Anderson’s radar went up. “Has something happened back there already?”
She frowned. “Yes. I thought maybe that was why you were here. The local authorities said there wasn’t much I could do but fix the fence.”
Anderson’s gut tightened. Had the cartel and the Lions already made her a target?
He glanced around, then pushed at his tan cowboy hat. A teenaged boy and a middle-age woman were working down a hill inside the goat pen and a few curious visitors milled around watching and asking questions about the “Closed for Renovations” sign. No one was paying him much attention. He’d purposely changed out of his official uniform into a sportscoat and jeans and his own hat. “Could we talk somewhere private?”
“Sure. I was just finishing up for the day, anyway.” She nodded toward where the two other workers were busy with the goats. “That’s Jacob—he’s my part-timer and the woman with him is a volunteer. They’ll close up and leave when they finish up with the goats.” Giving him another bold stare, she said, “C’mon in and I’ll pour you a cup of coffee.”
Anderson looked toward the approaching orange-red sunset. “Sounds good. Now that the sun is setting, it’s kind of nippy out here.”
She pushed at the double screen doors on the long back porch, then guided him up a hall past the big open oak door that had a sign saying “Office”. “Yep, after that rain earlier in the week, it’s a little cool for October. Those two fellows out there will go into a kind of hibernation if it gets any colder. We’ve just started building them a new pond, so I hope to get them moved before winter sets in. That is, if I can stop whoever it is that keeps damaging what we’ve already built.”
She motioned toward another open door. “This way. Coffee’s in the kitchen. Oh, and I have a very old dog in here, but he probably won’t move a muscle to bark at you.” Pointing to the sand-colored dog on a plaid bed by the fireplace, she said, “Roscoe, this is Anderson. Say hi.”
Roscoe opened his doleful brown eyes and grunted.
“Some watchdog.”
“He used to be the best. But he’s arthritic and ornery now. My dad gave him to me when I was a teenager. He keeps me company.”
After offering Roscoe his knuckles to sniff, Anderson noted that the place wasn’t all that secure. No alarm system that he could see. And standard windows and doors that creaked and groaned each time the wind hit them. Everything looked a little frayed and run-down, but the place was clean. Looking through the big open door toward the front, he noticed long shelves of supplies along with pamphlets about various animal causes lining the wall behind the battered desk. A standing sign gave the cost of daily tours, stating that all students got in free.
His advance research on her website mentioned an aviary, a turtle house and pond and several other out-buildings and animal shelters, including a barn and stables. And as she’d mentioned, he had discovered she was building a bigger, better pond for the alligators. Obviously, Jennifer Rodgers was as dedicated to protecting animals as her famous late father Martin had been.
But even though her site indicated donations were always needed and welcome, it looked like she was struggling to keep things going on this remote compound.
Anderson hated to add to her troubles, but she had to know she might be in danger, especially if someone had already messed with a fence. Her rescue farm was located in an isolated spot just off I-10, about twenty miles from San Antonio. A perfect location for a drop site in drug trafficking, just like the suspect they had in custody had claimed. And he wondered now if that new alligator compound was being built too close to the alleged drop site.
Jennifer poured two cups of coffee, then motioned to the rectangular dining table on one side of the big den behind the office room. “Take a load off. And start talking, Ranger.”
Anderson watched as she turned her own chair around so she could straddle it, her hands dropping over the high back, her dark eyes centered on him.
Her fingernails were painted a brilliant candy-apple red.
Interesting. And distracting.
Taking off his hat, he ran a hand over his hair and pulled out a chair. “Ah, well, I’m here because we have reason to believe some suspicious activity has been transpiring on the south end of your property, Miss Rodgers.”
She nodded. “Yes. The brand-new fence around the pond we’re building back there was cut. It needs to be redone before we can get on with the construction. We just started last week, so I’m not happy about being set back already. I saw a man with a mustache running away, but I didn’t get a good look at him.”
“I’m not here about that, specifically,” he said. “But this could be connected to my reasons for being here, Miss Rodgers. Did the man see you?”
“He glanced back at me, then ran.” Her expression went still. “Call me Jennifer. And talk in plain English—not Ranger-speak, if you don’t mind. What kind of suspicious activity?”
Anderson didn’t need to tell her everything but he had to make her see this was important. And urgent. He only knew how to do that in Ranger-speak. But he tried to use layman’s terms. “Our captain was murdered last month. You might have heard about it—Gregory Pike?”
“I read about it in the paper and saw the story on the news. His daughter found him, right?”
“Right. Corinna interrupted the murder and found another man unconscious beside her father. That man is still in a coma in the hospital but we’ve released his photo to the media, hoping to get a lead on his identity.”
Pulling a copy of the picture out, he showed it to Jennifer. “Have you ever seen this man?”
She squinted toward the grainy picture of the unconscious dark-haired man with a scar on his face. “No. He looks rough. Hard to say. I don’t think that’s the man I saw the other day.”
Anderson decided to go on that for now. Maybe she’d remember something once they got into the particulars.
Jennifer took a drink of her black coffee. “I’m sorry about your captain and that man in the picture. But I don’t think it has anything to do with whoever cut my fence.”
Anderson saw the impatience in her expression. He’d have to talk fast, he reckoned. “We managed to bring in a suspect, Eddie Jimenez, who was captured after breaking into Corinna Pike’s house. He gave us information regarding a drop site—a designated meeting place where, allegedly, some Texas citizens are conspiring with a Mexican drug cartel. But he couldn’t identify anybody. Or so he said.”
Jennifer held out her hand. “Wait a minute. Are you saying what I think you’re saying? Do you believe this drop site is on my property? That these drug runners are the ones trespassing back there? Are they the ones who messed up my fence?”
Anderson tried to answer all of her questions with one statement. “If someone’s tampered with your fence, you can bet it’s probably these criminals, yes, ma’am. And if that man thinks you saw him, he might come back.”
She hit a palm on the table, causing Roscoe to open one eye. “And that’s why you’re here? Do you think I have something to do with all of this? I’m the one who called the local authorities but the deputy sheriff didn’t seem all that concerned. Now you show up—obviously very concerned.”
Anderson didn’t think she was a suspect, but that couldn’t be ruled out. “No, we don’t think you’re involved, but your property could be part of some illegal activity, and that activity could lead us to the man who murdered my captain. We need to keep tabs on your land, see who’s coming and going. And that means I need to be on site for a few days. I’ll call the sheriff and compare notes. I’ll need a list of everyone