Estes's Arc

Chapter 3 of 3

Estes needed a place where information flowed freely, where secrets slipped out between drinks and card games. The crime families controlled the docks and the government offices, but they couldn't control everything. He walked until he found it—a social club where businessmen and dock workers mixed, where deals happened in corners and favors changed hands across tables. This was where the city revealed itself, where he could listen and learn who really ran Las Calaveras. Estes stepped inside, ordered coffee, and found a seat near the back. The room hummed with conversations about shipments, contracts, and names he'd seen in his files. He pulled out a small notebook and began writing. Every word brought him closer to the truth he would one day publish for everyone to read. After two hours of listening, Estes walked back to his newsroom with four new leads written down. But gathering information wasn't enough. He needed people to come forward, to share what they knew about the families. The citizens of Las Calaveras had to see that someone was fighting back. He found a rugged wooden board in the storage room and dragged it outside. Then he printed photographs from his files—faces of crime family members, their associates, their known locations. He pinned each wanted poster to the board with careful precision. The display told a story anyone could read. These were the people poisoning the city. These were the criminals he was tracking. Estes stepped back and studied his work. The board would draw attention. People who recognized these faces might finally speak up. His investigation needed sources, and sources needed to know someone was listening. The display stood as proof that the truth was coming, one documented crime at a time. The next morning, Estes walked through a different part of the city. He needed to find where regular people talked without watching their words. His sources had to come from somewhere ordinary, somewhere the families didn't control. He turned a corner and spotted a tree stump on a small patch of dirt. Tin cans hung from strings tied to its branches, tinkling softly when the breeze passed through. A few locals sat on crates nearby, waiting and chatting while someone sharpened a blade on a whetstone. Estes listened as they talked about neighborhood news—a missing shipment, a new face at the docks, a business that closed without warning. He made mental notes of everything. This gathering spot gave him what he needed most—honest conversation from people who lived in the city's shadows. The crime families built their power on silence and fear. But here, where tin cans chimed and people waited for their turn, the city still talked. Estes would keep coming back to listen. That afternoon, he discovered something else the city offered him. A tall sculpture stood in a square where several streets met. Its gleaming surfaces caught the sunlight and reflected it across the buildings. He walked closer and read the plaque at its base. This was a monument to honesty, built to remember everyday people whose lives the crime families had destroyed. Names were carved into the metal—shopkeepers who wouldn't pay protection money, witnesses who disappeared, workers crushed by dock accidents that weren't accidents at all. Estes touched the cold surface and felt the weight of what he was doing. These people had paid the price for telling the truth or refusing to lie. Their monument reminded him why his investigation mattered. Las Calaveras gave him everything he needed—places to gather information, ways to recruit sources, and proof that people still believed in justice. The city was built for someone like him to succeed. He just had to keep working until the whole truth came out.