thing, Ms. Cruz.  Does Esteban have a cell phone?”  She told me he did.  A new iPhone 5 that his father bought him against her will.  There was no reason, she told me, for a teenager to have such a phone, if a phone at all.  I never thought I’d say this about Ms. Cruz but I had to agree with her.  She gave me his phone number.

              After the initial sweating subsided and a few deep breaths to suppress the vomit I could taste, I took a baby step inside.  My mind drifted to a different time and place.  The images, if you wanted to call them that, were blurry.  Was that a malfunction of my mind or a subconscious refusal to really picture what my mind wanted me to see?  I had to sit down before I fell.

You can think of Jake all you want you son of a bitch but remember he’s not coming back!

Catching a glance of Esteban’s computer brought me back to the task at hand.  Feeling like I was gliding on ice skates I found myself sitting in front of Esteban’s desktop computer after high- stepping a few piles of clothes and magazines.  I moved the mouse and the screen woke up.  While the hard drive was loading I scanned the rest of the desk to possibly find Esteban’s Facebook password magically written on a brightly colored slip of paper.  I rummaged through the desk drawers only to see each just as neatly organized as Esteban’s closet.  The bottom drawer was sloppily filled with more car and skateboard magazines.  The middle drawer required an extra tug to get it open.  I found Xbox video game cases and various controllers.  The top, thinner drawer held loose photos, which didn’t seem useful after thumbing through them.  I was about to shove the drawer shut when something towards the back caught my eye.  It was a poorly folded slip of paper.  The writing in blue marker was what caught my eye.  I removed the slip of paper and unfolded it to read.  There was a phone number written on it.  It was a local area code.   I wasn’t sure if it would be useful.  It could have belonged to a cousin, an uncle, or a friend but I figured I’d hang on to it to have Fitzgerald trace it just in case.  When I unfolded the rest of the paper I saw the name written above the number in a graffiti- style handwriting belonged to someone named Jamal.

THIRTY NINE

I put the phone number in my back pocket and returned my attention to the computer.  Esteban had a few things minimized.  His iTunes library, an Internet Explorer page opened to YouTube, and another Internet Explorer page opened to the Google search engine.  The YouTube page was open to a paused video of some apparently well- known skateboarder.  I turned my attention to the Google page, which appeared to be freshly opened but left unused.  I checked the search history and found the majority to be skateboard and other asinine adolescent videos that they only seemed to understand and find humorous. 

              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.