The office was small and didn’t smell like fish. Go figure.
In fact, the office was only just a little bigger than my own, minus the dozens of newspaper and magazine articles featuring yours truly. And minus the bullet holes, of course.
The man sitting behind the desk was shockingly good-looking. He was wearing a casual blazer that was designed, I think, to look distressed or well worn. It was covered in pockets and, dammit, he looked good in it. A shimmery dress shirt seemed to fit him perfectly as well. His hair was neatly trimmed and his face was freshly shaved. He looked like a model out of a J. Crew catalog.
I hated him immediately, of course.
He looked up from his open laptop. His eyes sparkled. His teeth gleamed. He seemed generally happy to be him.
I hated him some more.
“ Can I help you?” he asked. His eyes were warm and friendly. He barely looked me over. He seemed at once busy and perfectly willing to give me his time.
“ I’m thinking of hunting shark,” I said. I had gone over this spiel with Heidi, who seemed to think it might work. “I’ve heard you’re a buyer.”
He motioned to a chair near the desk. I sat. He said, “Are you a fisherman?”
“ I’m looking to get into it.”
“ Do you have a boat?”
“ My grandfather left me his.”
He nodded. “You’ll need to get licensed.”
“ I’ve already applied.”
“ Good. Have you fished for shark before?”
“ On and off. I watched my grandfather do it. Been on a few trips. But I’m looking to get into the business. To make some money, you know. Hey, I’ve got a boat. Might as well use it, right?”
“ Right. How did you hear about me?”
“ Been asking around in the ports around San Diego and Dana Point. Don’t know much about the industry. Asked who bought sharks and for how much, and your name came up a few times.”
“ I see.” His smile faltered. Smiles only falter when someone has something to hide.
I pushed forward. “Do you work with smaller fishermen?”
“ I work with everyone. A shark is a shark, right?”
“ That’s what I always say,” I said. “I just need to know how all this works.”
“ You must have a license to commercially harvest and sell saltwater products, and you may sell only to a licensed California wholesale dealer.”
“ And you’re a wholesale dealer?”
“ In good standing.”
“ Of course. And you, in turn sell to?”
“ Retailers around the state. You will need to learn which species you can hunt, and you will need permits on various equipment, as well, like gill nets.”
I nodded and lowered my voice. “I’ve heard shark fins are big business.”
He sat back and his handsome features darkened. I suspected that he was waiting for this. I suspected that a part of him was on guard from the moment I had walked in.
“ Finning is now illegal in California,” he said.
“ That is, catching the sharks just for their fins?”
“ Right.”
“ Oh, I wouldn’t do anything illegal,” I said. “I just want to make a buck. And what are a few sharks anyway, right? Nasty creatures. So what’s the next step?”
“ Once you have your licenses, we can set you up with an account.”
I nodded. I needed to push this. It was too much by the book. “And what if I came back with just shark fins?”
“ Just the fins?” he asked.
“ Yes.”
“ Then I would call the Department of Fish and Game and you would lose your license and be heavily fined. There’s a chance your boat might even be confiscated, as well.” He stopped and looked at me long and hard. “Look, Mr…?”
“ Anderson,” I said.
“ Look, Mr. Anderson, I run a very up and up wholesale business. I work with well-known and respected fishermen. I respect the laws of California and elsewhere. If you are considering anything less than legal, then I think our business here is done.”
“ That’s good to know,” I said. “Do you know anything about the murder of Mitch Golden?”
He didn’t blink. He didn’t react. His not reacting was, in effect, a reaction. “Excuse me?” he asked after a moment.
“ Mitch Golden was a conservationist for Sharks Now. They found his body yesterday. Apparently he’d been shot and dumped overboard. Chained and everything. I saw the body. Not pretty.”
“ I don’t understand,” he said. “Are you a fisherman?”
“ I’m told that one of your shark hunters might have threatened him,” I said. “I’m also told that you buy illegal shark fins.”
“ Get out.”
But I didn’t get out, even when he opened the drawer and removed a handgun. It wasn’t the first time a gun has been shoved in my face.
“ Who are you?” he asked.
I reached carefully into my back pocket and withdrew my wallet. From it, I extracted my business card and handed it to him. I had nothing to hide. From anyone.
He took the card, looked at it, still holding the gun on me. “You’re a fucking private investigator?”
“ I’m also a righter of wrongs,” I said.
“ What the hell does that mean?”
“ It means that if you are who I think you are, you’ll be seeing me again.”
I got up and left, all too aware that the gun was pointed at my back.