They settled on a free evening, and he hung up reluctantly, wishing he had more time to just talk to her… and not about a case.
Walking back to his detectives’ room, he looked at the board and made a note to prioritize the interview with Jose Garcia. The kid's story might help separate the innocent bystanders from the actual players in whatever operation had been using that house. But he also needed to understand exactly what Jose had seen and when he'd seen it.
The phone call had reminded him why he'd fallen for Sandra in the first place. Her fierce advocacy and her ability to see past surface circumstances to the human beings underneath. It also reminded him why dating a Legal Aid attorney sometimes made his job more complicated.
Terry looked over at Jeremy. "Set up that interview with Jose Garcia as soon as possible. And Jeremy? Treat him like a witness, not a suspect. At least until we know more."
21
Harry Blackwood gripped the steering wheel of his BMW until his knuckles went white, staring out at the empty parking places in the Hampton parking garage. The location was isolated for privacy. His father's increased surveillance of his activities meant Harry had to maintain perfect appearances now.
Just like Dad taught me,Harry thought bitterly.Plan every detail, control every variable, leave nothing to chance. Except Robert Whitman had blown all of that to hell.
When Robert's headlights swept past his car before pulling into the space next to him, Harry battled to hold on to the familiar surge of power that came from being the one in control. The entitled little shit had no idea how badly he'd screwed up, but he was about to learn.
Robert parked his Audi and jogged over with his usual cocky swagger, sliding into the passenger seat. That confidence evaporated the moment he saw Harry's expression.
"Jesus, Harry, you look like someone died?—"
"Shut the fuck up." Harry's voice was low, deadly calm. It was the same tone his father used when contractors tried to cheat him. "Just shut up and listen."
Robert's mouth snapped closed. In all the months they'd been working together, Harry had never shown this side of himself. But in truth, Harry’s bravado was dangerously close to slipping. He was terrified of everything he had put in place crashing down.
"Half a million dollars." Harry let each word hang in the air. "That's what got seized when your little frat party got raided. Half a million dollars in product that we now have to explain to some very unforgiving people."
Robert's face went pale. "Look, I can explain?—"
"Explain?" Harry's laugh was harsh, practiced. "Explain how you turned a simple handoff into a fucking circus? Twenty college kids drinking and making noise when you were supposed to be keeping a low profile?"
The power coursing through Harry's veins was intoxicating. For once, he wasn't the one being lectured, being controlled, being told he'd screwed up. He was the one delivering consequences.
"It wasn't supposed to be a big deal," Robert stammered. "Just a few friends coming over after?—"
"A few friends?" Harry's voice rose, but he caught himself and forced it back down. "There was alcohol everywhere, underage kids, their dates, and cops crawling all over the place. This isn't some campus disciplinary hearing, you moron. People go to prison for this shit. People disappear."
Robert shifted in his seat, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool night air. "I know, I know, but our fingerprints weren’t on the bags. We wore gloves, remember? No one else knew they were there. I'll just play dumb, claim I have no idea where they came from, and we're good."
"Good?" Harry stared at him with the kind of incredulous fury he'd seen his father direct at incompetent employees. "Did you miss the part where half a million dollars of product is nowin police evidence lockup? Money that belongs to people who don't accept excuses?"
The fear in Robert's eyes was gratifying, but Harry needed more than fear. He needed solutions. "I need that money replaced. Today."
"Today?" Robert's voice cracked. "Harry, I don't have that kind of cash just lying around?—"
"Then get it." Harry leaned closer, invading Robert's space. "Sell your car. Max out your credit cards. Call Daddy and tell him you need an advance on your trust fund. I don't give a shit how you do it, but you're going to transfer five hundred and fifty thousand dollars to my account before midnight."
"Five-fifty? But you said five hundred?—"
"The extra fifty thousand is for my trouble. Consider it a stupidity tax."
Robert's breathing was becoming shallow, panicked. "Harry, please, I can get some of it, but that much money... my family will ask questions."
For a moment, Harry almost felt sorry for him. Almost. Then he remembered the phone call he'd have to make after this meeting, the explanation he'd have to give to people who made his father look like a teddy bear.
"That's not my problem," Harry said coldly. "You made this mess. You fix it."
"What if I can't?" The question came out as barely a whisper.
Harry studied Robert's face in the dim light filtering in from the distant streetlamp. The arrogance was completely gone now, replaced by raw terror. Good. Fear kept people alive in this business. He should know.
