You're Not Safe

by Mary Burton

  The warehouse by the car was a two-story brick building with rows of broken windows. Faded paint on the building’s top floor read MCGREGOR’S. The building had once been a dry goods store and later a restaurant that had closed three years ago. The place was up for sale, but Sara Wentworth did not have the listing.

  The forensic tech was a short woman with an olive complexion and dark hair pulled back into a ponytail and had tucked under an APD ball cap. She wore a blue regulation T-shirt that read AUSTIN POLICE and rumpled khakis in need of hemming. Standing back from the scene, inches inside the yellow tape with a clipboard in hand, the technician sketched the scene.

  As Bragg moved closer to the tape she turned and nodded. “Ranger Bragg?”

  He touched the brim of his hat. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’m Carla Sellers. I’m with Austin PD.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Can you tell me what you’ve found?”

  “We had a BOLO on your victim’s car. The uniform who spotted it realized the car was out of place. This isn’t the kind of place most leave a Lexus unattended. My guess is the damage done to the vehicle was done by vandals and thieves.”

  He rested his hands on his hips and searched for a security camera. He spotted two on the building across the street and hoped they were operational. Many businesses put up cameras but many also didn’t bother to connect them hoping the camera alone would be a deterrent. “Has anyone contacted those businesses about their cameras?”

  “Had a couple of uniforms knocking on doors and trying to find out about them.”

  “Good. I want to see that footage.”

  Carla stuck her pencil in her ponytail. “Where was your victim found?”

  “Five point two miles from here. I just clocked the distance.”

  “And she was a suicide?”

  The doubt in her voice echoed his concerns. “Remains undetermined.”

  Sara Wentworth certainly could have assisted Rory in his suicide. And she could have parked her car here and walked five miles in high heels in the Texas heat to the warehouse. Yeah, he’d seen all kinds of things. But unless she’d totally lost it, the scenario didn’t hold water. There’d been the matter of the bloody doll in her trash can, her heels found by her body had been pristine, and the medical examiner had found no traces of blistering on her feet.

  “I’m going to need the footage from those cameras ASAP. I’d bet good money she didn’t walk away but was taken away.”

  “Sure.”

  “Mind if I have a look in the car?”

  “I’ve dusted for prints. Found a lot of them, by the way. But seeing as the car was torn apart no telling whose we’ll find. Also photographed the interior. The GPS, radio, and air bag were gone. Another day, it would have been stripped clean. It’s all yours.” She pulled a set of rubber gloves from her back pocket and handed them to him.

  “Appreciate it.” He pulled on the gloves and then ducked under the tape, moving to the driver’s-side door first to study the light tan interior. There was a coffee cup from one of those high-end shops in Austin with red lipstick smudging the top’s spout. The glove box was open and inside he found area maps. GPS could be wrong and a savvy Realtor needed to get around efficiently to make a living. The car looked as if it once had been showroom clean. He imagined no trash, vacuumed carpets, and polished windows. Between the seats was a collection of CDs. Classical music, self-help and motivational tapes. The Million-Dollar Deal. Ten Steps to Record-Breaking Sales. Not fodder for thieves.

  He popped the trunk and walked around to the back of the car. In the trunk there was a bin with one remaining sandal but he suspected they’d been full of shoes. Sara would have been prepared for any kind of terrain or trip. A five-mile walk was feasible, but remembering the pristine shape of her heels, he doubted it. There was also a cooler filled with water bottles and a collection of signs sporting the MANLY AND DOBBS real estate logo and Sara’s smiling photoshopped face.

  By all appearances, Sara Wentworth was an ambitious woman with her sights set on the future. She had no apparent reason to track a drug-addicted man from her past, kill him, and then herself. Sure, it could have happened. Rory could have sent her the doll and triggered a deadly chain reaction.

  It could have been a murder-suicide scenario; however, if he had to bet money, he’d wager someone else had murdered them both.

  Bragg arrived at the real estate office of Manly and Dobbs a half hour later. Located in the center of Austin blocks from the white dome of the state capitol, the building had lots of glass, a sleek sign out front, and manicured planters with lush green plants.

  He pushed through the office door and a young, blond receptionist glanced up at him with a bright smile on her face. The instant she saw his white hat and star badge the smile vanished. He wasn’t a customer. And he was here about Sara.

  She rose. “Ranger. You’ve come about Sara?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She flipped her hair out of her eyes. “We are all in shock about it. No one can believe Sara would kill herself. Her life was perfect.”

  “She didn’t give you any indication that she wasn’t doing well?”

  “Nothing. She was a happy woman.”

  Smiles could hide a lot of pain and everyone had secrets. “There someone here that kept up with her appointments?”

  “All our agents are independent. They use the office primarily for mail and the occasional meeting. Often, I’d not see Sara for days or weeks. She was in her car most of the time. But I can buzz Rita Herbert. She’s our office manager, and if Sara had been in touch with anyone it would have been Rita.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  When she vanished down the hallway, he waited in the lobby studying the glossy pictures of high-end properties in the Austin area. Manly and Dobbs handled the best clients, which fit with Sara’s profile.

  Greer and Sara had come from the same privileged world and ended up at Shady Grove. But Shady Grove had been a fork in the road. Sara had returned to her old, sheltered world, whereas Greer had upended herself and built a life the opposite of her roots. She’d traded beauty salons, manicures, and high-end clothes for jeans, hard work, and a vineyard that likely took as much as it gave. This reinvented Greer fascinated him to no end.

  “Ranger Bragg?”

  He turned to find a tall brunette studying him. She wore conservative dark pants, a white long-sleeved shirt, and a matching jacket that skimmed full hips. Horn-rimmed glasses accentuated large blue eyes heavily made up. Gold hoop earrings matched a gold rope necklace that dangled below full breasts.

  He extended his hand, and she moved to meet it easily as if she’d shaken millions of hands in this office. “Ms. Herbert?”

  “Yes. I’m Rita Herbert, the office manager.” Her thick brows drew together. “I hear you’ve questions about Sara.”

  “I’m trying to piece together her last day or two. I was hoping you might have an idea about some of the clients she met with that last day.”

  With manicured fingers, she combed away a strand of hair from her face. “I don’t understand. Why do you need her client list? I thought Sara killed herself.”

  No sense triggering alarm bells. For now he wanted answers. “It’s standard to examine the deceased’s last days.”

  She sighed. “I still can’t believe it. Sara was our best agent. She had just sealed the deal and made a six-figure commission. She was at the top of her game.”

  “What kinds of property did she sell?”

  “Some high-end residential but for the most part she handled the corporate sales. Her family has been in Austin for fifty years, and they had all kinds of connections. She used those connections to get her start. But she quickly proved to everyone she was more than just a rich girl. She was talented in sales and worked harder than anybody.”

  “Did you keep track of her appointments?”

  “No. She kept her own book. She did call in on Tuesday asking about a missing business card. She sounded ratt
led and upset.”

  He thought about the trash-can discovery. “She say what was bothering her?”

  “I asked but she laughed it off. Said she was a little forgetful these days.” She dug a card from her pocket. “This is the card she wanted. I still had it on my desk.”

  He accepted it. “She have anything to say about the client?”

  “Only that he owned restaurants back East and had his eye on Austin.”

  He glanced at the card. Howard Corwin. From Washington, D.C. His chain was called Legends. “Have you contacted him since Sara’s death?”

  “No. We’ve all been a mess since we heard the news. Sara really was the backbone of corporate sales.”

  He glanced at the number. “Where’d they have coffee last week?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “May I keep this?”

  “Sure.”

  “Any more details you can share about him?”

  “Why are you interested in this guy? Do you think he is connected to her death?”

  “I don’t have solid facts at this point, ma’am. I need to follow every rabbit trail I come across.”

  “That makes sense, I guess.”

  “Yes, ma’am. If you think of any new details that strike you as odd about this guy or any of her other clients, let me know.”

  She frowned. “Sure.”

  He thanked her again for her time and promised to be in touch. As soon as he slid behind the wheel of his car and turned on the engine, he dialed Corwin’s number.

  The phone rang several times and then a male voice-mail message said: “You’ve reached Howard Corwin of Corwin Enterprises. I’m traveling this week so leave a message, and I’ll get back to you.”

  Bragg hung up and stared at the card. Anyone could make a card. But fooling a seasoned real estate agent like Sara Wentworth would take more than a bogus number. He flipped on his computer and searched Corwin Enterprises. A second or two later he had a Baltimore number that did not match the number on the card. Stood to reason Corwin’s direct line wouldn’t match the Web site number. Still, he dialed the Web site number.

  As the phone rang, he pulled off his hat and tossed it on the passenger seat. On the second ring a receptionist answered the phone. “Corwin Enterprises.”

  Bragg introduced himself and explained he needed to speak to Corwin. She put him on hold and ten seconds later, he heard, “This is Howard Corwin.”

  “Lieutenant Bragg, Texas Rangers in Austin, Texas, sir. I’d like to ask you about your recent meeting with Sara Wentworth.”

  Silence crackled over the line. “I don’t know a Sara Wentworth.”

  Bragg glanced at the card in his hand. “Sara Wentworth is a real estate agent here in Austin. According to her office manager you met with Sara two days ago in Austin about restaurant property.”

  “Ranger Bragg, I’ve not been to Austin in fifteen years. And two days ago I was working in my office here in Baltimore. A hundred people can verify that. I’m not sure why Ms. Wentworth is claiming we met.”

  “I’ve a copy of your business card that her office manager gave me. Got your name on it.” He repeated the phone number.

  “Not my number, Ranger. Whoever this woman met with, it was not me.”

  Bragg flicked the edge of the card with his index finger. The guy sounded genuinely surprised, though Bragg would do a full background check, and he would verify his alibi.

  “So why do you think the office manager at an Austin real estate firm had your card?”

  “You might have a card that looks like mine, but I wasn’t in Austin. Like I said, I was in the Baltimore office holding a planning meeting. It lasted from eight in the morning to at least seven in the evening. What does Ms. Wentworth want? Is she making some kind of claim against me?”

  Bragg tucked the card in his pocket. “Ms. Wentworth is dead, Mr. Corwin. We found her body yesterday. She’d been locked in a freezer and she died of exposure.”

  A long pause followed. “I give out my card all the time, Ranger Bragg. I’m in the restaurant development business and that’s the nature of the beast. Anyone could have copied it.”

  He sat back, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the cityscape. “I’m going to need the names of the people you were in that meeting with.”

  “I will help you in any way. Whatever you need. But like I said, I’ve never laid eyes on Sara Wentworth.”

  Bragg scrawled the names of several key individuals in Corwin’s meeting, thanked the man, and hung up. Whatever doubts he’d had about Sara’s death had now been satisfied. She’d been murdered.

  This would be Greer’s last night volunteering at the Crisis Center for at least six weeks. Soon the harvest would bring long hours in the fields cutting the grapes from the vines and preparing them for transport. She tried to work the phones once during harvest season. It had been nine years ago, and she’d been so exhausted when she’d sat at the phones, she’d fallen asleep.

  Therefore, she’d understood even crazed workaholics had limits. Even they needed to throttle back and accept some things had to be let go.

  She shifted the gears of her truck and pulled on to Rural Route 71. Thirty more minutes and she’d be in Austin sitting in her gray cubicle with a fresh cup of coffee in her hand.

  The cooling breeze blew in her cracked window and teased the loose strands of hair framing her face. As much as she wanted to relax, her fingers gripped the wheel tighter and she sat a little straighter. Driving at night or close to dusk still made her nervous even after all this time.

  Absently, she tugged on her seat belt to ensure it was locked. And though it would be nice to listen to the radio, this late in the day she didn’t allow the distraction.

  In the distance, headlights appeared. She sat straighter, gripped the wheel even tighter, and watched with a careful eye as the car approached. The car drew closer and closer. And only when it passed her by did she release the breath she held.

  A half hour later, Greer arrived at the Crisis Center minutes before eight. She’d been volunteering at the Crisis Center for ten years and though there were times when she toyed with letting it go, she never could because once in a while she got someone on the phone who truly needed a kind ear to help them through a dark moment.

  “Hey, Danni,” Greer said.

  Danni had dark short hair and favored black and silver jewelry. She was barely twenty but had been working the night-shift desk at the center for six months. During the day the kid went to school at UT majoring in art. She also picked up a waitress shift and sometimes worked for a local photographer.

  Beaded bracelets jangled when Danni raised her hand in greeting. “Greer. Have a phone with your name on it.”

  “Have there been a lot of calls?” This time of year the lines were generally quiet. The holidays, chockful of family gatherings, celebrations, and events intended to be happy, often triggered a crisis.

  “The early shifts handled calls from lonely people who needed someone to talk to.”

  Greer dropped her purse to the floor and took the seat across from Danni. “Good. I could use a slow night. No crisis.”

  Danni leaned back in her chair and folded her arms. “You’re coming into grape time, aren’t you?”

  “I was testing them today as a matter of fact. Just about sweet enough. We’re about two weeks out from harvest time.”

  Danni leaned back in her chair. “You should have taken a pass on your shift tonight. I would have covered for you.”

  “I thought about it a couple of times. But it’s good for me to get off the property and connect with people. I spend too much time with the grapes.”

  Danni laughed. “As long as they don’t talk to you.”

  “That’s a bad thing?” Greer teased, grinning.

  “Well,” she said, pretending to think, “I guess it depends on what the grapes are saying.”

  Greer shook her head. “If any grape talks to me, no matter how sweet the words, I’m in trouble.”


  Danni laughed. Her console phone rang and she leaned forward in her chair. “When the grapes talk it is not a good day.”

  “Exactly.”

  Danni reached for the phone receiver as Greer moved to her simple gray cubicle. “I’ll be at my station.”

  “By the way, you’re still welcome to work the harvest. You’d mentioned making a little extra money and we are a little shorthanded this season.”

  “I’m in. Always looking to make an extra buck.”

  “I’m training a new farmhand this week, so if you can come out I can double up the training.”

  “Name the day.”

  “I’ll text you tomorrow.”

  Greer’s station was stocked with one phone that could accommodate up to six lines. She spoke to one crisis client at a time but there’d been times when she’d believed her caller was in real trouble, had to make an excuse, put the caller on hold, and called 911 for a trace. Emergency personnel were dispatched to the caller’s location. Most nights weren’t that dramatic. She usually extended a sympathetic ear. Many of her callers weren’t in real trouble as much as they were lonely.

  She set her backpack on the desk. She always brought work from the office, knowing some nights no one called. During those times she balanced accounts, outlined harvest schedules, or updated personnel files. The vineyard could be jealous and required she fill every pocket of spare time.

  She rarely questioned her long hours, which initially had been her salvation. But tonight when she looked at her backpack crammed full of ledgers, resentment flared. She had the life she wanted. Loved her vineyard. Was excited about the winery. And yet she heard the faintest whispers of loneliness.

  Most nights she was too exhausted to notice that she climbed into bed alone. Most nights all she wanted to do was sleep and not dream. But most nights weren’t all nights.

  Her mind turned to Bragg and again she wondered what it would be like to touch him, to kiss him. With him in her bed, the nights would never be boring. And she doubted she’d get much sleep. Color warmed her cheeks as she thought about his naked body pressed against hers.