“What tape?”

“An audiotape was playing when the officers arrived.”

“What was on the tape?”

“A woman’s voice. She kept saying, ‘I love you, Sara.’”

“What did the voice sound like?”

Rio glanced toward the officer outside the freezer door. “Key up the tape.”

The officer nodded and seconds later they all heard, “I love you, Sara.”

Bragg listened, almost fearing he’d hear the rusty, whiskey quality of Greer’s voice. But this voice was older and the Texas accent deeper.

“Any idea who the voice belongs to?” he said.

“None. That’s for you to figure.”

He nodded. “How long do you think she’s been in here?”

“The cold will make that a hard one to pin. At least hours.”

He studied the icy walls now dripping with the heat streaming in from the door. “What powered the freezer?”

“A big generator with enough gas to run for another twelve hours.”

“I’ll leave you to the scene. I want to go outside and trace the steps into the building.”

“Will do, Ranger Bragg.”

Bragg threaded his way through the growing number of cops assembling in and outside of the warehouse. This bizarre death scene would soon make the news.

He spotted Winchester as the other Ranger pulled up in his black Bronco. Out of his car, Winchester stopped and surveyed the scene. The Ranger’s scowl deepened as he studied the warehouse.

Bragg shrugged, knowing soon the heat of the day would make getting around tedious. “It’s like DPS said. Female frozen to death in a freezer.”

“It’s going to be one hundred and ten today.”

“Officers tell me the temperatures in that freezer dropped below zero.”

“Frozen to death in the Texas heat. Do you think she did it on purpose?”

“No.”

“We need to talk to her family and find out if she had a history of suicide attempts.”

“Agreed,” Bragg said. He gave him the victim’s details.

“And you are sure it’s Sara Wentworth?”

“If the victim is not her, then she’s her twin.” He pulled off his rubber gloves. “Look at the generator used to power that freezer and find out if anyone in the area has bought one recently. Got to be easier to track than the rope.”

Winchester’s gaze cut through the crowds, searching. “Where’s her car? If it’s here, it should be roped off.”

“Hasn’t been found.”

“She sure didn’t walk here.”

“No, she did not.” Bragg stared at the dilapidated building, listened to the rush of cars from the interstate as the heat intensified the rotting scents of nearby garbage. “We need to find it.”

“Sure.”

Bragg shook his head. “Hell of a place to end up.”

It wasn’t hard to locate Sara Wentworth’s parents. They lived ten miles north of Austin in the Hyde Park area, an older upscale area reserved for those with money.

He drove past the neighborhood’s stone entrance, over a brick arched bridge spanning Waller Creek’s near-dry bed and toward a Spanish-style home built at the turn of the last century. The front yard was green and lush, and stood in stark contrast to the dry brittle grasses surrounding his rented home. The recent water restrictions didn’t apply here.

Bragg parked at the top of the driveway and went directly to the front door. He rang the bell and waited barely seconds before the door opened to a petite Hispanic woman dressed in a blue uniform.

“I’m Ranger Bragg with the Texas Rangers. I’m here to see Mr. or Mrs. Wentworth.”

The woman’s slight frown indicated his visit was unwelcome. However, she nodded politely and stepped aside so he could enter. The entryway was tiled with a light marble and an arched niche across from the door housed an angel statue.

He removed his hat, glancing through a doorway leading into a sitting room with wood floors and light fussy furniture. Above a stone fireplace hung a picture of a young Sara.

The sharp clip of heels and loafers had him turning to face a gray-haired couple. The man wore khakis and a white starched shirt with the letters RW monogrammed on the front pocket and the woman wore dark slacks and a short-sleeved white shirt. Simply dressed, but high quality.

The man stood a good foot taller than his five-foot-two-inch wife. Frowning, he did not extend his hand as he faced Bragg.

“I’m Ridge Wentworth. This is my wife, Mandy. What can I do for you, Ranger?”

“Ranger Bragg, sir, ma’am. Is there somewhere private we could talk?”

Mr. Wentworth’s scowl deepened but he ushered Bragg into the sitting room where the portrait hung. “Why the visit?”

Death notices were never easy. And when the notice involved telling a parent about a child it always dug in his craw. “I have bad news about your daughter, Sara. Her body was found in a warehouse in East Austin.”

Mrs. Wentworth’s hand rose to her mouth. “Sara is dead? I don’t believe that. She never goes to that part of town.”

“We found her driver’s license next to her. It’s a clear match.”

Mr. Wentworth draped his arm around his wife’s slender shoulders and she leaned into him. “What happened?”

Bragg shoved his emotions deep. “We’re still trying to figure that out.”

Mrs. Wentworth shook her head as if this was all a terrible mistake. “You must be wrong.”

“No, ma’am,” Bragg said.

Mr. Wentworth’s eyes flashed with anger. “You are very, very sure it was our Sara?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mrs. Wentworth’s eyes welled with tears that quickly spilled. “I don’t believe it. I just don’t believe it.”

The older man cleared his throat. “How did she die?”

Bragg hesitated. “We found her in a freezer. She froze to death.”

The couple glanced at each other and then back at him. He’d expected such an odd manner of death to trigger confusion or surprise. But in an unguarded split second the couple showed no surprise.

Mrs. Wentworth moved to one of the overstuffed couches and sunk into the folds, perfectly at ease in the frill and fluff. “I can’t believe this.”

Bragg studied her closely. “There are indications she might have killed herself.”

Mrs. Wentworth shook her head as her husband snorted. “Sara did not kill herself. She had a wonderful life ahead of her.”

Bragg caught a slight hesitation in the woman’s voice. “How well did you know your daughter?”

“I knew her well,” Mrs. Wentworth said. Watery eyes turned angry and defensive. “She and I were close. We had lunch together two days ago. I called her last night and wondered why she didn’t answer but thought she must be out with friends.”

“Our daughter was a successful and accomplished woman,” Mr. Wentworth said.

“What did she do for a living?”

“She was a commercial real estate broker.”

“Did she have properties in East Austin?”

The older man wrinkled his brow, disgust clear. “No. She didn’t work in that part of town. Too dangerous.”

“That area is known for drug dealers. Did she have a history of drug use?”

Mrs. Wentworth barely stifled a pained cry, and it gave Bragg no pleasure to ask such questions. But he needed to know. Needed to ask while the shock remained because when the shock wore off their guard would rise. Later when the adrenaline ebbed and their thoughts cleared a little, they’d regroup, think about their stories, and maybe hire an attorney. This was his best shot to discover what secrets they hid.

“She did not use drugs,” Mrs. Wentworth said, teeth clenched. “Sara was a successful and bright girl. She didn’t need to put poison in her system to function.”

“Sara was engaged and planning to marry in the spring,” her father said. “She’d been to New York weeks ago and picked out her dress. She had no reason to hurt herself. Someone must have done this to her.”

“Did she have a history of mental illness?”

Mrs. Wentworth’s mouth flattened, hesitated. “No. She has none of those troubles. She is . . . was . . . a good girl.” She dropped her face into her hands and wept.