Things We Never Said (Hart's Boardwalk 3)

Michael snapped his fingers in front of Crosby’s face, his own expression severe with impatience. “Answer my question.”

“That’s why I hate cops,” Crosby grumbled. “No manners.”

“That’s funny coming from you, Crosby. Answer Detective Sullivan’s questions or I’ll send Isla in here.”

Michael didn’t know why the idea of sending one of the wait staff in here would bother the cook so much, but it did. He cursed under his breath and then glared at Michael like a petulant schoolboy. “I got a trailer over on Oak Meadows.”

Michael nodded, knowing the area well after searching all over Hartwell for Jackson.

“This morning, before dawn, I saw someone sneaking out of Willy Nettle’s old trailer.”

Michael turned to Cooper.

“He died about eight months ago,” Cooper explained. “His daughter lives in New York. She must not have gotten around to selling it.”

Jesus. Son of a bitch. Michael had been out all over the county looking for him, they had an APB out all over the East Coast for this dirty bastard, and he’d been hiding under their fuckin’ noses?

“How did I not know about this?”

Cooper grimaced at Crosby. “Please tell me you didn’t know that place was lying empty and didn’t say anything?”

His cook scowled. “If I had seen anything weird going on there, I would have said something. And we don’t know it was Freddie Jackson I saw.”

“Was the person male or female? How tall? What build?”

“It. Was. Dark,” Crosby spoke condescendingly slow.

Michael tried to hold on to his patience. “But you saw someone. You also saw how big they were.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “It was a man. But that’s all I know.”

Giving Crosby an abrupt nod, Michael turned on his heel and pulled out his cell. Jeff picked up after two rings.

“Got a lead. Pete Crosby saw a man leaving Willy Nettle’s empty trai

ler out on Oak Meadows just before dawn. Can’t say for sure it was Jackson, but I think it’s worth checking out.”

“I’ll send a couple deputies.” Jeff sighed. “If that son of a bitch has been in town this whole time …”

“I know.” Michael shared his frustration. “I’m on my way there now.”

They hung up, and Michael followed Cooper out of the kitchen.

“I’ll be glad when this is over,” Cooper said.

“Yeah, we don’t want a killer on the loose, scaring off tourists.”

Cooper glared at him as Michael rubbed the nape of his neck.

“I didn’t mean that,” Cooper said. The glare dissipated, replaced with concern. “You okay, Mike?”

“I’ve been better.” Together they pushed the doors open.

Michael wished he’d stayed in the hallway.

Standing at the bar, lips pursed, his eyes dark on Bryn, one of Cooper’s bartenders, was Michael’s old man.

What the hell was Aengus Sullivan doing in Hartwell?