Page 7 of The Perfect Illusion

Hannah nodded amiably and didn’t say what she was thinking: that her roommate had no idea just how right she was.

CHAPTER FOUR

Jessie stared at Patricia Hollinger, trying to make sense of what she was seeing.

“You said she was going to a charity event, right?” Jessie reconfirmed with Brady, “not a pageant of some kind.”

"That's right," Brady said. "It was a gala celebrating the opening of a new wing at a homeless shelter she supported."

“Then why is she dressed like that?” Jessie asked.

“That’s why I called you,” Brady said.

Jessie blinked several times in an attempt to clear her head. Patricial Hollinger was an attractive strawberry blonde with brown, now vacant eyes who looked a half decade younger than her thirty-two years. She appeared to have been posed on the divan, her right arm draped over the back of it and her legs dangling over the front of the cushion as if she enjoyed lounging about in a pricey evening gown.

But that wasn’t what threw Jessie. Hollinger was wearing a diamond tiara, along with a sash that read: Miss Huntington Beach 2015. More importantly, she had a gaping hole on the left side of her neck, just above the clavicle. That explained the blood spray all over the floor and even some walls. The killer must have hit an artery, sending the stuff everywhere.

Jessie immediately made two mental notes. First, because the wound was on the left side of the neck, it suggested that their killer was right-handed. Secondly, the sash was mostly still pristine white, indicating that it had been placed on Hollinger by the killer well after she stopped bleeding out.

A wave of empathy washed over Jessie. She could envision the woman seeing her attacker come at her and the fear she must have felt. Was she even still alive when her killer began dolling her up as a beauty contestant? How helpless and confused she must have felt. Jessie found herself hoping that Patricia Hollinger had died before that point.

“Post-mortem additions of the pageant items, I gather?” she said more than asked.

“We think so,” said a middle-aged woman wearing protective plastic coverings over her clothes. Jessie didn’t recognize her.

“Jessie, this is our deputy medical examiner, Meg Cronin,” Brady said.

“Good to meet you,” Cronin told her.

"Likewise," Jessie said. "I know it's early, but does your preliminary estimated time of death match what the home security footage showed?"

“Very early yet,” Cronin cautioned, “but we’re estimating between 5 and 10 P.M.”

“That fits,” Brady said, “The killer arrived at 6:06 and left at 6:21.”

“How long would it take for her to bleed out based on the size of that wound and the blood spray we see?” Jessie asked.

Cronin sighed and closed her eyes. Jessie didn't know if she was simply doing a mental calculation or, like Jessie, was also imagining how long the woman had suffered before she finally faded away.

“Not more than two minutes, I’d say,” the M.E. concluded.

Jessie took some minor solace in that.

“That would give the killer a decent chunk of time after she died to pose her,” she said, “and then to collect the pageant items and put them on her before leaving.”

Everyone in the room stood silently. Jessie had no doubt that most of them were doing the same thing as her: picturing the killer methodically setting up their display. One thing was clear to her: this wasn’t a crime of passion, committed suddenly. It had been planned out by someone with an agenda, maybe even a vendetta.

“I want to talk to the husband,” she said suddenly as she turned and left the bedroom.

She needed a break from the stench of death.

***

Jessie stepped out onto the expansive patio.

She saw Robert Hollinger seated facing away from her, on a cushioned sofa in front of an impressive rectangular gas fire pit, complete with glass rocks. A female officer stood beside him, shifting nervously from foot to foot, clearly unsure what to say to the man. Jessie glanced at Brady Bowen, who was standing next to her, tucking in his shirttails.

“You want to make the introduction?” she asked.

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