"Or Daddy's connections," Terry muttered.
"Minimal work history," Bobby added, scrolling through employment records. "Only job on record is with Blackwood's Luxury Custom Homes since graduating. He started in an entry-level position with his dad. Now, he’s listed as their vice president of financial operations. At least that’s his title.”
“That’s quite a leap in promotions,” Jeremy muttered.
“Not if Daddy wants to keep his son in the business and possibly under his thumb,” Terry commented. "What about assets?"
Jeremy pulled up vehicle registrations. "Drives a BMW M4. Also has a motorcycle… a Ducati Panigale. And he owns a luxury condo in Virginia Beach.”
Pete whistled low. "That's a lot of toys for someone with his work history."
“Trust fund baby?” Terry prodded.
Pete shook his head. “His dad is a self-made man. All their money came from their construction business, which grew by leaps and bounds when the real estate market was booming, and luxury beach homes were popping up.”
"Social media?" Terry asked.
Bobby navigated to the latest social media platforms, and Terry felt his anger spike as images filled the screen. Harry Blackwood's feed was a showcase of expensive restaurants, luxury vacations, designer clothes, and what looked like VIP access to exclusive events.
"This guy's living way above his means unless Daddy is paying him really well," Pete observed, studying a photo of Harry on a yacht in the Caribbean. "Even with a salary bump, there's no way even luxury construction work pays for this lifestyle."
Terry scrutinized the photos, noting the people in the background, the locations, and the timestamps. "Jeremy, cross-reference these locations with known drug trafficking routes."
"Already on it." Jeremy's expression grew more serious as he worked. "Some of these vacation spots are interesting choices for a young construction worker. Miami, Bahamas, several trips to Mexico."
"What else?"
Pete continued looking through his social media. "Well, this is interesting. He was in Sigma Chi at UVA."
Terry's brow furrowed. "Connection?"
"Same fraternity as Robert Whitman.”
“Not at the same school, nor at the same time,” Terry said, shaking his head.
“Maybe there’s a connection through some fraternity event,” Bobby surmised.
The pieces slowly began clicking together in Terry's mind like puzzle pieces finding their place. "So we have Harry Blackwood, running finances for a construction company with suspicious contracts, living beyond his means, with a history of a drug charge, and fraternity connections to our party organizer, who was found to be in a house with considerable drugs."
"Sounds like more than a coincidence," Pete said.
Terry pulled out his phone and scrolled to Claire Smith's number. If Harry Blackwood was connected to the drugs found, he might have been the person Claire spied on. She was their best witness for identifying who might have supplied the drugs or organized the higher levels of the operation.
The phone rang four times before going to voicemail. "This is Claire. Leave a message."
"Claire, this is Captain Bunswick with the Eastern Shore DTF. I need to speak with you about the man you saw at the beach house before the party. It's important that you call me back as soon as possible. We may have identified who you saw, and I need you to see if you recognize him."
Terry hung up, frustration building. Claire was their key to connecting the dots between the party and what was looking more and more like a larger drug operation using Blackwood's construction business as a front.
“Do you want to pull Harry Blackwood in for questioning?” Pete asked.
“Let's gather more intelligence first. I want to know exactly what we're dealing with before we show our hand." Terry’s mind was already plotting through the investigation strategy. I’ll get a list from Sandra about any other contractors who may have hadsimilar experiences with Blackwood contracts. Pete, I’d like you to follow up with them."
He headed toward his office, hoping Claire would call back. He needed her to confirm whether Harry Blackwood was the person she saw talking to Robert. It still wouldn’t be proof that Harry brought drugs to Robert, but it was a connection.
By lunchtime, Terry rubbed his eyes and reached for his fourth cup of coffee, the bitter brew doing little to cut through the fog of exhaustion that had settled over him after poring over financial records. The conference room table looked like a paper tornado had torn through it, leaving bank statements, construction contracts, charitable donation receipts, and arrest records spread across every available surface, in a system only he could decipher.
The phone on the conference table rang, interrupting his dark thoughts. Jeremy glanced at the caller ID and straightened. "It's Claire Smith."
