Daniel was my property attorney.
He was fifty-three, patient, careful, and blessed with the useful ability to sound bored while someone else was becoming angry.
He had dealt with Silver Ridge before.
Several years earlier, Karen tried to claim the association had authority to force me to replace part of my boundary fence because residents could see it from one of their walking paths.
Daniel sent one letter.
Karen never mentioned the fence again.
He answered on the third ring.
“Robert.”
“You busy?”
“Always.”
“I have several thousand fish in my pond.”
There was a pause.
“That sounds less like a legal issue than usual.”
“I didn’t put them there.”
Another pause.
“Go on.”
I explained everything.
Karen.
Mountain Aquatic Services.
The invoice.
The tags.
The seven-day threat.
Daniel stopped me.
“You said tags?”
“Yes.”
“Metal?”
“Small. Numbered.”
“Did she provide a fish health certificate?”
“No.”
“Species inventory?”
“No.”
“Transfer documentation?”
“No.”
“County authorization?”
“No.”
“State wildlife paperwork?”
“No.”
Daniel sighed.
“That’s not normal.”
“I figured.”
“No, Robert. I mean this could be significantly more complicated than HOA nonsense.”
I looked out my kitchen window toward the pond.
“What do you need?”
“Photographs. Clear ones. Especially tags. Don’t handle anything unless necessary.”
I returned to the shoreline.
The fish had spread out somewhat, but the population density was still ridiculous.
I took photos.
Some showed trout.
Some showed bass.
Several larger fish carried metal tags near the fin.
I zoomed in on one.
RSC-4187.
Another.
RSC-5122.
I sent the photographs.
Daniel called back nine minutes later.
His voice had changed.
“Do not let anyone remove those fish.”
I sat down on a weathered bench beside the pond.
“Why?”
“I searched the state fisheries registration database.”
“And?”
“Those tag prefixes belong to a registered selective breeding program.”
“What program?”
“Riverstone Select.”
The name meant nothing to me.
“Silver Ridge?”
“No.”
“Mountain Aquatic Services?”
“No.”
“Then whose fish are they?”
“I don’t know yet.”
He paused.
“But they are not ordinary recreational stocking fish.”
I looked toward the water.
“What are they worth?”
“I’m not going to guess.”
“Daniel.”
“I’m serious. It depends on the genetic line, ownership rights, certification history, age, health, and whether the registrations are active.”
“Could they be worth more than $4,800?”