TWENTY-EIGHT
It simply wasn’t possible to shame him. She thought he would at least apologize for his lame answer to the inspector. But did he? Of course not. And yet, after the way he kissed her, it was difficult for her to stay angry.
She called Dylan, got voicemail, and left a long message catching him up on the latest development. Then she texted Lexi and Damon to let them know where she was. She didn’t mention the mess her life was in at the moment. She told both of them how much she missed them and promised that, as soon as she was back in Boston, she would call them.
When she ended her texts, she could hear the inspector and Michael standing right outside the door talking. Sinclair was asking legal questions, and Michael’s quick responses showed he knew all the answers. Why wouldn’t he? Like his father and his brothers, Michael loved the law.
A few minutes later the two men walked into the makeshift interrogation room, pulled up chairs, and sat down facing the suspect. Sinclair placed a thick manila folder on the table in front of him.
The sullen look that had been pasted on Ferris’s face changed the second the door opened. He straightened in his chair, forced his notion of a serene expression, and tried to sound sincere when he said, “I don’t understand why I’m here. I would appreciate an explanation.”
“Weren’t the charges explained to you when you were arrested?” Sinclair asked.
“Yes, they were. I thought I heard ‘attempted murder,’ but I knew that couldn’t be right.”
“You have the right to free legal advice.”
“I don’t need it,” Ferris insisted. “I want to clear this up. It’s all a huge mistake. You have me confused with someone else. I tried to explain to the officers that they had the wrong man, but they wouldn’t listen.”
“I’d like to establish a timeline,” Sinclair said, ignoring Ferris’s plea of innocence.
“That’s fine with me. I’ll be happy to help.”
“Where have you been the last two weeks, and what have you been doing?”
“I’ve been taking it easy... relaxing,” he said.
“What’s your occupation.”
Smiling, Ferris said, “I’m a jack-of-all-trades. A handyman. I can fix most anything that isn’t electrical. I’m in between jobs now.” He thought to add, “But I’ve got a big job coming up. A real big job. It’s guaranteed and great pay.”
Sinclair nodded, then asked, “Have you taken any trips in the past two weeks?”
“No, I just lazed around. I went to pubs every night.”
“You didn’t take a flight to Boston, Massachusetts?”
Ferris shook his head. “No,” he scoffed, as though it were a ridiculous question.
Sinclair opened the folder and placed on the table a photo of Ferris getting off the plane at Logan Airport in Boston.
“Oh, that,” Ferris said with a shrug and a shaky laugh. “It was just a quick trip in and out. I only stayed a couple of days.”
“Do you know a man named Leon Jacoby?”
“No.” Ferris looked from Sinclair to Michael and back again. “Why do you ask?”
Sinclair placed another photo in front of Ferris. “Isn’t this you greeting Jacoby?”
“Why, yes, that is me,” he answered.
Ferris didn’t seem fazed that he had been caught in his lies. The man oozed confidence and acted as though he really believed he was soon going to be walking out the door a free man. He must have thought Sinclair didn’t have sufficient evidence to keep him locked up, and these questions were nothing more than a fishing expedition in the hope of discovering information.
Sinclair was about to rip Ferris’s confidence out from under him. “Do you know a young lady named Grace Isabel MacKenna?”
“Who?”
“Grace Isabel MacKenna,” he patiently repeated.