Flynn alerted a woman officer behind the front desk that he was summoned by Detective Alex Livingston to talk about a murder investigation. She called Livingston, and moments later he emerged. Unlike the uniformed officers, Livingston sported khaki slacks and a light blue button-down shirt. His brown hair slightly unkempt, Livingston offered Flynn his left hand to shake, refusing to transfer his coffee mug from his right hand. Flynn obliged with an awkward shake before following Livingston back to an office.
The name on the outside read, “Detective Ken Mooney.” Flynn inquired why they were going to another detective’s office. Livingston said that he needed a more private space to talk and his office was located in a more public spot. Flynn appreciated the gesture.
As soon as Flynn sat down, Livingston started with the questions.
“So, what were you doing at Ms. Taylor’s house last night?” Livingston asked.
“Before we begin, I must ask if all of this is going to go into your official report because if it is, I can’t tell you everything,” Flynn responded.
“I’ll put whatever I want in this report — and you better answer my questions straight. Just remember that you were the last person she was seen with last night.”
“With all due respect, Detective Livingston, your empty threats are the last thing I’m worried about. If you put some of the things I tell you in your report, I’ll be dead in a week. So, you can either leave some details out and we can continue. Or this conversation is over.”
Flynn knew he was pushing the detective’s buttons. But he’d do anything to shorten this torture.
“Fine, then,” Livingston conceded. “What were you doing at Ms. Taylor’s house last night?”
“She contacted me about some documents she wanted to give me.”
“Documents pertaining to JFK’s death, I presume?”
“You can presume all you want, but I’m not going on the record with that.”
Livingston jotted down a few notes and continued.
“What was the nature of your relationship with Ms. Taylor?”
Flynn furrowed his brow and stared at Livingston. Man, does this guy watch too many cop shows.
“I told you that she contacted me because she wanted to give me something.”
“Yes, but she stated on Twitter that you were friends.”
Flynn shifted in his seat and sighed.
“Look, she was excited to meet me. I do have fans, you know. But I had never met her before.”
“Yet you met at her private residence?”
“Yes, she had some documents that she didn’t want anyone to see, not in public anyway. So she suggested that we meet at her place.”
“What time did you leave Ms. Taylor’s place?”
“I wasn’t there more than thirty minutes. Maybe seven-thirty. I don’t know for sure.”
“Can you tell me for certain?”
“How did you even know I was there?”
“Other than your admission now? Surveillance cameras in the neighborhood captured you going into her house.”
“So, wouldn’t the surveillance cameras have the time I came out of her home?”
Livingston refused to look up, scribbling something in the corner of his pad. Flynn rolled his eyes in disgust and continued. “What kind of questions are these anyway? You already have all the answers to everything you’re asking me.”
“Just answer the question, Mr. Flynn.”
“I already did.”
“What did you do after you left?”
“I went straight back to my hotel and went over my notes from our conversation. Then I went downstairs and had a drink in the bar before retiring to my room for the evening.”
“What time were you in the bar?”
“About ten o’clock.”
“Can anyone verify you were there?”
“Yes, plenty of people.” Flynn grew more agitated with each amateurish question. “Are we done here? I think it’s pretty obvious I didn’t kill her and I know nothing else.”
“Fine. We’re done. But I don’t want you leaving town for a week. I may need to bring you back in for more questioning.”
Flynn huffed as he grabbed his briefcase and walked out of the office. He didn’t like the order to stay around in Washington, but he didn’t put up much of a fuss. It would be a good excuse to stay and do more research without his editor climbing all over him. Flynn glanced around the office to see if anyone was watching him. Nobody looked suspicious, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t being watched. He exited the building, looking over his shoulder one last time.
INSIDE THE PRECINCT, Livingston waited until Flynn left the building. He stared out the window until he observed Flynn crossing the street below. He fished out his cell phone from his pants pocket and placed a call.
“So, what did you find out?” the voice on the other end asked.
“I don’t think he knows anything, but you can never be too sure. I told him not to leave town for a week, so we should be able to figure out what he knows by then.”
“Good. Keep an eye on him. We can’t have him revealing more secrets. And if he does, I have a man who can take care of him.”
CHAPTER 4
Ivan stood on the Washington street corner surveying his next victim. He wasn’t exactly proud of what he did. No one ever really grows up with aspirations of becoming an assassin. But such labels disgusted Ivan. He prided himself on being part of a cause, something bigger than himself. And the cause needed him. More precisely, it needed his dedication.
Ivan could count on two hands the number of people he killed while serving the cause. They were brutal murders too. He once killed a man by dragging him behind a truck on a dirt road for three miles, traveling 60 miles an hour. He cut the man loose and tossed his body into the woods for the animals to devour. Another one of his signature kills came when he choked a man to death by cutting off the man’s fingers and ramming them down his throat until he couldn’t breathe. But it wasn’t how he killed his victims that earned him the nickname, Ivan the Terrible — a nickname he hated. No, it was how he tortured them. Sometimes he killed them. Sometimes they would kill themselves — anything to avoid a second of torture at his hands. But when you’re six-foot-four with a weightlifter physique, you have a presence that frightens most people with your mere appearance.
As he watched the man across the street, he wondered if it would ever come to that point. He preferred to persuade and cajole people to do what he wanted them to do. His moral appeals often found acceptance in a society full of people who wanted to do right. However, what seemed right to him didn’t always seem right to others. That resistant attitude required a different type of persuasion, the kind of persuasion that earned him his nickname and made others fear him. He hoped his next victim would succumb to simple persuasion.
He popped the collar up on his blue athletic warm-up jacket and followed his assignment. Being careful to stay far enough back to avoid being seen was an art he’d perfected. A Nationals baseball cap and large sunglasses helped Ivan blend into the Washington streets. Who wasn’t wearing a Nationals cap these days? He’d even seen a few senators sport them before yanking them off at the last minute and dashing into the Capitol. This is what he did — observe. He needed to gain every possible access point to his victims without being identified. He needed to be a ghost.