“What do I have?”
“Broodstock.”
“I know that word now.”
He smiled.
“Not ordinary broodstock.”
He showed me a record.
One largemouth bass belonged to a selectively bred line known informally as Riverstone Fast-Grow 6.
Another was from a line selected for resistance to a bacterial disease common in warm-water production.
Some trout came from a cold-water strain developed for better survival in variable spring temperatures.
Not genetically engineered fish.
Selectively bred.
Generation after generation.
Tracked pedigrees.
Performance records.
Commercially useful traits.
“How much are they worth?”
I asked.
Aaron shook his head.
“That’s complicated.”
“Physical fish?”
“Maybe tens of thousands total depending on survival and certification.”
“Breeding program?”
“Different question.”
He looked toward the pond.
“If the pedigrees are intact.”
“If disease testing is clean.”
“If the trust’s licensing rights are still valid.”
“And if somebody can legally manage the line.”
“The commercial value could be substantially higher.”
“How high?”
He hesitated.
“Six figures.”
That was the first time somebody said it.
Not a fantasy.
Not Karen accidentally dumping $300,000 worth of fish like bags of cash.
The value was not simply their bodies.
It was the reproductive program.
Records.
Verified genetics.
Breeding rights.
Future offspring.
Contracts.
The difference mattered.
Daniel understood immediately.
“So Robert does not own them merely because they’re in his pond.”
“Correct.”
Aaron said.
“But somebody is responsible for them.”
“Also correct.”
“And whoever moved them may have violated transfer requirements.”
Aaron looked at Daniel.
“Almost certainly.”
By noon, Daniel had found the old rule.
A 1994 Riverstone agreement required three things for movement of registered broodstock to a private water body.
Written consent from the receiving landowner.
Fish-health documentation.
Transfer entry into the breeding registry.
We had none of those.
Then Daniel found the transfer form Silver Ridge used.
The authorization signature belonged to Carl Vickers.
Former manager, Riverstone Fisheries.
There was one problem.
Carl Vickers had been dead twelve years.
I stared at the photocopy.
“So somebody used a dead man’s signature.”
“Possibly.”
Daniel said.
“We do not know whether this is forged, copied from an old standing document, or misrepresented by the contractor.”
“Don’t accuse until we know.”
“Fine.”
“But we know I didn’t sign anything.”
“Yes.”
“And Karen admitted hiring them.”
“Yes.”
“Then I’m already having a better week than she is.”
Daniel smiled.
“For the first time, I agree.”
Two days later, Karen returned.
This time with three people.
A Silver Ridge property manager.
A representative from Mountain Aquatic Services.
And a man carrying a large landing net.
I met them at my locked gate.
Karen held a clipboard.
“We are here to correct the relocation.”
“No.”
Her expression tightened.
“You haven’t even heard the plan.”
“You put fish into my pond without permission.”
“Nobody removes them without legal authority and veterinary clearance.”
The contractor stepped forward.
“Mr. Hayes.”
“We were told the receiving site had approval.”
“By who?”