A guy with all of this? How the hell did he end up dead, sitting inside his SUV with the motor running and the garage doors closed?
“All clear, Sergeant Jericho,” the fire crew chief called to Luka as he emerged from the garage. Behind him, his men carried their industrial exhaust fans out to the drive. “Carbon monoxide levels back to a safe range.”
“Any precautions my people need to take?”
“Nope, you’re good to go. No signs of any other hazards, either.” He joined Luka, standing beside him as the fire crew packed their gear onto their truck. “The CO levels weren’t all that high to begin with. I’m not sure if they were enough to cause your man’s death. Although the gas might have partially dissipated before we arrived. Plus, carbon monoxide is tricky, so hard to tell.”
“You documented everything?” Firemen and paramedics didn’t mix well with evidence preservation at crime scenes.
“Yep. I’ll send you a full report once I’m back at the station. Need anything else from us?”
“No. Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“Just doing our jobs.” He nodded to the mansion on the other side of the drive. “Rich people. Never understand why someone with everything does something like this.”
They shared a shrug. The fire chief strolled back to his truck.
Luka glanced at his phone one last time before heading into his crime scene. What was taking so long? Surely the judges at the fair had announced the results by now. Maybe Leah’s silence meant she was busy consoling Nate. Luka thought the kid showed real talent with his newfound love of photography, but then he was definitely biased on Nate’s behalf. The kid deserved a break, after losing his mother to a drug overdose and then being bullied after he moved to Cambria City to live with Luka. He only hoped the county fair judges felt the same.
He hovered his thumb over the phone screen, ready to call Leah for an update, when one of the patrol officers approached. “Sergeant Jericho? Harper just pulled up.”
Luka noted the patrolman didn’t use Harper’s new rank, but patrol officers sometimes didn’t with detectives. Besides, Harper could fight her own battles. He only hoped she’d choose them wisely—after all, not many newly minted detectives had the privilege of starting their careers in the VCU. Most had to put in their time on lesser investigatory duties like property crimes, leaving many in the department debating exactly how Harper had jumped the line.
No way in hell was Luka about to explain that the other sergeants had refused to offer her a position on their squads, despite her stellar record—including working on several plainclothes details with both Vice and the VCU. Initially, Ahearn, the commander in charge of the investigative division, had insisted that she belonged with the Domestic unit, which specialized in special victims—child abuse, sex crimes, and intimate partner violence. But Luka understood that Harper’s sometimes abrasive personality was ill-suited to the needs of special victims, so he’d convinced Ahearn to assign Harper to Violent Crimes.
“What’ve we got, boss?” Harper’s words were rushed with excitement. Despite having been on the go since before dawn, she didn’t seem tired at all.
“Anything on Lily Nolan?”
She sobered. “Not yet. Still trying to locate next of kin. Tonight I’ll hit the streets again, look for any friends of hers.”
“Talk to Vice before you go out. They might be helpful.”
“Right.” She glanced at the departing firetruck. “In the meantime, how can I help here?”
He motioned to her to follow him. In the shade of a group of trees—their shadows as sharply edged as the manicured lawn—waited a man sitting on a wrought-iron bench, gazing out at nothing, tears streaming down his face. Their reporting witness. The uniformed officer standing beside him shrugged at Luka. At least the guy wasn’t hyperventilating anymore.
“Mr. Hansen, I’m Detective Sergeant Luka Jericho. Can you tell me what happened here?”
Larry Hansen didn’t do more than glance at Luka before dropping his gaze. He wiped his face with his palms, took a deep breath, and said, “I wasn’t even supposed to be here. But I forgot my tennis racquet and I have a doubles game today.” He wasn’t talking to Luka as much as the air in front of him. “I have other racquets, but that one is my favorite, so I thought I’d swing by on my way to the club.”
Typical distraught witness, obsessing over meaningless details to avoid talking about the crime. Luka humored the man, hoping to ease him into discussing how he’d found Standish’s body. “The Porsche Cayenne parked in front of the house, it’s yours?”
Hansen nodded. “No one answered the bell, but I figured I’d take a look in the pool house—Tassi and I had drinks there on Friday after our game, so I might have left it there.”
“Tassi? That’s Natasha Standish, correct?”
“Spence’s wife.” Hansen jerked his chin up, as if in sudden realization. “She’s not here—she doesn’t know! How am I going to face her? I can’t tell her that Spence, Spence—” He turned to the garage, wide-eyed.
“We’d appreciate it if you say nothing.” Luka interrupted him. “We’ll contact Mrs. Standish. If you could give us her details.” Both the house and the Escalade were leased by an LLC registered in Delaware, and Luka wouldn’t have access to Spencer’s phone contacts until the coroner’s unit arrived.
“Of course.” He slid a phone out, scrolled through, then handed it to Luka, who handed it to Harper.
“Walk us through what you saw and heard after you arrived, please, Mr. Hansen.”
“No one answered the door, so I was walking down the drive—the tennis courts are back behind the stables, beside the
