Cold Case at Cobra Creek

Had he planned to marry her and take care of her and Benji?

No...everything about the man was probably false. He’d obviously fabricated a story to fit his agenda.

But why use her? To worm his way into the town and make residents believe he cared about them, that he was part of them?

Devious. But it made sense in a twisted kind of way.

She straightened the flooring in the closet, then went to Benji’s room. Benji had loved jungle animals, so she’d painted a mural of a jungle scene on one wall and painted the other walls a bright blue. She walked over to the shelf above his bed and ran her finger over each of his stuffed animals. His friends, he’d called them.

At night he’d pile them all in bed around him, so she could barely find him when she went to tuck him in. His blankie, the one she’d crocheted before he was born, was folded neatly on his pillow, still waiting for his return.

Where was her son? If he’d survived, was he being taken care of? Had someone given him a blanket to sleep with at night and animal friends to comfort him in bed?

She thought she’d cried all her tears, but more slipped down her cheeks, her emotions as raw as they were the day she’d discovered that Benji was gone.

The news usually ran stories about missing children. For a few weeks after the car crash, they carried the story about Ron and her son. Although the implication was that both had died in the fire, a request had been made for any information regarding the accident. They’d hoped to find a witness who’d seen the wreck, someone who could tell them if another car had been involved.

But no word had come and eventually other stories had replaced Benji’s on the front page. With this new development, maybe she could arouse the media’s interest again.

She hurried downstairs to the kitchen and retrieved the scrapbook with clippings she’d morbidly kept of the crash and the coverage afterward. Why she’d kept them, she didn’t know. Maybe she’d hoped one day she’d find something in them that might explain what had happened to Benji.

The small town of Cobra Creek wasn’t big enough for a newspaper, but a reporter from Laredo had interviewed her and covered the investigation. At least, what little investigation Sheriff Gandt had instigated.

She noted the reporter’s name on the story. Ashlynn Fontaine.

Hoping that the reporter might revive the story and the public’s interest, now that Ron’s body had been found and that his death was considered a homicide, she decided to call the paper the next morning and speak to Ashlynn.

* * *

DUGAN DROVE TO the bank the next day to speak with George Bates, the president. One woman sat at a desk to the left, and a teller was perched behind her station, at a computer.

He paused by the first woman and asked for Bates, and she escorted him to an office down a hallway. A tall, middle-aged man with wiry hair and a suit that looked ten years old shook his hand. “George Bates. You here to open an account?”

Dugan shook his head. “No, sir, I need to ask you some questions about Ron Lewis.”

Bates’s pudgy face broke into a scowl. “What about him? He’s been dead for two years.”

“True,” Dugan said. “I don’t know if you heard, but his body was discovered this morning at Cobra Creek. It turns out he didn’t die in that car crash or fire. He was murdered.”

Bates’s eyes widened. “What?”

“Yes, he was shot.”

Bates rolled his shoulders back in a defensive gesture. “You think I know something about that?”

“That’s not what I meant to imply,” Dugan said, using a low voice to calm the man. “But the fact that Ms. Freeport’s little boy wasn’t with him raises questions about where he is. Ms. Freeport asked me to look into his disappearance. Learning who killed Lewis might lead us to that innocent little boy.” Dugan paused. “You do want to help find that child, don’t you?”

His comment seemed to steal the wind out of Bates’s sails. “Well, yes, of course.”

“Then tell me everything you can about Ron Lewis.”

Bates tugged at his suit jacket, then motioned for Dugan to take a seat.

“Lewis came in here with all kinds of plans for the town,” Bates said. “He had sketches of how he wanted to renovate the downtown area, parks that would be added, housing developments, a giant equestrian center and a dude ranch, along with an outlet mall and new storefronts for the downtown area.”

“Did he have backing?” Dugan asked.

Bates scratched his chin. “Well, that was the sketchy part. At first he said he did. Then, when it got down to it, he approached me to invest. I think he may have hit on some others around town. Especially Lloyd Riley and Ken Canter. They own a lot of land in the prime spots for the equestrian center and dude ranch.”

“He made them offers?”

“You’d have to talk to them about it,” Bates said. “Neither one wanted to tell me any specifics. But I think Riley signed something with him and so did Canter.”

So, what had happened to those deals?

“Were most of the people in town in favor of the project?”

“A few of the store owners thought it would be good for business. But some old-timers didn’t want that dude ranch or the mall.”

“When he asked you to invest, did you check out Lewis’s financial background?”

Bates frowned. “I was going to, but then he had that crash and I figured there wasn’t no need.”

“Was he working with a partner? Another contact to deal with on the project?”

“If he was, he didn’t tell me.”

Probably because he was running a scam. Lewis had never had backing and was going to swindle the locals into investing, then run off with their money.

Had one of them discovered Lewis’s plans to cheat him and killed Lewis because of it?

Chapter Five (#ulink_0940a3d3-5c9b-520c-a9a6-74e9b74008ce)

Dugan stopped by his ranch before heading out to talk to the ranchers Lewis had approached.

He’d worked hard as a kid and teen on other spreads, doing odd jobs and then learning to ride and train horses, and had vowed years ago that he would one day own his own land.

Growing up on the reservation had been tough. His mother was Native American and had barely been able to put food on the table. Like little Benji’s, his father had skipped out. He had no idea where the man was now and couldn’t care less if he ever met him.

Any man who abandoned his family wasn’t worth spit.

Then he’d lost his mother when he was five and had been tossed around for years afterward, in foster care, never really wanted by anyone, never belonging anywhere. It was the one reason he’d wanted his own land, his own place. A home.

He’d hired a young man, Hiram, to help him on the ranch in exchange for a place to live. Hiram was another orphan on the rez who needed a break. He also employed three other teens to help groom and exercise the horses and clean the stalls. Keeping the boys busy and teaching them the satisfaction of hard work would hopefully help them stay out of trouble. He’d also set up college scholarships if they decided to further their education.

Everything at the ranch looked in order, and he spotted Hiram at the stables. He showered and changed into a clean shirt and jeans, then retreated to his home office.

He booted up his computer and researched Trace Lanier. Seconds after he entered the man’s name, dozens of articles appeared, all showcasing Lanier’s rise in success in the rodeo. Other photos revealed a line of beautiful rodeo groupies on his arm. For the past two years, he’d been traveling the rodeo circuit, enjoying fame and success.