Things We Never Said (Hart's Boardwalk #3) - Samantha Young Page 0,104

one of those homes.

Rebecca Devlin, the only daughter, left town four years ago for graduate school in England and had not returned since.

Kerr Devlin, the second-eldest son lived in a penthouse suite of the family’s hotel, The Hartwell Grand.

As for his second-youngest son, Jack, his house was a nice but average home in South Hartwell.

The eldest, Stu, lived in a beautiful family-sized home on Johnson Creek. The creek fed into Hartwell Bay on the southern coast. If you didn’t own a rare, spectacular oceanfront home, and you didn’t mind trading in a mansion-sized home in the Glades for location, you bought a house on Johnson Creek. Stu Devlin’s house was more than he needed. It was also on the bend of the creek with a private dock, and far enough away from its neighbors that someone could fire a gun and not be heard.

Which meant no one knew Stu Devlin was dead until the married woman he was screwing around with let herself into the house.

Michael stood in Stu’s glossy white kitchen as Stu’s body, now in a body bag, was loaded onto a gurney. There was blood splattered across the back window of the kitchen that faced the creek. Blood on the floor where Stu had died.

From what they’d surmised, and they’d know more once the coroner looked at the body, the two entry wounds were almost one hole, they were so close together. And they were on the chest, near the sternum.

The wounds were consistent with how a police officer was trained to shoot.

There had been an anonymous tip at the station that Freddie Jackson was involved in the selling and dealing of cocaine. No one had seen Freddie Jackson in hours. He didn’t come into the station for his shift, and his car had been abandoned two miles from here on the side of the road.

“We got the emergency search warrant.” Jeff strode into the kitchen. “Wendy called it in. They found four bags of coke and $10,000 in hundred-dollar bills in Jackson’s apartment.”

“Fuck,” Michael bit out. Impotence and anger filled him.

By all accounts, Stu Devlin was a piece of shit but one that deserved to be behind bars, not fuckin’ dead.

“Twelve years,” Michael muttered.

“What?” Jeff asked, frowning.

“The last time there was a murder in Hartwell. It was twelve years ago.” Michael had done his research before moving here. Although there had been a couple of murder cases in the county, the town of Hartwell had been spared for years. Possibly because the sheriff’s department was based there, so Hartwell had more deputies patrolling the streets because of the number of tourists who poured in throughout the year. When it came to violent crime, there’d been physical and sexual assault cases in Hartwell, the highest percentage of which were committed by visitors.

But there hadn’t been a murder case in Hartwell in twelve years. Not until Michael arrived.

“We wanted to spook him, Jeff.” He rubbed a hand across the nape of his neck, agitated. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. I’ve seen a lot of bad shit over the years. I’ve never played my part in the cause of it before.”

Jeff glowered. “No. You don’t get to do that. Because if you’re to blame, then I’m to blame, and I’m not taking the blame for Freddie Jackson. All we can say is that we underestimated his brand of screwed up. My guess is he came to Stu Devlin for reassurance and instead Stu told him the police were raiding his place for coke.”

A setup. Made sense. Michael nodded, exhaling slowly. “He was getting jumpy. Becoming a liability for them. They wanted him out of the way.”

“It’s only speculation at this point but my guess, yes,” Jeff said.

“I need to find this fucker fast. A man this desperate … who knows what he’ll do next.”

“First, we need to go break the news to the Devlins.” Jeff shook his head. “Jesus Christ. I have to tell the man his son is dead and then ask him to come to the station for questioning.”

It was going to be a long night. Following Jeff out of the house, Michael asked, “Is this your first homicide?”

“It’s the first homicide where I knew the victim.” Jeff gazed back up at what had been Stu Devlin’s impressive home. “Looks like a Devlin finally tried to fuck over the wrong guy.”

Maybe so, Michael thought, but Stu was a victim all the same. Michael wouldn’t stop until he’d found the evidence he needed against Jackson. Then he’d bury