“Filled?” Luka prompted.
“Maybe not filled, but definitely too much. Enough to surround the Escalade, like it’d been idling there for a while. I opened the door, but only made it a few steps when I saw—” Another choking sound. “I saw Spence.”
“And you—”
“I couldn’t breathe.” Now he sounded defensive. “I ran outside and called 911. Then I went back, hoping to help Spence, but as soon as I touched him—I knew it was too late.”
“You opened the door into the garage and the driver’s door of the SUV?” Luka asked. Hansen nodded once more. “Did you touch anything else?”
“Spence’s neck—checking for a pulse. I might have braced myself on the driver’s seat. I’m not sure, maybe other parts of the car? I was in shock.”
“No problem,” Luka told him. “We’ll need your fingerprints—just for elimination purposes. Any thoughts as to how this happened?”
“How?” Hansen’s gaze became unfocused again. “It was an accident, right? Had to be. Spence started the car and something happened before he could open the garage door.” Then he met Luka’s eyes. “A heart attack. I’ll bet that’s what it was. Poor guy had a heart attack.” He sighed. “Poor Tassi. She’s going to be devastated.”
Luka tried to get him back on track. “Mr. Hansen, can you tell me anything about any stressors in Mr. Standish’s life?”
Hansen shook his head vigorously. “No, nothing. Spence and Tassi—they’re the happiest couple I know. Never bickering, not even a crossed look. And Spence loved his job. He always said it was the best of all worlds, helping people, both the haves and have-nots.”
Luka exchanged a puzzled look with Harper above Hansen’s head. “What does that mean? What did Mr. Standish do for a living?”
Hansen hesitated. “On paper, I guess you’d call him a hedge fund manager. But Spence was so much more than that. He found a way to make double-digit profits for his investors through packaging micro-loans to the less fortunate. Individuals, schools, churches, non-profits. It was a fantastic business model. So successful that his fund was open to investors by invitation only. Plus, they had to agree to tithe a percentage of their net profits to the charity side of the fund, but they all made so much money with Spence’s investment model that no one cared. He has a brilliant mind.” His lips tightened as if he were holding back more tears. He seemed pretty overwhelmed for someone who appeared to be a casual friend, Luka thought, filing away the details. “Had. Spence had a brilliant mind.”
“Were you a part of this financial fund?”
“Not the first round—those guys made the big money. But I convinced Tassi to put in a good word for me and I’m in the second cohort. We had a fourteen percent return on our initial investment in the quarter ending in June. And all the earnings reports have been looking even more promising this quarter, so there’s no way Spence could have been stressed about work.” He glanced up at Luka. “No. You know what this was? An accident. Spence was a workaholic—he must have fallen asleep in the car before he opened the garage door. That must be it. A terrible, terrible accident. That’s better than a heart attack—because Tassi would blame herself forever if she thought Spence was under that much stress and she didn’t know it.”
Luka let his contradictions slide. He’d learned it was best to observe the way witnesses tangled their own logic and then untangle it later when he had actual facts. “Do you know where we can reach Mrs. Standish?”
“Tassi? She’s at a spa weekend. The Greenbriar.” He glanced at the clock on his phone. “Should be on her way back already.”
“Can you think of anything else that might help?” Luka liked to give witnesses a chance to expound without limiting them to a specific question.
Hansen made a show of thinking hard, then said, “No. That’s everything.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hansen. We’ll be in touch. I’d appreciate it if you don’t speak to anyone about what you’ve seen here. And please do call me if you think of anything else.” Luka handed the man his card, then nodded to Harper.
Together they left Hansen and followed the path back to the garage. Like the main house, it was an old building, most likely built in the 1800s when Craven County’s coal mines and steel operations were at their height. A time when coal barons would keep offices and homes in the city during the week, but then travel up the mountain to palatial estates where their families lived for weekends and holidays. Best of all worlds.
The garage held eight stalls, four to a side, each with their own set of double doors wide enough for a car. Despite all the windows and doors being open, it still reeked of auto exhaust. Only one stall was occupied, the one with a black Cadillac Escalade and a body behind the wheel. Maggie Chen had just arrived in the coroner’s van and was photographing Spencer Standish and his death scene. When she spied Luka and Harper, she quickly put her camera away. “I expect you want me to check for a phone?”
“There’s none in the car,” Luka told her. “I’m assuming it’s in his pocket.”
They stood, observing the corpse through the open driver’s door. Spence was dressed in plaid Bermuda golf shorts and a polo top. He appeared to be in good physical shape—Luka didn’t observe much in the way of a middle-aged paunch despite the body being slumped over the steering wheel. His hair was blond, but his skin was rosy with pale splotches and his lips were ruby red.
“Classic carbon monoxide
