Colder Than Death Page 2

  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 s
he 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.