Page 13 of The Perfect Illusion

Jessie looked over at Brady, who was sitting casually on the couch as if everything was chill. She wanted to catch his eye to see if he was on board with her getting more aggressive with Sullivan. But he was focused on the man and didn’t look her way. She decided to go for it anyway.

"Do you think it might be because of the slew of harassment claims you've faced over the years?"

CHAPTER EIGHT

Sullivan’s jaw dropped open briefly before he recovered. His eyes, already suspicious, turned into narrow slits.

“I’m sure that I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said huffily.

“I’m sure you do,” Jessie replied. “We’re LAPD, Mr. Sullivan. We obviously have access to all your legal records. It might be better to dispense with the denials and just answer the questions you’re being asked.”

“Look, lady, I don’t know what you heard, but I never touched Tricia,” he growled. “Anyone who says different is full of it.”

Jessie could feel that Brady's eyes were now on her and she glanced in his direction. He was clearly surprised that she'd gone all in so early. But his expression seemed to say, "Now that you've started, you may as well keep going." So she did.

“We’re less concerned about if you touched her than if you killed her.”

She let the words hang there, studying his reaction. Unfortunately, the Botox complicated matters, as the ability of Sullivan's facial muscles to respond normally was severely compromised. His brow furrowed slightly, and he pursed his lips in either shock or anger.

“Tricia’s dead?” he asked. His tone expressed mild surprise but neither sadness nor curiosity.

“She is,” Jessie replied. “Murdered. And only weeks after tersely refusing to judge your pageant. That must have annoyed you.”

“It did,” he answered, apparently fully over the news of Patricia’s death. “I thought it was quite rude of her to pass on it without any explanation or get back to me when I reached out again. But I hope you’re not suggesting I killed her over something like that. Like I said, I never even touched her.”

“You seem really intent on making it clear that you never physically harassed her,” Brady noted, somehow managing to still sound amiable under the circumstances. “But you’ll forgive us for wondering if maybe Tricia was aware of the other allegations against you and didn’t want any part of you. If you were worried about that, maybe you were also worried that she’d say something that could damage your reputation. Is that possible?”

Sullivan pushed himself up from his chair, making the thing squeak in what sounded almost like pain.

"Listen," he said with dripping condescension, "I answered your questions because you're cops and all. But now you're making accusations, and I'm not feeling so helpful. All I can tell you is that I didn't ever harass that bitch, even though she was uppity enough to deserve it."

Jessie seethed. She felt an invisible fist squeeze her insides, as if it was attempting to force the fury out of her and into the open. She didn't know if Sullivan was a killer or just a scumbag, but his lack of respect for the dead made her want to beat some reverence into him.

She glanced at the handset for his phone on the desk and briefly imagined picking it up and smashing one end into the man’s temple. She pictured herself doing it repeatedly, slamming the plastic into his now-soft skull even after he’d slumped in his chair. With Brady leaning back on the couch, she suspected she could get in at least half a dozen blows before he’d be able to get up and stop her.

“That’s not very nice talk, Mr. Sullivan,” Brady said, grabbing onto the armrest and pulling his considerable body upright, “Especially considering that I noticed that while you repeatedly deny harassing Patricia, you haven’t actually denied killing her. That seems weird to me.”

“Okay,’ Sullivan said petulantly, “I didn’t kill her.”

“Can you prove that?” Brady asked.

Jessie, standing silent as she watched this back and forth, realized she’d been holding her breath and slowly exhaled.

“How would I do that?” Sullivan wanted to know.

“You could start by telling us where you were last night between five and seven,” Brady suggested.

At that, Sullivan smiled smarmily.

“That’s easy,” he said. “I was at a run-through for the pageant this Saturday.”

“Can people vouch for your presence the whole time?” Brady asked.

"I can do better than that," he said, opening a desk drawer.

“Careful,” Brady warned, his hand going to his right hip, where his gun holster rested.

“I’m just getting out a thumb drive,” Sullivan said. “Is that okay?”

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