Page 30 of The Perfect Illusion (Jessie Hunt #39)

Jessie was relieved.

Luckily the Elite Introductions headquarters—coincidentally located in the same Wilshire Tower building in Westwood as Benjamin Moran’s legal practice—wasn’t that far from the Walters’s Santa Monica mansion.

Unfortunately, Jessie had to impatiently wait twenty minutes before Brady could extricate himself from Frank Walters, who understandably had a small breakdown upon seeing his wife’s body.

When they pushed through the frosted glass doors of the office, they found they were in a space that felt more like the reception area for an upscale spa than a matchmaking service.

The lights were low, the chairs were plush, and the music had a relaxing ambient vibe.

They walked up to the desk, where an attractive but intense-looking thirty-something offered them a polite smile.

“Do you have an appointment?” she asked.

“No, we’re a walk-in,” Brady said, not sharing any more information than necessary.

“Oh dear,” the woman said, “I believe Victoria was wrapping up for the day. Let me check on her availability. Who may I say is here?”

Jessie was impressed with the woman’s unruffled demeanor, considering that Brady, in his jeans, stained Chico State sweatshirt, and blazer that he’d thrown on as an afterthought, didn’t fit the profile for an Elite Introductions client.

She gave no indication that it mattered.

Then again, rich guys wore whatever they wanted whenever they wanted.

“Detective Bowen of the LAPD,” Brady said, holding out his badge. “And this is Jessie Hunt. We’re not here looking for a romantic pairing. We just have a few questions for her.”

The woman tried to stay professional, but it was clear from her expression that she was shocked. Even with the plastic surgery she’d obviously had done, her face had gone from blandly placid to startled and confused.

“Um, okay,” she said. “Just give me a moment.”

She stood up, her hands clenched into nervous fists, and moved to the office’s inner door. Jessie noted that the receptionist, with her expensive skirt and top, her pinched, over-exercised body, and her entitled bearing, could have easily been mistaken for the matchmaker rather than her assistant.

She knocked on the inner door and when a female voice said to enter, poked her head in.

“Victoria,” she said in a respectfully hushed voice, “there are some folks from the police here. They’d like to speak with you.”

“What about?” Sterling’s disembodied voice demanded sharply.

“They wouldn’t say, but they’re right out front here. Should I send them in?”

In response to the question, she got a long, annoyed sigh.

Jessie was on the verge of short-circuiting the pleasantries and just shoving her way into the inner office.

After all, Sterling was as much a credible suspect as she was a potential source of information.

She didn’t need to be handled with kid gloves.

But before Jessie could move, Sterling answered.

“Go ahead and send them in,” she said reluctantly.

"Okay," the receptionist said. "By the way, I was planning to head out. I'm supposed to meet a friend at 5:15, and I'll be late if I don't leave soon."

“Rachel,” Sterling said, “you are really pushing it today. First taking off all afternoon for that doctor’s appointment and now this? Can I count on you to—you know—be in the office the rest of the week?”

“Of course, Victoria, “the woman apparently named Rachel said. “I’m sorry. A lot of stuff just came up lately. Have a nice evening.”

Rachel reached out with her left hand and held the door open for them as she offered another tight smile.

“As I’m sure you heard, you can go in now.”

Jessie returned the smile, feeling for the receptionist, who was apparently trying to maintain some professional dignity in the face of a boss who didn’t think she’d earned it.

She stepped into the office, followed by Brady.

It had the same spa energy as the outer office, though the music was gone, the lighting was a little brighter, and the giant window facing the Hollywood Hills slightly mitigated the feeling of intimacy.

Victoria Sterling stood up to greet them.

The woman was tall, easily equal to Jessie’s 5’10” height.

She had a statuesque bearing, reinforced by an expensive lavender skirt suit and elaborate updo of her silver-blonde hair.

The quick bio that Jamil had given them on the drive over revealed that she was 44 years old, a former advertising executive who had switched professions after an ugly divorce left her reeling.

She was now re-married to a professor of art history at UCLA.

"So what's this all about?" she asked, coming around from behind her desk and sitting in a high-backed chair. She motioned for them to take the two chairs opposite her own. The setup reminded Jessie of a couples therapist’s office more than that of a matchmaker.

“We thought you might already know,” Jessie prompted as she sat down.

Sterling nodded.

“I can guess,” she admitted. “Does it have anything to do with the reports I saw on the news about the deaths of Patricia Hollinger and Rebecca Martinez?’

Jessie silently noted that Sterling hadn’t mentioned Caroline Walters. That made sense. If she wasn’t involved in her death, she’d have no idea about it yet, only a few hours after it happened. And if she was responsible, mentioning it would essentially be an admission of guilt.

“That’s correct,” Brady said, also not mentioning Walters. “You must have been thrown when you learned that two women that you paired up with clients had been killed on consecutive days.”

“I absolutely was,” she confirmed.

“Then we have to wonder, Ms. Sterling,” he said. “Why not reach out to us to make us aware of the connection?”

Sterling looked surprised by the question.

“I didn’t realize there was a connection,” she said. “I just assumed it was an awful coincidence. And in any case, it’s not my place to get involved in the personal lives of my clients beyond their specified preferences. This felt like it would be an invasion of their privacy.”

Jessie found herself irked by the woman’s seemingly cavalier attitude.

“I could understand not reaching out to the husbands in the immediate aftermath of their wives’ murders,” Jessie said. “That might be seen as an invasion of privacy. But not contacting the authorities? That seems odd.”

Sterling shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

“Well, when you put it that way, I see your point,” she conceded.

“But frankly, I just wasn’t in the headspace to make that logical leap.

This is a little embarrassing to admit, but I was more focused on how this news would impact my business than what my civic responsibilities were.

Having said that, you’re here now and I’m willing to help. How can I do that?”

While Jessie was put off by the admission that Sterling was more annoyed by how these deaths would affect her own professional situation than the impact on the actual human beings involved, she did at least appreciate the woman’s forthrightness.

She decided to take advantage of the modicum of guilt Sterling appeared to be feeling now.

“You pair older, wealthy men with younger, attractive women,” she noted. “That kind of work seems like it might lead to a lot of hard feelings.”

“From whom?” Sterling wanted to know.

“I’m guessing from the young women who have yet to be matched and are missing out on the good life,” Jessie proffered.

“Maybe from the ex-wives of these men, who likely resent being replaced by a newer, younger model. Or even from the men themselves, when some of the young ladies you match them with turn out to be busts, perhaps leaving them feeling frustrated and burned. Have you encountered any of those situations?”

Sterling offered her a condescending smile before replying.

“Not so much for the latter two,” she said.

“The men I work with know this is a process and that it doesn’t always pan out at first. And I’ve never had an issue with an ex giving me grief.

In these situations, I don’t think their anger is generally focused on me.

I have had some potential matches—the young women you referenced—get antsy when they’re matched with a client and then it falls through.

They often view it as defeat being snapped from the jaws of victory.

There can be some resentment. But I typically remind them that a frog of a relationship is often soon followed by a princely one.

I’ve certainly never had any of them express the kind of anger that would make me think they were capable of harming anyone. ”

“Still,” Brady pointed out, “is it impossible to think that one of them might consider eliminating the competition so that they could slide into her spot?”

“Highly unlikely,” Sterling replied. “Impossible? I suppose not.”

“In that case,” Brady continued. “Would you be willing to share your files on the women who were either passed over or were matched up only to have it not pan out?”

Sterling didn’t look enthused by the request and seemed to be doing mental math in her head.

“I suppose,” she finally said, “but how far back are we going? Before I re-imagined this company as Elite Introductions, it operated under another name, Real World Communications. Do I need to include missed matches from back then too?”

“Yes, please,” Brady requested.

He didn't explain why, but Jessie knew the reason.

As Jamil had discovered while filling them in on the company on their drive over, and to his great frustration, Real World Communications had been re-named Elite Introductions three years ago.

That's why he hadn't made the connection to the dating service as a possible line of inquiry.

It turned out that the communications guru that Robert Hollinger listed as a business expense was actually his dating advisor.

He and Patricia met through Real World Communications, though they didn’t advertise that.

Kai Cody and Rebecca Martinez met through Elite Introductions, which they also kept to themselves.

It was only when Frank Walters revealed that he’d also met his wife, Carrie, through Elite Introductions, that the connection among all three became clear.

“All right,” Sterling said, standing up to return to the computer on her desk. “You’ll need to give me a minute. Now that Rachel has left for the day, I’m going to have to collate all this on my own.”

“While you do that,” Brady said nonchalantly, “maybe you can tell us where you were the last two nights?”

“Is this your way of asking for my alibi?” Sterling asked, arching her eyebrows.

“It is,” he said flatly.

"Okay," she said, punching up a screen that Jessie assumed had her calendar on it.

"On Tuesday evening, I met with a potential client over drinks.

The reservation was on the early side, 5:30, because he was going to some sporting event with friends after that.

I can give you his name if you want, along with the restaurant, where I assume the staff can vouch for me.

Last night, I was at home with my husband.

He's a professor of art history, and we're going to Florence next week where he's giving a speech. He was practicing it for me."

As Jessie listened, she came to a disappointing realization.

Upon first learning of Elite Introductions, she had suspected that someone upset about a failed match was the killer.

But until now, she’d held out the possibility that Sterling might be responsible.

While her alibis would have to be confirmed, the specificity of them, especially on Tuesday, at the very time that Patricia Hollinger was killed, seemed to eliminate her.

“What about this afternoon?” Brady asked out of a sense of obligation. “Where were you between 2 and 3 P.M.?”

"Right here at this desk," Sterling said. "As you might have heard, my assistant was gone for an endless doctor's appointment so I couldn't very well leave. Now, if you want me to compile a list of the young women who expressed frustration at not being selected, I'll need a minute to concentrate."

“Of course,” Brady said.

Jessie focused her attention on the clickety-clack of Sterling’s fingers on her keyboard.

The noise sounded almost like someone knocking gently on the side of her brain, persistently trying to get in.

It took her a moment to process that it wasn’t a person knocking, but an idea.

A thought was trying to make itself known to her, but she had to open her mind to let it in.

She closed her eyes, trying to concentrate.

The soft mental knocking had started almost immediately after Sterling made her last comment about her assistant, Rachel, being at a doctor’s appointment this afternoon. That meant she would have been gone right in the window when Caroline Walters was killed.

Jessie’s mind filled with the image of Rachel.

She recalled the pinched, slightly emaciated look of a woman who appeared intent on keeping up physically with the Joneses.

She recalled the plastic surgery and the fancy clothes, both of which seemed pricey for a woman working as an assistant to a matchmaker.

She also seemed a little older than expected for this kind of job, almost like someone who was starting over.

Something about the disparate qualities of the woman didn’t quite fit.

Then she pictured how the woman had kept her hands balled up in fists and held open Victoria’s door with her left hand. It was almost as if she was trying to hide her right one and any possible damage it might have suffered, perhaps while holding a jagged chunk of sharp glass.

“What’s your assistant’s full name?” she asked suddenly.

“Rachel Thompson,” Sterling said, briefly looking up from her screen, “why?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Jessie told her.

But the second the woman returned her attention to her monitor, Jessie began furiously texting Jamil.