[sup][h1][center][url=https://open.spotify.com/track/6YJCmoVtQMYcCmHOsdlWor?si=40547d1c67974974][img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/019beb92-ea75-723a-94cc-3aa95f7554a3.webp[/img][/url][/center][/h1][/sup][indent][sub][COLOR=SILVER][B]LOCATION[/B][color=2e2c2c].[/color][/COLOR] [I]New York City[/I] - [I]Marquee Skydeck[/I][/sub][sup][right][COLOR=SILVER][b]014[/b][/COLOR][color=2e2c2c].[/color] [I]The Afterparty[/I][/right][/sup][/indent][sub][hr][/sub][INDENT][sub][color=SILVER][B]INTERACTIONS [/B][color=2e2c2c].[/color][/COLOR] [I]N/A[/I][/sub][/indent]
[indent][color=gray]Ephraim’s head swam in the beer and cocktails he’d consumed over the course of the evening, the bright overhead lights of the venue cutting cleanly through the drunken haze. The preceding events were a bit fuzzy, but as far as he understood, it had all been standard fare for a high-scale NYE party: free-flowing rivers of booze, fancy nibbles and appetisers endlessly walking the floor, loud music and strobe lighting, pills and powders passed and shared; and then shortly after the midnight countdown and Ephraim’s inelegant denial of some girl who’d tried to pull the mask up and fish for a kiss, some blonde had stumbled to the bathroom and come straight back out to deliver an almighty piercing scream that utterly interrupted everything. 

After that it all got very boring and restrictive very quickly, and not for the first time in the last hour Ephraim cursed at himself that he’d not had the good sense to escape with the initial rush of people fleeing the fallout. Now he was sat at the bar, mask once again pushed up to his nose and nursing a bottle of beer that had been refused to him until he’d slapped a crisp Benjamin on the countertop. The music was off, the lights were on, and all that was left to listen to were the not-so-subtle whispers of speculation and rumours now circulating the club. In some hidden suite he was sure Tremayne was working feverishly with multiple PR experts to arrange some manner of damage control; no doubt, right this moment, discrediting stories were being spun up, ways to distance the magnate from the events of his own party, but Ephraim suspected it would be for naught; regardless what the papers and press said, the people who would suspect his involvement would always do so, if not for any greater reason than just wanting something to dislike the man for. He wondered how many of them here would be subject to the same schadenfreude-laced accusations. 

[color=white]"Mr. Rifo?"[/color] 
Ephraim turned on his stool to the speaker, a uniformed officer with not enough grime on her pant cuffs and too much starch in the points of her cap. She was fresh and she looked it, and Ephraim knew everyone here was going to run her around in circles before they gave up anything even minutely incriminating. He wondered why she'd been the one sent to question, instead of the rugged-looking detective he'd seen pass through. The obviousness of her inexperience was unwittingly worn on her sleeve, and it wrapped back around to being brazen enough to be suspicious. Or maybe the coke was just making him paranoid.
[color=black]"Yes?"[/color] He answered, after too long a pause. She rested her hands on her belt and regarded him with healthy scepticism. 
[color=white]"I'm Officer Jones. We're collecting everybody's statement - gathering a full picture of tonight's timeline. It shouldn't take long. Then you're free to go."[/color]
[color=black]"Am I currently being detained?"[/color] Ephraim asked, deliberately hostile just for the thrill of it. He was immediately put off by this officer, the too-sharp creases in her shirt, the well-polished shine of her boots. He didn't like being subject to questions while holding powder and he didn't like being implicated in a mur-
[color=black][i]What makes you think it was murder?[/i][/color] A slimy voice said, peeled off from some nasty little surface in the depths of his morbid curiosity.
[color=black][i]Nothing. Just parroting the gossip.[/i][/color]
The slime oozed away with throaty chuckle, and he returned to the officer.

[color=white]"No, Mr. Rifo, but we're relying on everybody's cooperation to get as full a picture as we can. Everything helps, no matter how miniscule or mundane it may seem."[/color] She said it with a practiced restraint, but the tiny nostril flare had been unmistakable to Ephraim. He smirked a small smirk, turning back to the bar and bringing his drink back to his lips to disguise it. 
[color=black]"Sure."[/color]
[color=white]"Do you mind removing your mask?"[/color]
[color=black]"I do. It stays on."[/color]
[color=white]"With respect, Mr. Rifo, I need to be able to recognise who I've spoken to if I need to speak to them again. You could be anybody underneath there."[/color]
[color=black]"That's rather the [i]point[/i], Jones. You can try a warrant if you're passionate about it."[/color] He said, side-eying her. They shared a momentary stand-off; Jones was growing ever-more aggravated with this perfect asshole of a celebrity with every fresh word out of his mouth. She sighed, relenting, and instead pulled out a notepad and pen, poised to transcribe.

[color=white]"Can I just take your name, first of all?"[/color]
[color=black]"Bobby Rifo."[/color] He answered, not looking at her.
[color=white]"Your [i]actual[/i] name, Mr. Rifo, in case your testimony becomes crucial to the case and ultimately in court."[/color]
Ephraim whirled on her.
[color=black]"In [i]court?[/i] Who're you charging? Belvedere Vodka?"[/color]
[color=white]"We're just covering our bases, Mr. Rifo. There's a proper process to everything."[/color]
He snickered. [color=black]"You're not having my name. Better tabloids have tried and the Strokes put it best: 'New York City Cops, they ain't so smart.'"[/color]
[color=white]"Are you being deliberately obstructive, Mr. Rifo? We can take your statement at the station if you'd prefer."[/color]

At this, Rifo laughed, a loud and obnoxious guffaw that put heat in Jones' cheeks and made some steal glances across the venue. 
[color=black]"How about you take it from my lawyers instead, if you want to play hardball in your pressed slacks and shiny badge? Christ, the babysitter fall asleep? That how you manage to wander out? Where do you think you are? Who do you think you're talking to?"[/color]
[color=white][i]A coked-up ego dressed in leather and lycra,[/i][/color] Jones thought, but instead put on a tight-lipped smile and wrote 'Bobby Rifo' in tidy script across the top of her notebook. 
[color=white]"We appreciate this is a delicate situation, Mr. Rifo, and that nobody wants to be here."[/color] She put a gloved hand to her pocket, pulling the recorder she'd fished from Josie's clutch in the bathroom. Rifo's eyes widened when he saw it, recognition blossoming across his face; Officer Callie Jones couldn't see his eyes, but she wasn't so green as to not notice the brief moment of slack-jawed shock as his mouth hung open, beer stalling mid-air halfway back to his lips. She wasted no time, pressing the 'Play' button with a firm [i]click[/i]; even against the background noise of the ongoing festivities, Rifo's voice was unmistakeable.
[i][color=black]"-because they're jealous I can do it and they can't. There's your quote."[/color][/i]
[color=white]"But I understand you spoke to the victim tonight, and we need to make sure we've got as much information as possible."[/color]

And there it was: the silver bullet. She'd saved it, a trump card hidden up her sleeve. Ephraim was incensed; it was hardly enough to implicate him in whatever proceedings were being investigated, but it linked him inexorably to the events of the evening. God, what were the odds the fucking [i]reporter[/i] had to punch it tonight?

[color=black]"Alright, fine, whatever."[/color] He said, grumpy in resignation. Callie suppressed a smirk of her own. 
[color=white]"We just need to know the extent of your interaction with the deceased earlier this evening and whether you saw or spoke to her at any other points during the night prior to her death."[/color] She said simply, pen poised at the ready. She thought of the recorder, and how useful one of her own might be at this present moment. Instead, she scribbled as Rifo spoke to his bottle.
[color=black]"I didn't see her at all until she cornered me outside after my set. That was gone...at least gone ten, but there was still plenty of night left after our little run-in."[/color]
[color=white]"And what were the details of your conversation with the deceased?"[/color]
[color=black]"Come on, you've got half of it on that dinky little thing,"[/color] he said, waving a hand toward the recorder that had been slipped back into Callie's pocket, [color=black]"and the other half was just boring needling."[/color]
[color=white]"Needling?"[/color] Jones asked, prodding for more. Rifo rolled his eyes.
[color=black]"Needling. Like you - what's my name, what's under the mask, who am I really. Tabloid stuff. Boring. She got as far with it as you did. Then she started recording, I gave her her 'quote', and then I ditched her. Didn't see her again the whole night."[/color]

Rifo stopped talking and Callie stilled her pen. When after a few seconds he'd still not spoken, she drew a line beneath his summary of events. 
[color=white]"Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Rifo."[/color] She said, to which Ephraim gave no response whatsoever. [color=white]"If you don't mind providing a contact number or address in case we need to speak to you again-"[/color]
Rifo pushed a card along the bar without a word. On it was emblazoned the name 'FELIX MENDEZ', and beneath that, 'AGENT', and beneath that, a phone number. 
[color=black]"If you want to reach me, you go through Felix. Otherwise, you'll need a subpoena, and I'd like to see you make [i]that[/i] happen."[/color]
Jones took the card, and didn't press the issue. It would do, and for as much a turd as this man was, she didn't like him for any kind of involvement anyway. 
[color=white]"Thank you, Mr. Rifo. Have a great rest of your night. Happy New Year."[/color]

Callie Jones walked away, preparing for several more conversations exactly as unpleasant as that one had been. Rifo didn't move, sipping on his drink, and wondering how long he should leave it before he called Gordon.
[/color][/indent]