Isabel could have said something, but she remained silent. She was curious to find out what category Michael would put her in. Friend? Lover? Or distant relative? She shivered at that thought.
Although her sister was married to Michael’s brother, Isabel was in no way related to Michael. Thank God. She’d be breaking nearly every commandment if she were. He could call her a hookup, she supposed. No, a hookup was for one night, and she’d slept with Michael more than once, so that
wouldn’t work. Might as well call her what she was. Easy. She almost nodded but caught herself in time. That’s exactly what she was with Michael. Easy.
“Isabel is a friend of the family.”
Are you kidding me? A friend of the family? She could feel her face heating up. He couldn’t say she was a close friend or just a friend? No, he had to make it even more impersonal. A friend of the family.
Okay. If that’s the way he wanted it, then that’s the way it was going to be.
“Inspector, may I go in with you?” she asked.
“No.” Michael’s voice had a real bite to it. Sinclair was more diplomatic. He told her no in a calm, reasonable tone.
“Then may I watch and listen to the interview?’ she asked the inspector, completely ignoring Michael.
“Yes, of course. Just sit back and watch the monitor.” He tilted the screen to her and walked out of the room.
Michael stood and followed him. “Stay in this room, Isabel,” he said, and when she didn’t immediately agree, he turned back to her. “Promise me.”
“I’ll stay in this room. May I borrow your phone? I’d like to text someone.”
It wasn’t like Michael to show her any affection in public, and Sinclair was standing right there in the doorway, yet when Michael leaned toward her, she thought he was going to kiss her.
“Oh no, you don’t,” she whispered. “Since I’m just a friend of the family you can’t kiss me good-bye.”
Michael laughed. The second the words, “a friend of the family,” were out of his mouth, he had known they were going to come back to bite him.
Isabel was disappointed by his amused reaction. She was being a real smartass, but he didn’t seem to mind.
“Sure I can,” he said as he leaned down, clasped her chin, and kissed her. After rattling her, he said, “Actually, I was just handing you my phone and was going to suggest that you call Dylan and catch him up on what is going on, but then you asked me to kiss you . . .” He walked out of the room and pulled the door shut behind him, leaving her speechless.
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.
“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.