Page 37 of Girl, Unknown

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“You know I hate guys like this.”

Ripley had Clarence Broderick in her crosshairs. She was at the wheel, navigating the backstreets of Fallbank, near Davenport, to locate this suspicious gentleman. He had a lot to answer for, and not just because he was one of the last people to see Abigail Cartwright alive.

Because while his given name was Clarence Broderick, he had an alter ego by the name of Richard Hunter.

“So, let’s slot the pieces in place here,” Ella said from the passenger seat. “Clarence, orRichard,started talking to our victim around a week ago. Not sure how they met, probably online.”

Ripley said, “Yeah. Then they met on Monday night. Two nights ago, and they haven’t talked much since.”

“And this Clarence guy just happens to be a misogynistic podcaster. He must have mentioned his show to Abigail. That’s why she was checking it out.”

“Yup. If this guy is talking about the so-called Davenport Monster with such reckless abandon, that’s a cause for concern.”

“Clarence is clearly a narcissist. Loves himself, hates women. He’s a perfect fit. We could be dealing with one serial killer after all.”

Ripley saw the signs for Church Avenue, the home of Clarence Broderick. The houses scattered along the road were one notch below modest, so Ripley guessed that spewing sexist nonsense three times a week didn’t pay all that much. House number three-one-one came into view. A bland, nondescript home with an overgrown lawn, battered old fence, and an exterior in dire need of TLC.

“This asshole better be home.”

Ella waved her phone. “According to his channel, he’sgoing livein three minutes. Looks like we’ve picked the perfect time.”

Ripley halted the vehicle, got out, and checked her pistol was locked and loaded. “Does that mean a hundred thousand guys might see us kick this idiot’s head in?”

Ella secured her weapon too. “Yup.”

“Then consider me ready. Let’s go.”

Ripley was first at the door, hammering on the frosty glass partition with rigid knuckles. Ten seconds passed. She wasn’t going to wait around for this guy. She banged again with force, then saw two figures approaching the door from behind the blurry glass.

The door edged open. A young face appeared at the crack.

“Who are you?” the guy asked.

“FBI,” Ripley said. “Is Clarence Broderick home?”

The young fellow glanced back inside the house, then back to Ripley. “No.”

In one movement, Ripley flashed her badge and pushed the door wide open, knocking the nameless gentleman a few steps back. “If you’re going to lie, lie well,” she said. Ella followed her in.

“I’m Rich’s producer. You can’t come in here,” the man shouted.

“Yes we can.”

“We’re just starting a show.” He reached his arms out, pushed Ripley back towards the door, but the rookie was on him like a cheetah on prey. She intercepted his attempt at a pushback, bent one arm behind his back and wrung him out to dry.

He squirmed and kicked, but Ella had him arched over a hallway table. “Get off me you b…”

“Shh,” Ella said. “Another word and I’ll break your arms.”

The producer spat out a wad of phlegm, already out of breath. “Manhandled by a woman. Imagine if your listeners heard about that.”

He suddenly fell silent. Ella unhooked him and left him standing in the hallway as they moved to the second figure, now backed up against a far wall.

Ripley said, “How about you, Spartacus? You want to try your luck?”

“What do you want?” the man asked. He looked young and inexperienced, dressed in a shirt that was three sizes too big. Like a teenager wearing his dad’s suit.

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