Page 19 of The Perfect Appearance

That seemed to satisfy him. He turned and headed back down the row and out of sight. Jessie watched him go, then went in the other direction as quickly as she could. After finding a terminal, she open the box again. This time, she took a moment to look at the murder weapon.

The bowl, about the size of half a coconut, was smoothed out on the interior but jagged on the outside, with quartz crystals jutting out like little teeth. That was the side the killer had used to bash Gemma Britton’s skull in, and there were remnants of her all over it. Though Jessie already knew it from pictures, seeing strands of Britton’s red hair was a gut punch, reminding her how awful the woman’s last moments must have been.

She waited for the feeling to pass before opening the other baggie and grabbing the thumb drive, which she then inserted it in the work station computer. Sure enough, there was a file identified as “patient records,” with a notation that the material had been provided after securing a court order. She tried to access it, but it was password protected. Deciding she didn’t have time to mess around, she called Jamil and quickly explained the situation to him.

“This seems like it’s way beyond the document review that Captain Hernandez talked about you doing,” he said.

“Jamil,” she replied, keeping her voice quiet and even-keeled, despite her frustration. “I acknowledge that this is unusual, but it’s what I have to do to help with the case without going through official channels. Now, you can either help access this information or not. It's your choice, but I need you to choose now."

The hesitation on the other end of the line was brief.

“Of course I’ll help,” he said. “Just give me a second.”

As she waited in silence, she thought she heard a door open and started to panic. After a moment, she realized that there had been no buzzing sound, and it must have come from somewhere else in the basement. Jamil returned to the line.

“At Wilshire Station, the standard file access code is the station ID number followed by the detective badge number, and then the case file number. Do you need those?”

"Yes, please,” she said before a thought popped into her head. “Wait, won’t that leave a record showing that someone used a detective’s ID to access the info? I don’t want to raise any alarm bells.”

“I know,” Jamil told her with a heavy sigh. “That’s why I’m going to give you one of the generic badge numbers the station keeps in reserve. It'll still raise some eyebrows, but at least it won't be tied to anyone specific.”

“Go for it,” she said.

He gave her the code, and she typed it in. The file opened, revealing hundreds of patients files.

“It worked,” she said. “Can you stay on the line while I look through these?”

“For a few minutes,” he said. “I’m supposed to be in a status update meeting on the search for Haddonfield at 4 p.m. That’s five minutes from now.”

She was only half listening as she did a search, hunting for any patients that Dr. Britton had explicitly mentioned having stopped seeing. Conveniently, there was a notes section that gave perfunctory, one-sentence reasons for ending the working relationship with some patients. She scanned the comments as quickly as she could.

Of the thirty-four patients whom she’d stopped seeing, seven had died, and nine had been referred to other psychiatrists, usually specialists. She’d mutually parted ways with another fifteen who determined that they no longer needed her help at all. That left only three who she stopped seeing for what she described as “personal concerns.”

Jessie pulled a thumb drive that she’d brought with her out of her pocket and used it to copy just those three files. As she was saving the data, Jamil cleared his throat.

“I’m being called in now,” he whispered. “Do you still need me?”

Jessie had been so immersed in her task that she’d forgotten that she’d kept the researcher waiting. Simultaneously frustrated with herself for losing track of time and wondering if this had happened in other instances without her realizing it, she tried to cover.

“I always need you, Jamil,” she said, “but I think we’re good. Thanks for your help.”

He hung up as she removed both the original thumb drive and her own. Just then, she got a text from Grover. It read:Detective here. About to go back there. Not Wagner or Ortega. Signing in now.

Leaving, she texted back, then quickly returned the original thumb drive to its evidence bag, put the top back on the bankers box, and hurried back to the shelf where she’d gotten it. She could hear footsteps approaching and took out her baseball cap, put it on, and pulled the brim low to again hide her face.

She waited anxiously to see if the detective would come down her aisle, but he stopped one over. She heard the sound of a box being slid off a shelf, did the same with hers, and used that lucky break as a sign that it was time for her to go. Walking briskly down the aisle, she turned and passed by the aisle the detective was in, not even glancing in that direction.

Once she got to the front, she saw Officer Peterson sitting at his desk, immersed in his book. She walked over and he looked up.

“Thanks so much,” she said.

“Find anything useful?” he asked hopefully.

“Unfortunately not,” she said sadly. “It was a long shot anyway. Still, it was very sweet of you to try to help.”

She gave his shoulder a friendly squeeze.

“Not a problem,” he replied, turning beet red. “I’m sorry it ended up being fruitless.”

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