“No.”
Sinclair stacked his hands on top of the folder. “We have a witness who will testify that you and Jacoby were following Miss MacKenna from the Hamilton Hotel in Boston.”
“No, I wasn’t following anyone.”
Sinclair continued. “The witness is Detective Craig Walsh. He’s the man you shot.”
“No, no,” Ferris stammered. “That’s not true. I didn’t shoot anyone.”
“There’s also another witness.”
“Who?”
“Miss MacKenna saw you standing on the corner, watching her.”
“She’s mistaken. She must have seen someone who looks like me.”
Sinclair didn’t seem bothered by Ferris’s denials. “And, of course, there’s other evidence.”
Ferris sat up a little straighter. “Like what?”
“We have your gun.”
“My gun? I don’t own any guns.”
“The gun Miss MacKenna used to kill your friend Leon Jacoby had her fingerprints on it, but there were also Detective Walsh’s fingerprints, and...” Sinclair paused to let the tension build.
“And what?”
“And yours, Ferris. They found your fingerprints on the barrel, the back of the grip, and on the magazine release. You were all over that gun.”
Ferris wiped a bead of sweat from his brow.
Sinclair tapped the folder. “I’ve got enough in here to put you away for a very long time, and we haven’t even started talking about the flash drive yet.”
The color left Ferris’s face. He’s in a panic, Michael thought. He must have finally realized, with all the evidence stacked against him, he was in deep trouble.
Clearing his throat, Ferris said, “Flash drive? What flash drive?”
Finding the charade tiring, Sinclair turned to Michael. “What do you think?”
Michael stared at Ferris when he answered. “I think you’re wasting your time. He’s done nothing but lie since we sat down.”
“Lie? I have not lied,” Ferris protested. Pointing to Michael, he asked, “Who is he? I have a right to know.”
Michael’s distinct Boston accent told him that Michael wasn’t from around these parts, and it made Ferris all the more guarded and anxious.
“I’ve been remiss in not introducing you sooner,” Sinclair said with mock courtesy. Tilting his head toward Michael, he told Ferris, “He already knows who you are. Oscar Ferris, this is Michael Buchanan. He’s an attorney from Boston. Now, why don’t you tell me about the flash drive.”
“What flash drive?”
Ferris’s phony innocence was wearing thin. “The flash drive that fell out of your pocket on the street in Boston, the same one Detective Walsh picked up. That’s the flash drive I want to talk about.”
“I don’t know anything about it.”
“Yes, you do,” Sinclair countered. Looking to Michael for help, he said, “Do you have any questions for him?”
“I’m not going to answer—” Ferris began.