Free The Way of All Fish: A Novel by Martha Grimes

firm doesn’t really do much by way of environmental protection; we’re not exactly hand in glove with the EPA.” He half-laughed to see how it would play. It did and it didn’t.
    Karl gave the other half of the laugh and said, “Yeah, neither is our client.”
    Candy made a tsking noise and moved his finger like a metronome before Wally. “Come on, Wally. What about that clear-cutting thing in Kentucky. That Adirondack Dewitt deal?”
    Wally was back to smiling. “Yeah. That wasn’t me, exactly— Hey, Rod!” Wally was looking at the connecting door.
    Richard Gere entered. The three o’clock appointment was all here now.
    Wally introduced them. They shook hands; Richard smiled. His other name was Rod Reeves, even more of a movie name than Richard Gere.
    Rod sat, or rather, flung himself down in one of the Eames (probably) chairs, white and with a kind of dripping Dali look, with underpinnings of crossed wood and narrow steel tubes. It looked made especially for Rod, he seemed so at home in it. “So?” Rod asked this as if to be updated on whatever had passed, be it their conversation or the latest report from the Warren Buffett newsletter, was his, Rod’s, royal privilege.
    “They’re friends of Cindy Sella,” said Wally.
    Which, as far as Candy and Karl were concerned, gave it all away, what they were interested in.
    Rod sat right up, hard to do if you’d been reclining in that chair. “Oh?” He and Wally exchanged a look.
    Wally summed up the conversation thus far. “You want us to take on this client in trouble with customs or in violation of EPA statutes—”
    “The Philippines?” Rod looked as if he knew every inch of them. “Coral reefs. Some of the best diving in the world.”
    “They take crowbars to the reefs to pry them apart,” said Karl.
    Candy was surprised that Karl had heard even a little of the article.
    “Crowbars? What for?” said Wally.
    “To get at the fish,” Candy said. “After they’ve been stunned with cyanide.”
    “Cyanide?” Three pairs of eyes swiveled toward Candy until Karl caught himself and nodded, as if he’d forgotten for only a second about the cyanide.
    “Cyanide fishing? You never heard of it? They spray cyanide into the water, stun the fish, then net them.”
    “The cyanide doesn’t kill them?”
    Candy chuckled. “I don’t think there’d be much of a market for dead fish, do you?”
    Rod asked, “What or who is the market?”
    “You’d be surprised. We’re talking high-up people, places. You didn’t read about that shooting at the Clownfish Café off Lex the other night? Shot up this huge fish tank. Frankie, he had a fortune in fish—”
    Rod laughed. “The shooters were looking for somebody, not for a fish.” He laughed again.
    “You’re half right. And do you know who the target was?”
    Rod and Wally looked blank.
    “You didn’t know your client Cindy Sella was at the Clownfish that night?”
    They both jutted forward as if working opposite ends of a circular saw. “What? What the hell does Cindy Sella have to do with it?”
    “You mean you didn’t know she was writing this book about the fish cartel in New York? You never heard her talk about how much she hates fish being mistreated? You been to her place? You seen her aquarium? No?”
    The answer was, obviously, no. They looked bug-eyed, which wasn’t good for the hotshot-lawyer image.
    “Those shooters? Probably one of the Bluefin Alliance. Sending another message. You don’t mess with these guys, Wally. Rod. We’re talking big, big, very big business. It’s not your Mexican cartels, no, at least not yet—”
    Karl broke in. “Come on, C., there’s no way these two know about this.” He tossed Wally and Rod a glance just this side of contemptuous. “This is the best-kept secret in New York.” He turned to the lawyers. “Check it out with your colleagues. They won’t know anything about it.”
    Candy said, “But my God, Wally! You’re Cindy Sella’s attorneys,