attempted murder. The federal prosecutor will ask for the death penalty because it was a murder for hire,” he said. “And he’ll get it, too.”
“Yes, he will,” Sinclair agreed, going along with whatever Michael said.
“Wait . . . just wait. I’m not American,” Ferris reminded. His gaze kept bouncing back and forth between Michael and Sinclair.
“The crimes were committed in Boston,” Sinclair pointed out.
“You might want to start preparing yourself for life in an American federal prison,” Michael told him. “I understand the treatment by the guards is brutal if a prisoner gives them any trouble.”
Nodding, Sinclair added, “I’ve heard stories.”
“I know all about the federal prisons in the United States,” Ferris said. “I heard from a reliable source that they chain prisoners to the wall in their cells with their hands above their heads.”
What the hell? Chain prisoners to walls? Maybe during the Spanish Inquisition . . . or in cartoons, Michael thought.
Sinclair didn’t refute Ferris’s ideas. “So you have an understanding of what it’s going to be like.”
“Yes,” Ferris agreed. “And I’m not going—”
Sinclair interrupted him. “I’m not promising anything, but perhaps an arrangement can be made with the federal agents. You could be tried here and serve your sentence here.”
Ferris leapt at the possibility. “Yes, I want to be here, but I’m not going down for attempted murder. I didn’t try to murder anyone.”
Now that Ferris was more cooperative, Sinclair said, “If you want my help, you’re going to have to start answering my questions. No more lies.” He added, “And you can begin by telling us where you got the flash drive.”
“No one gave it to me. It’s mine. There were papers inside an envelope with a lot of information about a young woman.”
“Grace Isabel MacKenna,” Sinclair supplied.
“Yes,” Ferris answered. “I read all the pages, made a photo of them, and put them on a flash drive. I didn’t want to carry the papers around with me. Someone could get hold of them and read them, and I couldn’t think of a safe place to hide them. I knew if I tried to memorize all the information, I would forget something by the time I told Jacoby.”
When Ferris didn’t continue, Sinclair prodded, “So you copied them?”
“Yes, I did. Then I burned the papers. I thought it would be safe for me to travel with the flash drive. Still, I didn’t want to leave it just anywhere, like in a hotel room. Too dangerous if the wrong people got hold of it. Laptops get stolen all the time.”
“Was there anything else in the envelope?”
“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.