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Ripley moved closer to him, gently tapped him on his face, and looked him dead in his beady eyes. “Never you mind, sweetcheeks. Now, where’s Clarence?”
“Office,” he said. “First room on the left.”
Ripley lightly slapped him again. “Good boy.”
Ella was already on the move, rushing through the hallway like a soldier in the Vietnam tunnels. Down the corridor, into the room, a crash of the door announcing her arrival. Ripley followed her through, and there she found the man who called himself Richard Hunter sitting at a glossy desk, microphone to his lips.
“Clarence Broderick?” Ella said. “FBI. We need to talk.”
Ripley couldn’t get a reading on the man’s expression because of his oversized sunglasses. He was wearing a white t-shirt with a black blazer. His abundance of gold jewelry clinked as he laid his arms against the table.
“The strippers have arrived,” Clarence laughed.
Barely one exchange in and Ripley was ready to knock this guy out. “Don’t make us do something we’ll regret,” she said. “You’re coming with us.”
Clarence took a few seconds to consider his response, like Ripley was watching one of his videos but the feed had frozen. “Sorry listeners, this is unexpected. Two FBI chicks have barged into my stream. This is not a segment. This is absolutely true.”
Ella begun, “We can do this in private or we can do it in front of your army of piss-ants. What’s it going to be?”
Clarence sat back and brought the microphone with him. “Well, maybe you could start by telling me what this is about?”
“Three dead women,” Ella said.
“Doesn’t sound like a problem to me,” Clarence smirked.
Ripley stepped closer, instinctively assuming a fighting stance. She pulled her arm back but Ella caught it. Her partner stopped her, gave her two taps on the arm. The universal signal tocalm the hell down.
“We’re not playing games here, buddy,” Ella said. “This is serious.”
Clarence shrugged and said, “I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true. Those girls were inviting aggression. Why don’t you two take a seat and we’ll talk this out?” He addressed his listeners again. “Looks like we have two very special guests. I don’t know their names, but women’s names aren’t important.”
Ella rushed in, pulled Clarence’s microphone away from his lips. “You really wanna do it like this?” she asked. Ripley could tell the rookie was struggling to keep it together. She had that combat stance, all her weight perched on her right side, ready to strike with those dainty-but-ironclad knuckles of hers. Ripley had seen them in action many times, and the professional side of her wanted to step in and tell Ella to take it easy.
But the human side of her wanted to see the rookie put those weapons to good use.
Clarence slowly and confidently pulled his microphone back. “You can’t touch me,” he said. “I know the law. This ain’t my first rodeo, sweetheart. I’ve seen jail time.”
Ella leaned closer. “I know. Want to tell your listeners about the ex-girlfriend who ended up kicking your ass? What about the time you got put in solitary because the other inmates scared you? Yeah, real alpha. You’re all talk behind a microphone, but once you get out there in the real world…”
Clarence expression fell flat. He shot up out of his chair. “Total bullshit. This woman is trying to defame me. You all heard it. This is slander, doxing, gaslighting. Straight out of the feminist arsenal.”
“Don’t use words you don’t understand. You sound like a dick.”
Clarence began to quiver, the signs of agitation setting in. Ripley was ready to put an end to this, but Clarence was talking, and the more suspects talked the more chance they had of catching him out. Even better that all of this was being recorded. Ripley benched her rage for the good of the case and let the man continue to tie himself up.
“You dare touch me and I’ll sue,” Clarence said. “I know the law. You can’t do anything without evidence. What’s your proof I’ve done anything wrong?”
“We don’t need evidence to talk to you,” Ella said. “And this is your last warning. Turn this crap off or we’ll do things the hard way.”
Clarence grinned an uncomfortable smile and said, “You know, you’d be hot if you made any effort at all.”
Ripley saw Ella bite her lip. An explosion was forthcoming, but Ripley intervened and held her partner back. Ella’s fury radiated like a forest fire and every flame was justified. “Leave it,” Ripley said.
Clarence’s two hangers-on appeared at the door. Ripley sized them up, barely seeing much of a threat. If this ended up three versus two, so be it.
The podcaster suddenly turned his attention to Ripley. “And you, what’s your deal? Divorced, widowed? Don’t worry grandma, some low-value guy will love you again.”
Ella’s forest fire of rage caught Ripley’s hands, ran through her forearms, re-igniting the wrath that Ripley had tried to put aside. It fast reached the boiling point, and Ripley was suddenly at the mercy of her emotions. Who was this guy to make fun of her love life? If this sexist son of a bitch wanted to truly feel a woman’s wrath, he’d picked the right opponent. Ripley swung around, grabbed Clarence’s microphone and hurled it far across the room. She was no longer running on rationale. Emotion was her driving force, as though she was trapped in a transparent box, watching herself from afar.
