Cold Smoked

by K. K. Beck

  Shortly after she hung up, she heard sirens. She had rejoined Gunther, who was standing by a bed of azaleas with the air of a man waiting impatiently for his wife. Most of the crowd had dispersed, and the demonstrators were already packing up their signs and props.

  When the police car pulled up, the woman who’d thanked Jane for not wearing fur looked pleased and excited. “Wow. They’re going to arrest us? Awesome!”

  One of the policemen got out of the car, came up to the group and said, “Any of you guys Curtis Jeffers?”

  They all looked at each other. Curtis said, “Civil disobedience!” The furry little group immediately fell to the ground, and the policeman rolled his eyes.

  Jane stepped forward. “He’s the one,” she said, pointing to the mound that was Curtis. His grisly exhibits lay beside him. “And that slipper may be a piece of evidence in a murder investigation.”

  “Okay,” said the policeman, looking as if he were humoring her. “You the one who called?”

  “Yes,” she said. “It’s Detective Olson’s case.”

  He nodded and touched Curtis delicately with his toe. “Are you Curtis Jeffers?” he said.

  “We have a perfect right,” began Curtis, “to protest senseless slaughter—”

  “I don’t care about any of that,” said the policeman. “I’ve been asked to take you downtown to answer a few questions. You coming along to help us out?”

  “No,” said Curtis, now sitting cross-legged on the concrete pavement and apparently trying to think of a way to get back up on his feet without looking silly. The other bundles of fur began to uncurl and blink with curiosity, as if coming out of hibernation.

  “Okay,” said the policeman, reaching for a pair of handcuffs on his belt. “I’m arresting you.”

  “What’s the charge?” Curtis shouted.

  “You have a whole mess of outstanding parking warrants. You’ve been ignoring those little postcards that keep coming to your house, Curtis. And today is the day of reckoning.”

  “I demand that you arrest me for defending innocent lives,” said Curtis, standing up. For the first time, it seemed, he noticed Jane. He looked confused.

  “You know what?” said the policeman with a big smile. “I’m a police officer. I arrest people, and I decide the charge, not you. Sorry it’s not more glamorous.”

  Jane turned to Gunther. “We can go now,” she said quietly.

  Gunther, incredibly correct, didn’t ask any questions. It rather irritated her that he wasn’t curious, but she didn’t volunteer anything, either. Let him think she could make a phone call and get someone arrested. She wondered if and when she’d be able to find out what the police got out of Curtis tonight.

  Gunther suggested that they go for coffee or a drink. They ended up on Queen Anne Avenue, in a cozy little place with Mozart coming out of the speakers, and ordered a couple of coffees.

  “For about a year now,” said Gunther, “as I told you, someone has been interfering with farmed salmon around the world. All the salmon producers kept quiet about the problem, because they all suspected each other. Eventually, it came out that everyone was being affected: the Norwegians, the Chileans, the Scots, the Canadians and even some of the few American farms. That’s when they stopped fighting each other and hired me.

  “Whoever is doing this has to have had access to farms all over the world. That’s why I was so interested in you. You had an entrée to various facilities and seemed not to be what you said you were.”

  “I’ll see what I can find out,” said Jane. “But if Putnam’s responsible, I can’t imagine him telling me or anyone else that he’s been running around poisoning fish or anything.”

  “Probably not,” said Gunther, gazing with interest at a pastry cart. “But his brother is another matter entirely.” He looked back at her. “I think I would like a napoleon,” he said. “How about you?”

  “An éclair, please,” said Jane. “Tell me why you think the Putnams have something to do with this.”

  “They’re from the wild salmon sector. Robert has traveled to the countries involved and visited farms. He always talks about promoting salmon across the board, while his brother makes outrageous, threatening statements about salmon farming. There seems to be an element of religious mania.” He leaned forward. “And the brother also appears to have a criminal background.” He raised a hand imperiously and ordered the pastry from the waitress who came over.

  When they were alone again he said, “Donald Putnam has spent time in prison for drug trafficking. And he has been arrested several times for assault. Yet his brother continues to associate with him and keeps him in the business.”

  “They’re an odd pair all right,” said Jane. “But tell me more about this sabotage. What seems to be the point of it? Is someone trying to kill all the farmed salmon in the world?”

  Gunther shook his head. “All you need to know is that the fish is being made unmarketable. This causes financial hardship for the farmers. If the public learned of this, the long-term effect could be disastrous. Farmed salmon could be completely discredited.”

  Jane shrugged and tried not to look hurt that he didn’t trust her with whatever nameless horrors were being perpetrated on salmon. “I’ll see what I can find out,” she said. “How do you suggest I go about this?”

  “Tomorrow there is a big reception to launch the generic campaign. Putnam will be there, with his brother. I asked Amanda Braithwaite to make an effort to get you there, too.”

  “Yes, she sent a fax. I’ll be there all right,” said Jane. “I can start ingratiating myself with the Putnams right away.”

  “If I were you,” Gunther said, gazing analytically at his napoleon as the waitress set down their pastries, “I would start by telling Robert what a terrific job he did rescuing you from me in Bergen, and how much you appreciate his cowboy style.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The Spanish ballroom at the Olympic Hotel was lined with more long tables bearing plates of fish. Jane felt she had spent a lot of time lately in rooms lined with fish-laden tables. She sighed, accepted her name tag from a woman at a card table by the entrance and got herself a glass of Chardonnay from the bar set up along one side of the room.

  There was no sign of the Putnam brothers, but she was surprised to run into Carla, decked out in another bad power suit. This time it was kelly green with matching pumps. Carla explained that she was attending as a representative of the Women’s Seafood Network. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” she said. “It’s a milestone in salmon promotion.”

  “Great,” murmured Jane, who realized that she had completely forgotten to tell poor Carla about the salmon sidebar. “Go ahead and write this event up and I’ll give it to Norm. I already fixed it. Tie in the Braithwaite interview on the tape I gave you.”

  Carla looked thrilled.

  Jane sipped her wine and surveyed the room, looking for the Putnams. “Carla, didn’t you say there was some kind of problem with farmed salmon? Some rumors or others?”

  “That’s right,” said Carla. “Some pigmentation thing. No one knows if it’s a disease or what.”

  “Pigmentation? You mean color?”

  Carla nodded. “Of course, in farmed salmon, pigmentation is something you can control.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Fish farmers decide how red they want the flesh to be and add carotenoids to the feed in the final grow-out stage,” said Carla, apparently startled that this wasn’t common knowledge.

  “Carotenoids?”

  Carla nodded. “The reason wild salmon are pink is they eat tiny crustaceans with red shells. Farmed salmon get a dose of shrimp or krill, or sometimes a synthetic version that’s chemically identical. Otherwise they’d be very pale. Like albinos.”

  “So albino fish have been cropping up?”

  “I’m not sure what the problem is. There are just rumors that lots of fish have been destroyed because their pigmentation is all wrong, and no on
e knows why. Everyone in the industry has been denying it.” Carla clicked her tongue. “Norm didn’t want me to follow it up. Typical.”

  “Norm’s coming tonight,” said Jane. “With a photographer. Will it be too hard for you to face him?”

  “This industry is big enough for both of us,” Carla declared boldly. “He can’t intimidate me.” She tossed her head. “I’ve dealt with a lot worse than Norm.”

  Carla, Jane realized, knew an awful lot about the fish business. Maybe she had some goods on the Putnams. “Didn’t you say Don Putnam gave you a hard time?” she asked.

  “He threatened to smash my computer,” said Carla. “Said he’d come after me and smash it in front of my eyes. I kind of hinted that I’d heard something about their company. A price-fixing thing. I think that’s what bugged him, but he said he wanted to get me for writing an editorial explaining that aquaculture was the only answer to the problem of dwindling resources and increased global demand for seafood. He’s nuts.”

  “I wonder why his brother puts up with him,” said Jane.

  “The word is,” Carla said, “that Don went to prison on that drug rap, but Bob was in it, too.” She shrugged. “A lot of fishermen arrive in Dutch or Kodiak, they have a big roll of cash and they’ve been clean and sober for a long time. Back when cocaine was big, Don Putnam was waiting for them at the dock. Maybe Bob can’t unload him because Don knows where a few bodies are buried.”

  “Are they legit now?” Jane asked.

  “When the whole thing blew, Bob made a big thing about going into rehab and cleaning up,” said Carla. “More than a few people in the industry were into cocaine back then. It wasn’t that unusual.”

  A crackling microphone indicated that the festivities were about to start. A large woman in a beaded chiffon gown standing at a lectern announced that she was privileged to introduce the winning chefs in the salmon competition. “But first,” she gushed, “we’ll hear from Amanda Braithwaite in New York and see what those artistes in the Big Apple came up with.” Behind her, on a giant TV screen, appeared the round, eager face of Amanda Braithwaite.

  “Welcome, everybody!” she shouted at the camera. “Welcome, San Francisco, Chicago and Seattle, to what I hope will be the first of many national and international salmon galas.”

  The camera pulled back to reveal a crowded room, with lots of people chatting and ignoring Amanda’s remarks. With the time difference, Jane assumed the crowd there had got through a lot more Chardonnay than the sedate group who stared politely up at the screen here.

  “I think I’ll go mingle,” Jane said to Carla. She set off in search of her quarry, finding instead Norm and a photographer. She waved to them and kept on going. On the screen Amanda was holding up a plate and saying something about a salmon Wellington with pureed root vegetables and guacamole sauce.

  Over by the bar she found not Bob Putnam, but Don. He was wearing a coat and tie. A fishhook tie tack imprisoned a hand-painted number with a setting sun and a flock of birds ascending from a lagoon. “Hi,” she said, “remember me?”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said. “You got Carla’s old job. I’m glad she’s gone. The industry doesn’t need her kind.”

  Jane wondered if he actually would have smashed her computer if she hadn’t been fired. “Gee, I’m surprised to see you here,” she said. “A lot of this salmon is farmed.”

  He scowled. “My brother says we have to do business with these guys.”

  “You think there’s anything wrong with their fish?” said Jane.

  “Who knows what kind of chemicals they put in that shit?” he said.

  “Have you heard anything about any problem with color?” she asked.

  Don was about to answer, perhaps with quotations from scripture, when his brother approached.

  “Hello, Bob,” said Jane, giving him a big, warm smile. “I can’t thank you enough for taking care of my intruder over there in Bergen.”

  Bob, looking genuinely concerned, said, “Did you know the guy is here in Seattle? When I was walking through the lobby of this hotel, I saw him talking to the desk clerk. I guess he’s staying here. Has he been bothering you again?”

  “Hey!” Don barked. “He better not. Because Bob already told him to leave you alone. He told me all about it. If I see him, I’ll be all over him.”

  “Maybe you should have called the cops on him in Norway,” said Bob.

  “Screw the cops!” said Don. “We take care of our own shit.”

  Bob ignored this, as he did all the outrageous remarks his brother made. After years of hanging around with his brother, he had presumably developed the ability to tune out his ramblings. “Did you ever find out what he was investigating?” he said to Jane.

  “I think he was checking into the murder that happened at the seafood show.”

  “You mean that little demo girl?” said Bob. “Who would hire him to check into a murder case in Seattle? The police take care of that stuff. And why on earth would he go through your stuff?”

  He had a point. Once again Jane had come up with a lame cover story.

  She shrugged and said, “I don’t know. I was the one who reported it to the police. Maybe he thinks I know more than what I told them. Personally, I think he’s just a creep.”

  Bob jerked a thumb toward the TV screen, where Amanda was kissing a chef and waving a fond farewell to the camera. “Remember her?” he said with an easy smile. “You stood me up to have dinner with her, and here she is again, via satellite.”

  “And now,” Amanda was saying, “come in Chicago!”

  The screen danced and flickered for a second, and then with a crackle of static, a man in a dinner jacket with a horrible maroon cummerbund and matching tie and handkerchief came on screen. Standing next to him were three chefs whose toques were cut off by the screen. They stood in an awkward row, holding up plates of food.

  “A real cross-cultural application, using fresh local ingredients,” gushed the host, reading from a three-by-five card. “Our first-prize winner: salmon with cornmeal, black bean sauce and whitefish roe, drizzled with a piquant sauce of wild huckleberry.”

  The camera lovingly caressed the bizarre winning entry, which on the giant screen looked like a landscape of some distant planet. The chef’s huge pink thumbs peeped over the rim of the plate.

  “Maybe we can take a rain check on dinner,” said Jane, smiling nicely at Bob.

  “I’m heading back up to our plant in Anacortes tonight, but I’ll be back down here next week,” Bob said.

  “Oh, really?” said Jane, who wanted to get her project up and running immediately and liked the idea of impressing Gunther with what a fast worker she was. “I’m going to be up that way this week myself. Any good restaurants up there?”

  Bob produced a business card with the name of his fish-processing company. “Call me as soon as you get to town,” he said. “I’ll show you around the plant, too. Maybe you can give us a little more ink. We just put in another slime line, and we’ve got a new filleting machine that’ll knock your socks off.”

  “I just can’t see enough fish-processing plants,” Jane said brightly in a Carla voice, thinking of the wet concrete floors, the chilly, fishy-scented air, the stainless-steel equipment spotted with blood and fish scales, the unflattering gum boots, coveralls and hair nets issued to visitors.

  “Tell her about the pollock roe separator!” Don put in loudly.

  A thin man standing nearby shushed them. “They’re announcing the Seattle winners,” he said in a peevish voice. Don glared at him and scowled into his drink.

  “I think you’ll agree,” said the woman in beaded chiffon from the podium and also, in a nightmarishly huge version, from the giant screen visible over her own shoulder, “that Seattle has the most totally unique dish of all.”

  Jane wondered if there were such a thing as “most totally unique” and also doubted whether anyone could top the peculiar and pretentious dishes that had just been honored.

  “Get a
close-up of this,” the woman said enthusiastically. “A world premiere that will send shock waves through the culinary community! I’m thrilled to introduce to the world blue salmon with chanterelle mushrooms, couscous and a mango-and-chili chutney. And ladies and gentlemen, we don’t mean blue in the sense of rare. Although I’m sure you’ll agree it’s rare in the sense of totally unique.”

  An audible “ah” went around the room as the plate was displayed. The salmon was blue all right, sky blue, the color of the light blue crayon in a box of Crayolas.

  The man with the peevish voice gasped. “It’s gorgeous! Like a classic pair of faded jeans,” he said. “I can see it on a bed of blue polenta. I’m calling my editor in New York tomorrow and telling her we’ve got to get this on the cover.”

  Jane turned around and read his name badge. He was a stringer for a glossy food magazine.

  Up on the podium, Norm Carver was gesturing to the plate as his photographer crouched in front of it and squinted. Evidently blue salmon was going to make the cover of Seafood Now, too.

  The mistress of ceremonies put an arm around the chef, who was looking tired of holding the plate. “Tell us your secret, Carlos,” she said. “How did you get it that beautiful blue all the way through? I’ve been told it tastes just like regular salmon.”

  “I was just lucky,” said the chef. “I bought the fish whole, and when I opened it up, it was blue. I thought it would make a fabulous presentation, so I devised a recipe that would work really well visually, as well as offer an interesting palate profile and incorporate some of our northwest specialties and a few new-world, Pacific-rim type touches.”

  “Amanda in New York, what do you think?” gushed the woman in beaded chiffon.

  The screen popped back to Amanda’s face. It was scowling, and little tears seemed to be springing up in her eyes. Her pretty English skin looked red and blotchy. Her distress was particularly unnerving, considering her screen face was about the size of a Ping-Pong table.