Over enough generations, a well-documented breeding line becomes more valuable than the individual fish because what is really being sold is predictability.
“You’re not buying one large fish,” Alan said. “You’re buying the probability that its offspring carry valuable traits.”
He showed Daniel several tag references.
“These numbers correspond to Riverstone records.”
“Active records?” Daniel asked.
“Some archived. Some still recognized.”
I folded my arms.
“What is the fish population worth?”
Alan looked uncomfortable.
“Standing biological value and commercial breeding value are two different things.”
“Give me either.”
“If the lineage documentation is valid, the breeding population could represent tens of thousands of dollars.”
Daniel leaned forward.
“Could it represent more?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
Alan hesitated.
Then he pulled a copied state file from his bag.
RIVERSTONE SELECT BREEDING PROGRAM.
Historical estimated commercial value associated with registered lines: $286,000.
I read the number twice.
Then looked at the pond.
Karen had charged me $4,800 to receive something potentially worth hundreds of thousands.
That did not make sense.
And when large numbers stop making sense, the correct question is usually not whether somebody made a mistake.
It is who benefits from pretending the numbers do make sense.
Alan left after advising me not to harvest, sell, move, or deliberately breed the tagged stock until ownership and regulatory status were clarified.
That mattered.
I was not going to become Karen in reverse.
The fish being physically on my property did not magically make every commercial right mine.
I wanted to know what had happened before I did anything.
Daniel stayed.
He opened another file.
Dated 1991.
Across the top:
PRIVATE AQUATIC ASSET.
TRANSFER REQUIRES OWNER CONSENT.
“Owner meaning me?”
“Receiving property owner.”
“And I never signed.”
“No.”
He pointed to the signature authorizing the current transfer.
Riverstone Fisheries.
The problem was that the entity named beside the signature had not existed for nearly fifteen years.
Daniel stared at the document.
“Somebody relied on dead paperwork.”
“How dead?”
“Legally dissolved.”
I leaned back.
“Can a dissolved company authorize a transfer?”
“Not like this.”
“Then Karen had no authority.”
“Not from this document.”
He gathered the papers.
“I’m going back to the county.”
“Daniel.”
He stopped.
“Why would anyone go through this trouble to move fish?”
He looked toward the pond.
“That is now the question.”
The next morning, Daniel arrived before sunrise.
He came through my kitchen door carrying a thick file and did not bother removing his coat.
“We have a problem.”
I poured coffee.
“I thought the fish were the problem.”
“The fish are also evidence.”
That woke me up.
He laid out the records.
Riverstone Fisheries had been dissolved twenty-four years earlier.
The signature being relied upon in Karen’s transfer file belonged to a former Riverstone manager.
That manager had died twelve years earlier.
I looked at Daniel.
“You’re sure?”
“County death record. State corporate records. Same person.”
“Then somebody forged it.”
“Possibly. Or copied an old authorization onto newer paperwork. We need document examination before using the word forged in court.”
That was Daniel again.
Never outrun your proof.
He had also reconstructed more of the site history.
The old Riverstone operation had occupied land adjacent to what later became Silver Ridge’s outer development area.