Colder Than Death

A Miranda Steele Short Story

by

Linsey Lanier

Copyright © 2014 Linsey Lanier

All rights reserved. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, please return to your online distributor and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

###

Miranda Steele just knows she and her team of IIT co-workers at the Parker Agency have been given the worst assignment on the docket. An impossible case even the police can’t solve. And yet she can’t let it go.

This story occurs between books II and III of the Miranda’s Rights Mystery series.

THE MIRANDA’S RIGHTS MYSTERY SERIES

Someone Else’s Daughter – Book I

Delicious Torment – Book II

Forever Mine – Book III

Fire Dancer – Book IV

Thin Ice – Book V

THE MIRANDA AND PARKER MYSTERIES

All Eyes on Me

More Miranda and Parker mysteries coming in 2014!

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Contents

Colder Than Death

Miranda’s Rights Mysteries—Book I, Excerpt

Romantic Suspense Books by Linsey Lanier

Colder Than Death

“You’ve got to be the leader, Steele.”

Miranda Steele twisted her lips and glared across the table at Dave Becker. His thick black brows knit, he averted his gaze and stared down at his food in that nervous way of his. And this guy was supposed to be her buddy.

She and three coworkers were sitting at a table at Crazy Mac’s, a lunch spot down the street from the Parker Investigative Agency in Atlanta, Georgia where they were currently IITs— Investigators in Training. Also known as Idiots In Training.

It was a noisy place, on the warm side with the crowd of bodies in late June in the South. But the throng of customers and the scent of high-grade charbroiled beef in the air had told her the food was good. Still, food wasn’t her focus right now.

She glanced down at her phone. Nothing yet.

Miranda and her lunch companions were in the second half of the company’s twelve-week training program required of all future investigators, and their instructor, Detective Judd, had decided they were ready for some real PI work. He’d divided the class into two teams and sent them out to await a text from him with their assignment.

And so they’d ordered food and sat there, all dressed up in the required company attire. Becker and Holloway in their suits and ties, Miranda in her black slacks and a sleeveless top, showing off the biceps that gave her thin arms definition, and Wesson in—now what was that she was wearing? Some yellow-and-green fashion model outfit with high heels that must have come from the Spanish Inquisition.

“Why me?” Miranda took a big bite of her burger so she wouldn’t have to defend herself while Becker came up with an answer.

It was big and juicy and fresh. Not something she usually ordered but indulgent enough to distract her from her current ordeal. Could use a little hot sauce, though.

Lanky Curt Holloway, who was sitting next to Becker and was his perpetual sidekick, straightened his tie. “Why you? You’ve already solved two murders.”

“Those were flukes,” Miranda muttered with her mouth full. She pointed at her burger, “You know, these are really good. We ought to come here more often.”

Becker picked up a French fry from his plate and gave it a disappointed scowl, his big nose wrinkling like a turtle’s neck. “C’mon, Steele,” he moaned in his Brooklyn accent. “You’ve worked with the Silver Fox himself.” That was a special nickname for Wade Parker, the CEO and president of the Agency. The man who’d dragged her into his Agency to work for him in the first place. Actually, he’d tricked her.

Beside Miranda, the super annoying Janelle Wesson, tossed her sleek red hair over her shoulder and uttered a low, wicked laugh as she picked at a Chef Salad with her fork. “Worked with him? She’s sleeping with him.”

Miranda felt her cheeks warm with both embarrassment and irritation.

Wesson, who’d been separated from her own sidekick, Cindy Smith, made up the fourth member of their team. Both of them had always had it out for her, and Miranda wondered if Judd had assigned the bitch to her team to get back at her for something.

Her relationship with her boss was a sore spot. A constant source of anxiety. She had feelings for him. Big, undeniable feelings. Feelings she couldn’t deal with. And now he wanted her to marry him. But Miranda had never wanted to marry again after she’d been hitched to a psychotic abuser.

Didn’t she have enough to deal with with this training? Especially today’s assignment.

Nothing like peer pressure to set a girl’s nerves on edge. If she solved the case Judd was going to give them, she’d show up her buddies and look like a know-it-all. If she failed, the whole team would get a bad grade and blame her. And Wesson would be the cheerleader.

Nice work, Judd.

Becker finished chewing on his fry. “Besides, you’re the one Judd is going to text.”

Oh, yeah. Miranda slid her cell phone across the table. “Okay. You be the leader, Becker.”

He slid it back. “This is your phone, Steele. We can’t trade.”

“Why not?”

Before Becker could reply, the phone buzzed. Her buddy didn’t pick it up so Miranda wiped her mouth and reached for the contraption with a huff.

She messed with the silly pictures for a minute, but didn’t see anything. “How do you work this thing?” She’d never had a cell in her life before this job, let alone gotten a text from anyone.

Holloway took the phone and held the screen so she could see it. “Just go to Messages. Like this.” He pushed some of the squiggly things and the message from Judd appeared.

Catching Wesson’s smirk out of the corner of her eye, Miranda read the text. “Case File 5X293. It’s at the APD. Charles Thomas Singer.” She read off the date of death. “Ruled an accident and closed six months later. It’s a real case.”

“A cold case.” Holloway had a wary look on his face as he repeated the date of death. “That was ten years ago.”

“Ten years ago next month.” Wesson shook her head as if her colleagues were all idiots. “Judd warned us that’s what it might be.”

“But this old?” Holloway complained.

Miranda wagged the phone at him. “You want to call Judd back and tell him he made a mistake?”

Holloway sat back in his seat and sulked.

“What do we do first?” Becker looked like he was about to pee in his pants from anxiety.

Miranda swallowed the last bite of her burger and reached for the check. “What else? We head for the police station and get the file.”

###

She got them inside and they made her walk at the head of the group as they all hustled down one of the passages in the inner sanctum of the Atlanta Police Department, its walls lined with wanted posters. And just Miranda’s luck, the first person to greet them at the Evidence Room entrance was Office Chambers.

With his meaty arms folded and his brows raised almost to his wavy blond hairline, he eyed them with that perpetual inquisitive look he always wore. “Well, well, well. Lookie what we have here. A fresh bunch of nice green newbies from the Parker Agency.”

Chambers, who was now Detective Chambers, was another guy who was supposed to be Miranda’s buddy. At least he’d become one recently. But given their history that might not stick.

“We’re here on assignment,” she told him, trying to sound official.

“I know. The Singer case.”

“Detective Judd told you already?”

“The Agency always lets us know when they’re sending over a batch of their chicks.”

Miranda felt Becker tense beside her. “Okay, Chambers. Knock off the insults. We’re here to work and we’re on a deadline.”

He chuckled to himself as if he found her situation amusing. “Okie dokie, Ms. Steele. Follow me.”

He opened a chicken wire security door and led them into a dimly lit room filled with row after row of metal shelving, each shelf stacked with file boxes. The area was cramped and warm and had both a musty order and a claustrophobic feel.

Their shoes tapping steadily against the concrete floor, they seemed to walk forever. Finally at the end of the last stack, Chambers came to a halt.

He led them down the narrow aisle then stopped again and raised the lid off one of the dusty boxes on a waist high shelf.

After sifting through its contents, he pulled out a file. “Here it is. The Singer case.” He gestured to a narrow metal table and chairs in the corner. “You can work over there.”

“Don’t we get the whole box?” Miranda asked. It was marked “Singer,” after all.

“Sure. Help yourselves.” And he stood there, arms folded.

“I’ll get the box,” Holloway volunteered.

Miranda scowled at the officer. “Thanks for the help, Chambers. Good to know the officials are on our side.”

Chambers didn’t reply. He just stood watching them as Holloway put the file box on the table and the team settled around it. He was still chuckling.

That was enough, Miranda decided. “You mind telling us what’s so damn funny?”

Still grinning Chambers rubbed at his nose. “Every rookie cop on the department gets to look at the Singer case. The detectives assigned to it ten years ago couldn’t solve it. And no one else has been able to since.”

“So they think it was a murder?”

“Nope. It was an accident. Another name for it would be an exercise in futility. Guess the Agency wants to see what its newbies are made of. Good luck.”

With another chuckle, he turned and left them to themselves.

Becker turned to her with a lost look in his big brown eyes. “We’re doomed, Steele.”

Miranda shrugged. “He’s just being an asshole. We’ve had a couple run ins before and he’s got a grudge, that’s all.”

Wesson slid into one of the metal chairs with a haughty air. “Sounds like you make friends and influence people everywhere you go.”

Miranda narrowed her eyes at her colleague, wanting to bitch-slap her. Then she realized if she was the leader, she had some authority here. “If we don’t pull together, Wesson, we are going to fail.”

Wesson blinked at her as if surprised by her tone. “Okay,” she said at last. “What do you suggest?”

Feeling strangely empowered, Miranda gestured to the table. “First, let’s examine the evidence.”

“Rule number one,” Becker grinned, relishing his friend’s momentary triumph as he opened the evidence kit he’d brought and passed out plastic gloves to everyone.

Three pairs of eyes watched Miranda lay the case file on the desk and open it. “Charles Alfonso Singer, called Charlie by his friends. Age twenty-eight. Single. Lived alone in a rental home in College Park. Fell forty stories to his death while washing windows at the Central Summit Building in midtown. COD was subdural hematoma.”

Holloway shook his head and let out a low whistle. “Forty stories? I’ll bet he was bleeding in more places than his brain.”

“I’ll bet you’re right.” Miranda handed him the coroner’s report and turned to the crime scene photos.

The sight wasn’t as grizzly as she’d imagined. The injuries were internal.

As if asleep Singer lay on the sidewalk, his five gallon bucket, his squeegee, and his harness cord beside him. He was dressed in his work clothes, a dark blue uniform with the sleeves rolled up, exposing his biceps. He was a good looking man, well built—you’d have to be for that job—with wavy dark brown hair, a dimpled chin and a dark five o’clock shadow. You couldn’t even tell his spine was crushed and the back of his head had been flattened by the concrete.

“You’re taking too long.” Before Miranda could get to the next report Wesson snatched it from the file and began to speed read it. “Looks like there weren’t many witnesses. One guy across the street saw him go down and called 911. Then a crowd showed up but after all the police interviews, no one knew anything except he was washing windows, lost his balance and fell.”

Becker slipped on his gloves and reached into the file box. He pulled out the end of a length of dingy nylon. “What’s this?”

“His fall protection.” Miranda pulled on her own gloves as she got to her feet and scooped out the rest of the tangle that had been stuffed into a large-size plastic evidence bag that had come open. She removed the bag and ran her insulated hands over the long lanyard, scrutinized the buckles, the leg and chest straps of the body harness. “Looks to be in fair shape, though it’s pretty worn. That might be from its age.”

Wesson laid the report she’d been reading down and raised a suspicious brow. “How do you know about this stuff, Steele?”

“I do my homework,” Miranda snapped.

That didn’t make any sense, of course, since they’d just learned about the case. But she wasn’t about to let Wesson know she was once a construction worker on a high rise in New York City and had worn a contraption like this. “There are strict OSHA regulations for this. You’re supposed to inspect everything every time you go up. And there should be records of it. I don’t see any.”

Holloway skimmed another paper from the file. “No inspection records here, but he owned his own company. He was working alone that day.”

“That wasn’t smart.”

“No.” Becker wore a grim look. “Sounds like he didn’t take care of his equipment.”

“Maybe he cut corners, skipped inspections.” A lot of people did. Most who did work that required climbing around tall buildings were adrenaline junkies who didn’t want to be bound by rules. And Miranda had to admit she fell into that category. It had been a real thrill to dangle in midair over the tall skyscrapers of New York. “Are there any photos of the building?”

“Right here.” Wesson handed over several pictures of the Central Summit Building. Miranda looked at the ones of the roof. The anchor points seemed intact.

“Oh, wait. Here’s some reports from the OSHA inspectors who came out after the incident.” Becker pulled out more papers from the file and read. “He wasn’t in compliance.”

Holloway looked over Becker’s shoulder. “Hadn’t inspected his equipment in months. Hadn’t filed any reports. OSHA thought that indicated an accident.”

Miranda dipped her hand into the box again, dug around in the bottom, and pulled out another plastic bag. This one held a D-shaped metal loop.

“What’s that?” Holloway asked, his eyes almost as big as Becker’s.

“A carabiner. It gets attached to an anchor point on the roof.” She tapped a metal cylinder in the building photo. “But this one’s damaged.” It was rusted and its clip was in two pieces. She took the pieces out of the bag and held them out to her colleagues, fitting the jagged metal against the clasp and pulling it away again. “See? It’s broken.”

“How did that happen?”

“He might have put too much weight on it. If this was a cheap one, that could pull it apart. See? It’s bent right here.”

As everyone studied the broken part, Holloway held up his report and frowned. “That’s basically what OSHA said. The police concurred.”

Becker put his head in his hands. “They were right. This was an accident. We’ve got a cold case we can’t solve. Just our luck.”

Miranda slipped the carabiner back into its bag and they all sat in silence, staring at the reports and the window washing equipment strewn around the table.

Becker was probably right. No wonder Chambers was having such a laugh at their expense. But something inside Miranda wouldn’t let her give up.

She began to sift through the rest of the file.

Wesson groaned. “What are you doing, Steele? Shouldn’t we just go back to the office and tell Detective Judd we agree with the police?”

“We aren’t being graded on whether we solve this case. We’re being graded on our investigation. So let’s be thorough.”

Holloway raised his hands. “What else can we do?”

She glanced over the last report. “There’s Singer’s family to interview. A brother, a sister, his mother.” She picked up the street view photo of the Central Summit Building. Suddenly she recognized it. “And we can pay the owner of this place a visit. I think I know who he is.”

###

Half an hour later Miranda and her entourage were on the fiftieth floor of the Central Summit Building, being ushered into the owner’s corner office.

The massive space seemed to take up a quarter of the floor and was mostly windows, out of which you could see the city below. The A/C hummed quietly, keeping the temperature deliciously cool while soft classical music played from somewhere. What there was of wall was done in a brushed charcoal but it was mostly covered with gold-framed photos of buildings and construction designs.

There was a low book shelf and a few charcoal patterned Queen Anne chairs scattered about. In the corner, bathed in sunlight, sat a sleek white marble table top with long silver cones for legs. Behind it was another fancy chair—in which sat the building’s owner.

I knew it, Miranda thought as she caught sight of the head of thick, pure white hair and the flawless dark suit set off with a blue silk Ascot.

It was Parker’s father.

He looked up as she came in and grinned at her, his blue eyes twinkling, his white mustache seeming to stretch all the way across his good-looking face. “There you are, Miranda. I’ve been waitin’ for you.” His accent was a deep aristocratic Southern.

While her team watched in awe, Miranda sauntered over to the desk and tapped her finger on it. “So this is where you work, Mr. P?” That was the name she’d given him when she’d first met the old gent a few weeks ago and he seemed to relish it.

“One of the places.”

“And you own this building?”

“I do.”

“And you knew we were coming?”

His smile widened, exuding even more cultured charm. “Of course. I’m the one who requested the Agency look into the Singer case.”

That took her aback, though she wasn’t too surprised.

Mr. P’s expression turned business-like. “I’ve had OSHA inspectors scrutinizing every nook and cranny of this building ever since the incident. If someone could prove there was foul play, it would take the heat off.” He raised a hand and beckoned to the others who were still huddled in the doorway like nervous mice. “Come in, all of you. Let me have a look at you.”

“This is our CEO’s father,” Miranda said by way of introduction.

Wesson strode over to the desk and extended a hand. “Janelle Wesson. Good to meet you, Mr. Parker.”

“Likewise, Ms. Wesson. I’ve heard good things about you.” He squinted at the men in the group. “As I have about you two.”

“Really? I mean, thank you, sir.” Becker looked like a lost puppy as he sidled up to the desk with Holloway beside him.

“Nice to meet you, sir.” Holloway shook hands with the tycoon.

“My son is unable to investigate this incident.” Mr. P waved a hand in the air. “You know, rules about nepotism, favoritism and all that. But he has consented to allow his trainees a crack at it. And I always insist he send the best in the class.”

Was that what Parker thought of them? Miranda wasn’t sure how to take that. Of course, she never knew how to take professional compliments from the man who made her blood race and her head too dizzy to think the way Wade Parker did.

“From all the accounts I have Charles Singer was a fine man,” Mr. P continued. “A good worker. Reliable. Loyal. On the day he passed he had two sick crew workers and decided to do the windows himself. It’s a big job, as you can see. No way he could complete it in a day. I’m afraid he got in too big of a hurry.

“But?” Miranda asked.

“But if someone knew that he was working alone—some competitor or whatever—they might have done something to his equipment.”

Becker’s eyes grew round. “You mean you think someone sabotaged it?”

“It’s a possibility.”

Miranda shook her head. “We saw the equipment at the police station, Mr. P. The carabiner was damaged. It had too much weight on it. Probably Singer’s own doing.”

His white brow rose as he eyed her with defiance. “And so you’re certain it was an accident?”

Miranda pursed her lips back and forth and let out a slow breath. She glanced at her team. They were all watching her to see how she would answer. Exercise in futility, Chambers had warned.

Finally, she said the only thing she could think of. “We have to re-examine all the evidence we can before we draw a conclusion.”

The corner of Mr. P’s lip turned up in a sly grin very like his son’s. “You are turning into a good detective, Miranda.”

Miranda cleared her throat and shook off the remark, not even checking to see what Wesson’s face looked like. “Can we see the roof?”

“Of course. I’ll just get a guard to escort you all up there.”

Mr. P pressed a button on his phone and in a few minutes a bulky man in a dark uniform appeared at the door. “How can I be of service, Mr. Parker?”

“Humphreys, this is an investigative team from my son’s Agency. They’re looking into the Singer case. Please show them to the roof and provide them with anything they need.”

“Very good, sir.”

As the team shuffled out, Mr. P rose and came around the desk. He caught up to Miranda and took her by the arm. When they reached the door he leaned over and whispered. “I have a funny feeling about this case, Miranda. If anyone can solve it, you can.”

###

On the roof they gave the stainless steel cylinder Singer had been connected to the day he died a thorough inspection. But there wasn’t much to see. The steel loop the carabiner had been hooked to was intact. The anchor itself was welded securely to the roof, reinforced with thirty-two inch bolts.

Same as all the other posts that dotted the platform.

“Did Mr. Parker have any of these anchors replaced in the past ten years?” Miranda asked Humphreys.

“No, ma’am. But they’ve been re-certified every five years per the standards and inspected by the authorities and by the building’s staff regularly. Would you like to see the records?”

They wouldn’t tell her anything new. She’d seen a copy in the file at the police station as well as a photo of the anchor on the day of the incident. If there was something wrong with it, someone back then would have noticed. It was Singer’s equipment that had had the problem.

Miranda studied her team. The expectant look in their eyes said, “When are we going to toss in the towel and go back to the office?”

With a sigh she strolled over to the concrete barrier along the edge of the roof and the spot where Singer had climbed over for the last time. She imagined him swinging his legs over the side, lowering himself, swaying from window to window as he worked. He must have been happy. She would have been.

The view of the city was breathtaking here. The warm wind caressing her hair, she peered over the concrete and looked down at the scene below.

Treetops, cars moving along the street, tiny pedestrians making their way along the sidewalk. What it must have felt like to hit that surface. To fly through the air and watch your life pass through your eyes before it was smacked out of you by the hard concrete you used to laugh at.

Could someone have sabotaged the window washer’s equipment? Maybe from up here?

All the evidence pointed to an accident caused by a careless man. The police concurred. The inspectors hadn’t found a whit of foul play. And obviously Mr. P wanted the case looked into for ulterior motives.

Still if there was something they were missing, one clue that hadn’t surfaced…. Suddenly she felt an odd little quiver in her stomach. If this wasn’t an accident, Charles Singer and his family deserved for it to be known.

She turned on her heel and headed for the roof’s entry hatch. “Let’s go.”

“Are we heading back to the office now, Steele?” Wesson had a whine her voice as she trotted along. Those heels had to be killing her by now.

Miranda grabbed the railing and started to lower herself without looking back. “Nope. We’re going to College Park. To see Charlie Singer’s mother.”

###

They found Virginia Singer in the back yard of a small, well-kept home with a large screened-in front porch. She was hunched over a row of rose bushes, clipping flowers with a pair of pruning shears.

As she saw Miranda and her group approach, she straightened. “May I help ya’ll?” Her accent was thick and her voice wary.

Wesson pushed her way forward as if annoyed by the snail’s pace of the investigation so far. “We’re here from the Parker Investigative Agency, Mrs. Singer. We need to ask you some questions about your son’s case.”

The woman straightened, fire in her eyes. She was dressed in light blue Capri jeans and a matching checkered sleeveless blouse. Her iron gray hair was short and closely cropped. Her skin had a healthy tan, but her lips and brows were thin lines of annoyance.

“My son’s case is closed,” she snapped.

Miranda shot her colleague a glare. Even she wasn’t that insensitive. She put out an arm and brushed Wesson back, ignoring her surprised scoff. “Mrs. Singer. We’re very sorry for your loss. We know this must be difficult for you but we’ve been asked to look into the matter.”

She narrowed her eyes at Miranda as if focusing all her disgust. “Ya’ll are from that Parker Agency, aren’t ya?”

“Yes.”

“Every three years or so some group from that agency comes to talk to me about Charlie. I tell them all the same thing. It was ruled an accident. And that’s all I have to say about it.” She turned back to her roses and clipped a few more buds.

Miranda looked at Holloway then at Becker.

Becker stepped toward the woman. “Mrs. Singer, I know this must be awfully painful for you, but if you could just spare us a few moments of your time, we’d be very grateful.”

Miranda didn’t know he could be so gentle. But Virginia Singer only shook her head.

Miranda stared across the well-manicured rose garden. She inhaled the fragrant air and focused on a buzzing bee making its way from rose to rose. Then she said the only thing she could think of. “I’ll make a deal with you Mrs. Singer.”

“A deal?” the woman scoffed.

“Uh huh. You see, I know the person who wants this case reinvestigated. If you let us talk to you and we come to the same conclusion as all the others who’ve been here, I’ll see to it the Agency doesn’t send anyone else out here to bother you.”

That got her attention. Once more she straightened her back and studied Miranda with cold, narrow eyes. Just when she thought the woman was about to kick them out of her yard, she gave a brisk nod. “All right. Let’s go inside.”

###

Mrs. Singer led them around to the front, through the porch and into a tidy living room with worn but well-kept furniture. A sofa in a rustic red flower pattern, overstuffed chairs in large cherry checks, a small round coffee table, a bookcase laden with knickknacks and photos.

“You can sit in here,” she told them as she headed through a door on the other side of the room.

Wondering how she was going to get Mr. P to drop this case, Miranda settled herself on the sofa and fidgeted as she listened to the sound of running water in what must have been the kitchen.

A moment later Mrs. Singer reappeared with a vase and her bouquet of freshly cut roses. She set the arrangement down in the middle of the coffee table and focused on it while she took a seat.

“Would you like anything to drink?” she asked as if it were an afterthought. An automatic southern hospitality reflex.

“No, thank you,” Miranda answered for the group. Nobody wanted the woman to leave the room again. “Mrs. Singer, what can you tell us about your son?”

“Charlie?” she uttered a sad laugh. “It’ll be ten years ago next month that he’s been gone. He was my youngest. Always so full of energy and life. Well, all my children were but he had more than the others. Seemed he could never be still. Always so restless.”

“Is that what made him go into window washing as a profession?” Holloway asked with a gentle voice and an expression that said he hoped his question wasn’t too cruel.

Mrs. Singer sat back in her chair and rubbed her tanned arm as she stared at the photos on the bookshelf. They were family shots of the three children at various ages, all smiling and looking like a loving family.

“His daddy’s been gone two years now, as well. Bubba was a plumber. He wanted Charlie to go into the family business, but that wasn’t for my Charlie. He said pumpin’ out other folks’ toilets was a bore.” She smiled sadly. “He started out cuttin’ trees but he wanted something more challenging, so he started his own window washin’ company. He took on some good clients, hired a crew, did well for a number of years.”

Miranda waited a long moment then took a breath. “Do you know what sort of frame of mind your son was in that day?”

Mrs. Singer frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Was he in a bad mood? Anything bothering him? Was he distracted?”

“Not that I know of.”

Miranda recalled what Mr. P had told them. “Did Charlie have any competitors? Anyone who was…let’s say jealous of his business contacts?”

The woman thought a moment then lifted her thin shoulders. “I wouldn’t know about that. Charlie was living on his own. He’d call regular, stop by once a week, but he didn’t share the details of his business with me. Do you think someone…?”

“You said he had a crew. Do you have any idea why he was working alone that day?”

Mrs. Singer shook her head and put a finger against her nose. “Noah, that’s Charlie’s brother, says he was a damn fool. He took too many risks.”

That much was obvious and Miranda was starting to regret the deal she’d made with the woman. She glanced across the room and caught Wesson’s leg going up and down. Her colleague was right. This was pointless. They were only putting this poor lady through more agony.

They should go back to the office and tell Judd they agreed with the police.

She was about to rise and thank Mrs. Singer for her time when she noticed the woman was studying her with a tentative look. “What is it, Mrs. Singer?”

The woman looked away and swiped at a tear off her cheek. “I’ve never said this to anyone else who’s been here, but…”

Miranda waited, not daring to even breathe.

“If you want to know what sort of frame of mind Charlie was in that day, there are two people you could talk to. His best friend, Evan Cole and his girlfriend, Abigail Ward. Never was a young man so in love with a girl as Charlie was with Abbey. She was devastated after the accident and so was Evan.”

Miranda felt the hair on her arms stand up. This was new. Could one of these people tell them what really happened to Charlie Singer? “Do you still have their contact information?” she managed to get out before she lost what remained of her professional demeanor by celebrating.

“I’ve lost touch with them over the years but I’ll give you where they used to live. Just give me a minute to find it.”

###

When they left Mrs. Singer’s house, Miranda decided to split up the team.

Turned out the friend and girlfriend had left forwarding addresses every time they’d moved, and after a few phone calls and searching for maps on their phones, they had both of their current locations.

She dropped Holloway off at Charlie’s brother, who lived in the next town, Wesson at Charlie’s sister who had a photography studio in Inman Park, then headed to Midtown and Evan Cole’s apartment with Becker.

As Becker pulled up to the curb in front of the high rise, Miranda looked at her watch. It was getting late. “Why don’t you go look up the girlfriend while I talk to this old friend of Singer’s?” She wanted someone with some feeling to interview Abigail Ward.

And she’d take the best friend. Your best friend would know your secrets, your fears, maybe even more than a girlfriend would. And if Charlie Singer had had any, she was determined to get them out of Evan Cole.

Becker shot her a worried glance, then nodded. “Sure thing, Steele. Want me to pick you up afterwards?”

“I’ll just grab a bus back to the office. We can compare notes when we get there.”

“Okay. But if I can’t get hold of the girlfriend, I’ll come back and pick you up.” Becker was always thoughtful but Miranda’s mind was on the task ahead of her.

“Sure,” she muttered as she got out of the car and turned to head for the building.

As she rode the elevator to the thirty-second floor, her mood turned sour.

Would all this running around yield anything to show for their efforts? At this point, she wasn’t sure. What could Singer’s brother and sister say that they hadn’t already said to the police? What could two people Charlie Singer knew ten years ago tell them? They probably had more vague memories than secrets about him.

Why did she have to hold on? Why couldn’t she just admit the case was an accident and let go of it? Her heart sinking, she decided that’s what they would do after this round of interviews. When they got back to the office her team wouldn’t be comparing notes.

They’d be done.

The elevator doors opened and Miranda headed for the apartment number she had for Singer’s long ago best friend.

She knocked and was surprised when a man with stringy blond hair that fell over a pair of sunken, bloodshot eyes answered the door.

She hadn’t expected him to be home.

“Evan Cole?” she asked.

“Yes, that’s me. What do you want?” His voice was soft, his southern accent light. Tall and thin, he was dressed in worn jeans and a ragged T-shirt. He needed a shave and he smelled faintly of whiskey.

“Mr. Cole, my name is Miranda Steele. I’m from the Parker Investigative Agency and I’m looking into the death of Charles Singer.”

The man blinked at her as if he couldn’t decipher what she’d said. But she didn’t think it was because he didn’t recognize the name.

His jaw opened and closed a few times before he could get out his words. “Charlie’s been dead ten years now.”

Interesting that he knew that off the top of his head. They must have been really good friends. “We’re re-opening the case. Do you mind if I come in?”

That brought on another round of blinking but after a minute the man shook himself and pushed back his disheveled hair. “Yes, of course. I apologize.”

He opened the door and Miranda stepped inside.

The apartment was soundless and stuffy and furnished in a severe Spartan style. Evan Cole seemed to have even fewer possessions than she’d had when she’d lived alone.

A small table against the wall with a TV on it, both of which might have come from a thrift store. A worn recliner near a pair of sliding glass doors that opened onto a balcony. Across from the recliner a plain, uncomfortable-looking wooden chair.

The man waved one hand in a vague gesture. “Please, sit down.”

Miranda crossed the hard wood floor to the straight back chair and eased herself into it. Between the chairs stood an end piece that, judging from the empty fast food bags on it might double as a kitchen table.

Cole took the recliner. He put a finger against his lips as if to hide embarrassment as his gaze went from Miranda to an empty glass on the table.

The source of the whiskey smell.

“Mr. Cole,” she began. “I understand you were friends with Charles Singer?”

“Yes. Yes, I was.” Slowly he turned his head to stare out the glass doors. “Good old Charlie.” He smiled wistfully. “He was always such fun. Always joking around, looking for a thrill. He lived a carefree life.”

But not anymore. “You knew him well?”

“We grew up together. But when we got older, we went our separate way.”

Miranda drew in a slow breath. “His mother seemed to think you were best friends up until his death.”

His eyes went wide as he turned back to look at her. “I meant we went our own ways professionally. Charlie started his own business and I went to college and got a job at an accounting firm. That’s what I do now. I work for Pace and Associates. It’s right here on Peachtree.” He gestured through the glass. “That’s why I took an apartment here. Easy commute.”

But he wasn’t at work now. Either he’d left early to start boozing it up or he stayed home all day to do it. Maybe he’d gotten fired. Miranda made a mental note to check that out.

Cole rubbed his hands on his knees as if his palms were sweaty and stared through the glass doors again. “I remember one time when we were kids, Charlie and I. We were in his room. I was staying overnight. His folks let me stay there a good bit. My parents weren’t home a lot and, well let’s just say neither of them were very good with children. Anyway, we were playing a game on the floor and Charlie said we should make a pact.”

“What sort of a pact?”

“That we’d always be friends. You know, always look out for each other. We spat on our hands and shook or some such ritual. You know, things boys do.” He let out a long sigh that was almost a soft moan. “I guess I didn’t fulfill my end of the bargain.”

Now it was Miranda’s turn to blink. Her stomach was fluttering. That sounded an awfully lot like guilt. Did this guy know something he’d been covering up all these years?

She leaned forward being careful that the chair didn’t squeak and forced her voice to match his softness. “When was the last time you saw him?”

He blinked again. “Charlie? Oh, uh. Let me think.” He sat back in his recliner and tapped his fingers on its stuffed arms, like he had a nervous tick. “I think it was…it must have been about a week before the accident. That’s right. We went for drinks at Montgomery’s Tavern. Our old hang out. Used to go there all the time.”

Remembered the childhood pact clearly, but had to think to recall the last time he saw his best friend? “Did Charlie seem…preoccupied? Like he was afraid of something? Or someone?”

Cole jerked his head around and glared at Miranda open-mouthed. He began to blink again as he shook his head. “No, no. Everybody loved Charlie.” His voice had gone up a notch. “He was happy that night. Really happy. He was going to ask Abbey to marry him. We had a toast to celebrate….Oh, God!”

Cole careened forward and thrust his head into his hands. Alarm bells went off inside Miranda’s brain. She waited.

“Oh, God,” he moaned again. “Why did he have to tell me that? It was as if he was gloating about it that night.” He began to rock back and forth as if he had stomach cramps.

“You mean about Abbey?”

His hands jumped to his head and he fisted his hair as if he were about to tear it out by the roots. “I loved her so much. I’d always loved her. He had everything. Why did he have to take the one thing from me that I cherished more than my own life?” He raised his head and gasped. “I need air.”

He shot to his feet, swung the glass doors open and stepped onto the balcony.

Miranda got up and followed him. The sun was starting to set and the now cool air was laced with the faint scent of honeysuckle from the sidewalk landscaping below.

She dared to take a step toward the distraught man. “Mr. Cole. What are you trying to tell me?”

He spun around and glared at her, his eyes glazed, his chest heaving. “I can’t do it anymore. I can’t go on being such a coward. I have to tell the truth.”

Again she waited.

He paced around a little, put his hands in his pockets, took them out again. Then he began to talk. This time his voice was steady and dark.

“It wasn’t a week before the accident that Charlie and I had that drink. It was the night before. Charlie told me where he’d be working the next day. He was worried that two of his workers were out sick and thought he’d have to do the job alone. I saw…an opportunity.”

There were two mismatched wrought iron patio chairs out here with no table to go with them. Cole reached for one of them. Miranda thought he was going to sit down but he only shoved it against the edge of the balcony, its iron legs scraping against the concrete floor.

He paced again. “I was doing temp work at the time to gain experience and I’d had a job in the Central Summit Building the month before. I still had an access card. I didn’t think it would work, but I decided to try it anyway. I took an early lunch, made my way over to the building. Sure enough, there was Charlie, working by himself. He was such a risk taker.”

He moved to the railing, put his hands on it as if to steady himself and stared off into the clouds.

Listening to the traffic sounds from below, Miranda forced herself to stand still, trying not to even breath, not daring to distract him.

“My access card worked. It took a while but somehow I found my way to the roof. Once I got up there, I asked myself what in the hell I thought I was doing. I’d lost my mind. I was going to go back down. Then I spotted Charlie’s equipment. The pole, the tether that held him up. I watched it swing back and forth as he moved.” He made a gesture to illustrate. “I noticed the material and the metal looked old. Worn. But I saw where the clasp latched. It would be so easy just to press it open, let it go. I dug in my pockets and found some kitchen gloves. I didn’t even remember putting them there. I put them on and moved over to the post where the tether was attached. I reached out and held the ring in my hands. I was just about to open it.”

Slowly Cole turned his head and stared at Miranda as if he were dreaming. “It broke. It broke in two right in my hands. I should have grabbed it. I should have tried to save him. Instead I just stood there and watched it go over the side.” He pressed both hands against his temples. “I can have her now, I thought. I can have Abbey. It was all I could think. But she didn’t want me. I saw her at the funeral and she never spoke to me again after that.”

Miranda stood frozen to the balcony floor. This was the murderer?

Evan Cole lifted his head to the sky and let out a heart wrenching howl. “I killed my best friend. The only person who really knew me. The one I’d promised to always look out for.” He began to sob. “I miss him so much. Every day I think of him. Every day I wake up hating myself more and more. I can’t live with myself anymore.” He was having a breakdown.

Miranda took a step toward him. “Mr. Cole. Why don’t we…?”

But before she could get the words out, he scrambled onto the chair. “I can’t go on with this pain. This loathing. This guilt. I’ve lived with it for ten years. I can’t live with it a second longer.”

He swung a leg over the rail. He was going to jump.

“No!” Miranda raced to the balcony’s edge and tried to grab him. She managed to wrap her arms around one leg and hold on.

The rest of him went over.

“Let me go,” he cried, his head dangling in the air. “I want to die.”

He was heavy and struggling and insane. She didn’t know how much longer she could hold on. Part of her wanted to just let go of him. He had a point, after all. What did he have to live for? Years in prison?

But her grip was unrelenting.

“Let go,” he screeched.

“No. I’m not going to let you do this.” She swung a leg around his and released one arm to reach for his belt.

He kicked at her with his free leg and got her in the ribs. Pain shot through her and she almost lost her grip on him. He sank a few more inches.

She was standing on tiptoe now. Her arms were pulling from their sockets, getting tired.

Again Cole jerked his body and one of her feet left the floor. She tried to give him a yank to pull him up but they only went down a few more inches. Both feet left the floor. Her toe anchored itself around the leg of the chair. That helped some but it wouldn’t last long.

Any second now, they were both going over.

There was a knock on the door and Miranda’s heart jumped in her chest. “Help!” she yelled as loudly as she could. “Help!”

She turned her head. She could see the front door from here. Surely the visitor had heard her.

“Help!” she yelled again and watched the knob turn.

Thank God, Cole hadn’t locked it. The next thing she knew Becker was hustling into the room.

“Steele, are you…? Steele!” He rushed across the floor, through the sliding glass doors and onto the balcony.

He wasn’t big or tall but he was strong enough to grab hold of her and Cole and pull them both back over the rail and onto the floor.

His eyes glazed and bewildered, Cole glared at Becker, then at her. Then he sank down into the corner and bawled like a baby.

###

The police came and took Cole away.

Back at the office, Wesson and Holloway were stunned when they heard the news. Judd was pleased the team had finally cracked the case, but his tone was grim when he reported the results to the class. There were questions. The same ones echoing in Miranda’s head.

Would Cole do time for murdering his friend? Or would the case again be ruled an accident? That would be for a judge and jury to determine.

The next day Miranda went to see Abigail Ward.

She’d become an ER doctor and worked at Citadel General Hospital, south of the city. She was always busy, but she consented to give Miranda half an hour of her lunch time.

They strolled around the grounds under the birch and maple trees in the warm afternoon sun with chirping birds and the sounds of city traffic in the background. The woman listened quietly as Miranda told her what had happened between her lover and his best friend.

The doctor came to a stop at the end of the walkway and put a hand to her face. She was good-looking with a fair complexion, light red hair and a smattering of faint freckles across the nose. Except for her scrubs, white coat and name tag, she looked like she should be on a horse on a ranch in Montana.

“I don’t know what to say, Ms. Steele. I don’t know how to take all of this in.”

“You don’t have to say anything. I just thought you would want to know. And since Mr. Cole confessed to me, I thought I should be the one to tell you.”

“I see.” She let out a long sigh and sank onto a bench.

Miranda settled down beside her. “I’m so sorry for your loss.” She hated saying those empty words.

“I thought all this was over ten years ago, but Charlie keeps coming back to me. In little tokens I still find from him around the house. In my memories. In my dreams.” She took an awkward breath as she struggled with her emotions. “I don’t know why Evan thought he loved me so much. I never gave him any reason to feel that way. At least not intentionally.”

A woman as good-looking as Dr. Ward could give off vibes without meaning to, Miranda supposed. “I guess he didn’t understand that until it was too late. I’m sure that wasn’t your fault.”

“I don’t know. I suppose I’ll have to try and figure that out. Maybe….” She bit her lip and stared off at a row of willows across the green yard. “Maybe it was because I never could commit to Charlie.”

“Oh? I thought you were in love.”

She shook her head. “I was hurt in high school. A boy I was madly in love with dumped me for the prom queen.” She laughed sadly. “It was silly but I was too afraid after that to let myself get serious with anyone.”

Tell me about it, Miranda thought. She’d sworn off men for thirteen years but it was a lot more than a high school break up that had made her do that. It was the reason she couldn’t say yes to Wade Parker when he talked about a future together.

“I had no idea Charlie was going to propose. I wish I had known. The thing was…after a while, I did fall for Charlie. I was really in love with him. Deeply in love. He was so much fun. He always made me laugh. And I could talk to him. Like I never could with anyone else. I just couldn’t admit it to myself.”

Miranda felt her throat going a little dry. She felt just that way about Parker.

Dr. Ward put both hands to her face and let out an indistinguishable sound. Miranda knew she was fighting to control herself in front of this stranger. She should go.

Before she could get to her feet the doctor reached for her hand. She stared at her with eyes moist with tears. “The thing was, I never told him. I never told Charlie I loved him. He went to his death without knowing what I felt for him.”

Miranda sucked in air.

She didn’t know what to say. She put her free hand on the woman’s and tried to think of something comforting to tell her. “People often sense things we don’t say. People who are close to us.” Like she knew anything about being close to people.

The doctor nodded and released her. She straightened her hair, her shoulders. “I’ll never know for sure what Charlie sensed, will I? I suppose I’ll have to live with that, too.” She rose stoically. “Thank you for coming to see me, Ms. Steele. I appreciate everything you’ve done. And now, I apologize but I need to get back to my patients.”

“Of course.”

They walked back inside and the doctor shook her hand before she trotted off down the hall to the ER and her current life.

Miranda wandered out of the building, her heart swollen inside her. They’d solved a ten-year-old cold case. Judd was proud of her and her team. It would earn her a good mark at the Agency. But as for her relationship with Parker? That was still as up in the air as a man suspended on a dangling cord.

And with her luck, any day it could come crashing down and splatter on the sidewalk below. Would it end that way for them? Or did they have the future Parker insisted they did. Who knew?

Maybe next week she could solve that mystery.

THE END

Thank you for reading Colder Than Death, a Miranda Steele Short Story. You can read more about Miranda and her budding relationship with Wade Parker—the Silver Fox—in the Miranda’s Rights Mysteries.

Here is an excerpt from the first book, Someone Else’s Daughter (A Miranda’s Rights Mystery).

Miranda’s Rights Mysteries—Book I, Excerpt

Someone Else’s Daughter

She could make it to the trees. She was too far away for him to catch up now. It started to rain. A soft rain. The kind, somebody had told her, that often came up in Georgia without warning. Beneath her, the ground sloped steeply as the grass grew wet. She slipped, tried to stifle a yelp, but it escaped her lips.

The cop heard her. His light found her. “Stop,” he yelled.

Man, she was having a bad night.

But the rain slowed him down, too. She could hear him grunting and cussing behind her as he struggled down the slippery incline. She reached the bottom and the land became flat again. Almost there. She sprinted across a patch of grass to the first clump of trees. Hesitating, she stopped to catch her breath.

The bright moon cast an eerie glow on the rocks and wild growth. She’d never liked wooded areas. She thought about murders in the forest preserves where she’d grown up. She thought of stories she’d heard about snakes in the Georgia woods. She glanced behind her.

The cop’s light bobbed about halfway down the hill.

No choice. Gritting her teeth, she braced herself and stepped into the tall grass. Her foot went down on a squishy surface of pine straw and matted grass, a twig snapped, but it held. She took another step, reached out and felt tree bark in front of her. She sidestepped and moved around it. The ground was uneven and muddy. The drizzling rain fell against the leaves with a sound like soft cymbals. The air smelled cool and freshly washed. Brush tangled around her shins. Her hair and clothes were wet, but she couldn’t think about that now.

She looked back again, could barely make out the cop. That meant he couldn’t see her either. She’d done it. She’d escaped. But he’d be hunting her in these woods soon. Probably call out the cavalry, too. Maybe she could make it to the other side. It was part of a subdivision, after all. She couldn’t remember the layout of the forest from her map.

Better move faster. She took a quick step, then another. Found a spot where the trees opened up. She started to sprint. Wrong move. Something caught her foot. Down she went. She tried to catch herself on a tree, but her hand scrapped across its bark. Her palms skidded across the muddy ground.

Damn. She didn’t need this now. What had she’d tripped over? She brushed her hair out of her eyes, hoping she hadn’t landed on a slithering snake.

Then she froze.

Inches away from her face, lay a shape. A familiar shape. She stared at it, her breath coming in snatches. Was she hallucinating? It looked like a kid’s sneaker. Peeking out from a pile of wet twigs and pine straw, like it had been lost there. Or buried. She reached out and whisked away some of the debris covering it.

Her chest tightened. The sneaker had a foot in it.

She got to her knees to sweep off more dirt. An ankle. A sock. A hem of denim. Oh, God. It was a leg. A human leg. She found the other sneaker. She was shaking all over by now.

Her heart choking her throat, she crawled to the side of what she now realized was a mound. Desperately she shoved away the muck and grimy pine straw, the dreck someone had used to…she couldn’t even think it…to bury someone?

Two legs appeared under her hands, clad in a pair of designer jeans. The type hip young girls liked to wear. She kept going and found the bottom hem of a fancy, girlish T-shirt. Then two young hands…tied with thick rope, clasped together as if in prayer. Oh, God. This couldn’t be happening. Tears burned her eyes. She couldn’t stop herself. Madly, she brushed away the rest of the dirt, and at last, the face appeared. Young. Pretty. More than pretty. Beautiful. And perfectly still.

Dead.

Miranda’s mind reeled. This was the missing girl everyone was talking about. This was Madison. Had to be. But how did she get here?

Her whole body shuddering, she put her hands to her head. She had seen death before, knew the look of a body in a casket. An uncle she barely knew who’d passed away when she was a child, a fallen officer who’d been a buddy of Leon’s, her own mother lying so still in her coffin with her hard, stony face. But she’d never seen death like this.

So close, so stark, so…undeniable.

The air had a dank smell. Long, dark hair lay damp and matted on the ground. Gnats and flies buzzed around the swollen face, glistening with the raindrops that fell on it. Instead of a childlike expression of innocence, there was the whisper of a smile. An air of superiority, as if she had felt far above whoever had left her this way.

It was the eyes that got her. Open, staring, lifeless. Looking at them, Miranda felt as though a fist had reached inside her chest and yanked out her heart.

She forced her gaze away from the eyes. Her breath caught, as her mind cleared. The girl’s neck. She had to take a look at the girl’s neck.

She crept closer and saw that a wide, white ribbon had been tied around the young girl’s neck. What was that for? She didn’t know, but she had to look under it. She shouldn’t touch it. It was evidence. But she had to know.

Slowly, she reached out with trembling fingers and lifted the soft cloth, moist with the rainwater. Her hands shivered so hard, she could barely slip it down, but somehow she managed.

And then she saw it. The mark on her neck. Dark, round, distinct.

She put the soaking ribbon back in place. Her hands shook violently, shot to her mouth, her head. Her chest felt like it would burst. Tears streamed down her cheeks, mingled with the rain, dropped onto the forest floor.

This was Amy. This was her baby.

Someone Else’s Daughter is available on Amazon.

###

Thank you for reading The Unexpected Guest A Wade Parker story. If you enjoyed this story I would appreciate it if you would help others enjoy it, too.

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Romantic Suspense Books by Linsey Lanier

THE MIRANDA’S RIGHTS MYSTERY SERIES

Someone Else’s Daughter – Book I

Delicious Torment – Book II

Forever Mine – Book III

Fire Dancer – Book IV

Thin Ice – Book V

THE MIRANDA AND PARKER MYSTERIES

All Eyes on Me

More Miranda and Parker mysteries coming in 2014!

OTHER BOOKS BY LINSEY LANIER:

Chicago Cop (A cop family thriller) – Don’t let them take what you love, baby girl. A police thriller featuring GUTS team lead Lieutenant Maggie Delaney, a tough multi-generational cop hunting down a crazed mafia hit man bent on revenge.

Steal My Heart (A Romantic Suspense) – Get me what I want or you’ll never see your daughter again. New York newspaper columnist, Paige Dunbar, can hardly breathe when she learns her precious three-year-old daughter has been kidnapped. She’ll do anything to get her back, including steal the famous Fantasia necklace the kidnapper wants. No one can stop her. Not even her sexy ex-jewel-thief-ex-husband.

HUMOROUS BOOKS BY LINSEY LANIER

THE DANDY FROST—NINJA ASSASSIN STORIES

A New Adult, futuristic romantic fantasy series.

A lowly, powerless factory worker is sent half-way around the world by her boss to fight an evil spy organization, but she really just wants to be a fashion designer.

You Want Me to Kill Who? — Book One

You Want Me to Go Where? — Book Two

The Clever Detective Boxed Set 2 (A Fairy Tale Romance): Stories 1-5

From the Hollow Tree to Stacey’s home town to the mountains of Sweden to the high seas, follow PI Stacey Alexander and Prince Chad’s adventures and romance.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Linsey Lanier has been writing fiction for over fifteen years and is the author of a dozen novels and short stories, including the best selling Miranda’s Rights Mystery series. She writes romantic suspense, mystery, and humorous romantic fantasy - all with a dash of sass. She is also a member of Romance Writers of America, the Kiss of Death chapter, and Private Eye Writers of America. Her books have placed in several RWA-sponsored contests.

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A Final Word:

My thanks to the Petit Fours and Hot Tamales blog and to all my writing friends.

Most of all, thank you, dear reader, for choosing my book. You make it all worthwhile.

Copyright © 2014 Linsey Lanier

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.