Page 5 of The Perfect Illusion (Jessie Hunt #39)

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.

“Sure,” he said, leading her over.

They walked around the couch and stopped next to the fire pit. Jessie studied the now-widower, who was bent over with his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. Hollinger seemed to sense their presence and removed his hands from his face, though he couldn’t bring himself to look up.

Even under the circumstances, the man looked dashing. His slightly disheveled gray hair framed a sculpted, if slightly lined face. His gray eyes were understandably red and puffy but still soulful. He was wearing a tailored suit that oozed sophistication.

“Mr. Hollinger,” Brady said quietly as the man raised his eyes. “This is the criminal profiler I told you I was waiting for before we talked to you in detail. Her name is Jessie Hunt.”

Hollinger sat up straighter as he squinted at her.

“I’ve heard of you,” he said, his tone soft, defeated. “You’re the one who helps catch the worst of the worst. Serial killers and the like. Is that what happened to Tricia?”

Jessie sat down on the terrazzo edge of the fire pit, studying him. This was always a delicate situation. Robert Hollinger was theoretically in the early stages of mourning so she had to be careful how she dealt with him. But she couldn’t forget that he was also a potential suspect.

“We don’t know yet, Mr. Hollinger,” she said quietly.

“But we’re going to make every effort to find out.

The reason I was called in was because of the—unusual—nature in which Tricia was found.

Detective Bowen and I are hoping that you can offer us some insight that could help in our investigation.

Would it be okay if we asked you a few questions? ”

“Of course,” he said blankly, tugging at the lapels of his jacket in what seemed like some attempt to center himself. “Anything I can do to help.”

"Right," Jessie said, glancing at Brady to make sure he was cool with her going first. He nodded supportively, so she continued. "We understand that you found Tricia. Can you tell us about that?"

“Yes,” he said, his voice becoming stronger now that he had some specifics to focus on.

“I was supposed to be home last night actually. I was planning to go to the gala with her. But my firm—I’m an executive at a corporate real estate company—was at a major convention.

It was held in Denver this year. But because of an unexpected late spring snowstorm, we pushed our traditional firm dinner back from Monday to last night.

That meant that rather than getting home at seven last night and going straight from the airport to meet Tricia at the event, I had to spend an extra night in Denver.

I caught an early flight back this morning and got here around 9:30.

I went straight upstairs. That’s when I found her. ”

“When was the last time you were in touch with her?” Brady asked.

Hollinger pulled out his phone and scrolled through it.

“We actually spoke at 5:45 last night,” he said. “She was getting ready, deciding among dresses and such. I texted her hugs and kisses later, at 7:08. I congratulated her again on the shelter and apologized for missing the event.”

“But she didn’t get back to you?” Jessie checked.

“No, but I didn’t think that was so odd,” he explained.

“I figured she was busy with the event. I texted her one last time to say goodnight from the firm dinner. I didn’t hear back that time either but it was almost 11 p.m. I assumed she was already asleep.

She keeps her phone set to silence notifications after 10:30.

I didn’t reach out to her this morning in case she was sleeping in.

I had hoped that I might be able to surprise her by waking her up in bed. ”

His voice cracked with emotion as he finished.

Jessie gave him a second to regroup. In a circumstance like this, she couldn't always be sure if her interviewee was sincere or acting.

She was good at reading body language. But some guilty people were brilliant actors, and some innocent ones came off squirrelly because of the intensity of the moment.

In her estimation, Robert Hollinger was either innocent or a great actor, but she couldn't be sure which.

“Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt her?” she asked after waiting several seconds.

Hollinger shook his head vehemently.

“No,” he said. “She was a good person. People were always surprised that a beauty queen like her could be so kind and warm. She had a gentle soul.”

“How did you two meet?” Brady asked, cleverly mixing seemingly genuine interest with a subtle attempt to suss out any complications in their marriage.

“We were set up,” Hollinger said. But rather than expounding further, he put his head back in his hands, perhaps recalling that first time they met.

“We understand that you wanted to tell your housekeeper about Tricia’s death,” Jessie said, hoping to draw him back to the present. “Why is that?”

For the first time since they had been in his presence, the man managed something close to a wry smile.

“Rosa has been with me for over thirty years,” he said wistfully.

“She used to clean my bachelor apartment once a week back before I was earning six figures a year, much less what I make now. She’s been with me through thick and thin—three marriages including Tricia, two children, several bouts with clinical depression and one with cancer.

My mother died when I was ten and Rosa—she's 76 years old now—is the closest thing I've had to one since.

She's actually my most stable female relationship.

I consider her family and I value her opinion.

She didn't especially love my first wife, and she despised the second one.

But she immediately took to Tricia when I introduced them.

When we got married three years ago, she was a bridesmaid.

She loved my wife as much as I did. She is going to be devastated when she hears this, so I want her to hear it from me. "

"All right," Brady said, "when we're done talking, we'll ask you to call her to come over. I know it's her day off, but Jessie made an excellent point earlier. Because of your wealth and your wife’s minor celebrity status, this will make the local news sooner rather than later. We all need to talk to Rosa before that happens.”

“I understand,” Hollinger said.

“One more thing before you call her,” Jessie said. “Do you have any idea why someone might have positioned your wife like that, with all the pageant accoutrements?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I met her after she’d parted ways with the pageant world. She was proud of her accomplishments but it wasn’t really a part of her life anymore, at least not until recently.”

“What do you mean?” Jessie pressed.

"Just that she mentioned that someone recently reached out to her about being a judge in an upcoming competition.

I told her that she should do it if she thought it would be fun, but she said that she'd already declined.

When I asked why, she wouldn't say but she got agitated and said she didn't want to discuss it anymore.

That was rare for her, so I dropped it. I didn't even think about it again until just now. "

“When did she say she was contacted about judging?” Brady asked.

“A couple of weeks ago,” he answered. “Do you think this was related to that?”

“I don’t know,” Jessie told him honestly. “But we intend to find out.”