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.
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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.”
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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 De
tective 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.”
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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.
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