The Incident (Chase Barnes Series Book 1) (17 page)

              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. 

              “Martin, I have Chase Barnes here with me.  It’s his request of the cell phone trace,” Fitzgerald said, leaning over his desk to speak clearly into the speakerphone.  Once Fitzgerald said the voice’s name, I realized it was Martin Kayman, from the squad’s tech department.  Martin was the guy to go to for things like this. 

              “What did you find, Martin?” I asked.  I could hear Martin shuffling papers in the background. 

              “Well, it took me a few attempts to get a trace but I think I’ve found this Jamal’s latest location,” Martin said.  Martin liked his technological history.  He went into a rant about how, based on federal legislation of 2001, wireless services required providers to accurately identify and place phones on their network to within 328 feet.  Martin continued to say that GPS relies on signals from 12 or more satellites in a low- Earth orbit.  He stated, in slow terms as if we were learning the ABCs, that if more satellite reference points are in range the phone’s location can be identified within just a few feet.  He continued, “The reason it took a few attempts was because the phone has to be on to attempt a trace and if it’s actually in use at the time the accuracy increases.  My first few attempts were unsuccessful because the phone must’ve been off but I eventually got a hit.”

              “Where’d you find him?” I asked.  While waiting for the response, I wondered if Jamal knew about this technology somehow and kept his phone off when it wasn’t needed so he couldn’t be traced as easily.

              There was what seemed like a suspenseful hesitation before Martin answered.

              “Again, figuring this to be as accurate as possible, his GPS puts him near a school on Main Street.”  We sat around for a few moments trying to picture Jamal maybe standing on a corner.  My image of Jamal was what some might consider to be stereotypical but, up to this point, it was all I had.  A knee- length solid- colored t- shirt.  Droopy and saggy sweatpants or jeans.  A rainbow- colored hat with a flat brim lining his forehead and a matching pair of wildly rainbow- colored or one- solid- colored sneakers.