“Yes,” Ferris answered. “Money.”
“Who gave you the letter?”
“You mean instructions?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you want to know how much money?”
“Answer my question,” Sinclair demanded.
“I was getting to it. There’s no reason to snap at me. I’m cooperating.”
Sinclair’s neck was turning red. It was obvious he was close to losing his patience. Michael, on the other hand, was as calm as a soft breeze. Cretins like Ferris didn’t faze him.
“You still haven’t answered my question,” Sinclair said.
“What was the question?”
Since Sinclair looked as though he was about to shout, Michael decided to help out.
“Why don’t you start at the beginning. Who gave you the envelope?”
“A solicitor in Dunross.”
“The name?” Sinclair snapped.
“MacCarthy. Walter MacCarthy. I was one of his clients. He got me out of several legal problems... none of which were my fault,” he rushed to add.
Even though the interview was being recorded, Sinclair pulled out a pen and a notepad and began to take notes.
“MacCarthy hired me to do a job,” Ferris continued. “He knew he could count on me. He called me and asked me to come to his office. He said he needed a favor, but I’d get paid. He gave me the envelope and told me what he wanted me to do.”
“And what was that?”
“I was told to fly to Boston, meet Jacoby, and give him information. I was just the messenger,” he repeated.
“Who wrote the kill—” Michael caught himself in time. “Who found her itinerary? Was it MacCarthy?”
“I asked him that very question. He said no. It was one of his clients, but he wouldn’t tell me who. He promised me he would pay me the full amount once the job was done. I stopped worrying about the money then because I trusted MacCarthy.”
“MacCarthy knew what was in that envelope, didn’t he?”
Ferris didn’t hesitate. “Yes. The papers in the envelope he gave me were copies. He kept the originals, and he told me he was keeping them in a safe place just in case.”
“In case what?”
“He didn’t say.”
Sinclair looked up from the notepad. “Let’s move on. I want to talk about that day in Boston. Tell us what happened.”
“I want you to understand. I was never going to kill anyone. I couldn’t take another person’s life. Jacoby was in charge. He decided I would drive the car and be the lookout. That’s all I was supposed to do, but after I parked, Jacoby wouldn’t let me leave. He insisted that I go with him and watch out for trouble.” Ferris looked anxiously from Michael to Sinclair. “I tell you, I didn’t want to hurt anybody. I was just supposed to give the information. It was Jacoby who made me go with him. He handed me a gun. I tried to get out of there, but Jacoby was mean, real mean. He could have killed me. He promised he would take care of everything. All we had to do was follow her until she was alone, and that turned out to be easy because she walked from the hotel and kept on walking. She damn near wore us out. She never noticed us following her because we kept to the shadows. Then the trouble started.”
Michael wasn’t so calm now. Once Ferris started talking in such a cold detached voice about Isabel, every muscle in Michael’s body tensed for a fight, and all he could think about was putting his fist through Ferris’s face.
Ferris went on. “She stopped, then turned around and started back. We had to scramble to stay hidden. Jacoby went ahead to find a spot, and I found what I thought was the perfect place, and all of a sudden this guy gets in my face.”
“That guy is Detective Craig Walsh,” Michael informed him.