It's called Delta Gold -- caviar from the endangered Mississippi River paddlefish that rivals the world-renowned beluga. And now that greed has all but decimated a billion dollar Caspian Sea industry, the Russian mafia is casting its lethal line into the land of Elvis. Tennessee is the purgatory where the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service has consigned Rachel Porter for making trouble. Now, posing as a dirty agent on the take, she's diving into a shark pool of hungry predators drawn by the scent of big money. But there's more roiling these waters than a thriving trade in the illegal poaching of paddlefish for their roe -- as Rachel's investigation reveals even scarier secrets... and murder.

"My daddy says this picture is worth a hundred-thousand dollars!"

The snapshot was waved like a red flag in front of my face by the underage tartlet sitting next to me, who clutched a fried bologna sandwich in her other hand. The stench of greasy, seared meat filled the interior of my Ford SUV and I held my breath, trying to fight off the memory of having eaten one too many barbecued ribs last night. Oh no! Too late! She bit into the meat, causing a wave of nausea to roll from my stomach into my throat. I quickly lowered my window, despite the cold.

"But I'm gonna let you have it for just fifty thousand bucks," Wynona Hardy bargained like a seasoned pro.

I took the photo as I drove and glanced at fifty pairs of beady, camera-flashed red eyes that swam in a blackness as impenetrable as the Tennessee woods on a moonless night.

"Do you want to explain exactly what I'm looking at that's so valuable?"

"For chrissakes! They're coons, of course!" Wynona's full lips formed a well-practiced pout, her dark eyelashes fluttering like a professional "virgin" whose innocence had been questioned.

"Okay, so what makes this Quik Pik photo worth fifty thousand dollars?"

We passed a Piggly Wiggly supermarket held captive by a series of rough-and-tumble pawnshops on either side, all proudly advertising an arsenal of guns for sale. I turned onto a narrow street where dilapidated houses were the norm, their front yards littered with junked cars and flat tires. Either I'd stumbled onto the set of the old Jeff Foxworthy Show, or I was once again in redneck country.

"Daddy bought those coons for next to nothing from a holding station in Ohio." Wynona smiled slyly. "Is that a big enough clue for you?"

It was slowly coming together. A former trapper, Woody Hardy had turned to training and selling coon dogs to hunters after the bottom fell out of the fur trade. He must have decided to tip the scales in his favor during the most recent field trial, by dumping coons in the area where his dogs would be hunting. And to save a few bucks, he'd apparently purchased an illegal haul of rabid critters from a greedy employee at a quarantine station. Woody probably figured they were going to be destroyed anyway, so what did it matter how they met their Maker?

It was easy to imagine Woody releasing feverish coons the night before the trial. They wouldn't get very far as they stumbled along, bumping into obstacles in their path. By the time morning rolled around, any five-dollar biscuit-eating mutt from off a front porch could have treed the coons in no time flat. The scam was as rank as the sandwich Wynona had just polished off.

She snatched the photo back, adding a grease stain to its surface. Then extracting a cube of bubble gum from her jeans, Wynona peeled off the worn wrapper and popped it into her mouth.

"I was gonna blackmail him, but the old bastard would probably just whack me. So you're it. Whadda ya say? Have we got a deal?"

As I hit a bump, the handcuffs dangling from the shift on my steering column caught the sun's beams, causing light to glimmer and dance on the dashboard. It proved too much for Wynona. Her fingers twitched, irresistibly drawn toward them.

"Hey! Leave those alone!" I warned, but I might as well have been Wile E. Coyote trying to fend off a speeding train. She swiped the cuffs as I swerved to stay on the road.

"Put those back now!"

Wynona hooked the steel bracelets firmly around her wrists, and her manacled hands began to prance like two high-kicking Rockettes. "You know how many guys would pay good money to get hold of me like this? It's that 'women in prison' fantasy stuff they get off on." She giggled.

I had the feeling she knew only too well what she was talking about. "What else have you got besides the snapshot?" I asked, with a sigh of resignation.

"What do you mean, what else? Isn't that enough?" She scowled.

Yeah -- enough to get me laughed right out of the Memphis district attorney's office. Still, I was itching to grab Woody on something. He was a good ol' boy who believed God's creatures had been placed on this earth for only two possible reasons -- to fill his belly or bring in money to line his pockets. I'd been after him since my arrival in west Tennessee five months ago, and had yet to catch him red-handed.

"The photo alone won't do. Would you be willing to testify against him in court?"

She indignantly popped a bubble in my direction. Even her gum held the faint whiff of bologna.

"Whadda ya, crazy? Didn't you hear what I said? He'd off me without giving it a second thought!" Wynona tried to wriggle out of the handcuffs, only to discover that her wrists were stuck. "Hey! What's going on? I used to be able to get out of these things real easy!"

Wynona had spent the majority of her youth in and out of drug rehab, which was where she'd learn to become a female Houdini. It also explained the tee shirt she now wore -- a lovely little number declaring, Rehab is for Quitters!

I pulled over, fished the key from my pocket, and unlocked the handcuffs. Wynona rubbed her wrists, as if embarrassed that her flight skills had become so rusty.

"So, am I getting the money or what?" she groused.

It looked like a visit to Woody Hardy was in order, and this seemed as good a time as any to drop in on him up at Reelfoot Lake. The day begged for me to stay outside and play -- especially since a massive pile of paperwork was waiting back at the office.

"Why do you want to turn your father in, anyway?"

Wynona grimaced in distaste. "It's that new wife of his. She musta been a contortionist in the circus, the way she's got him all twisted around her little finger. Seems her and her brats are in his will and I'm out."

She grabbed an edge of her bubble gum and stretched it as thin as a string of dental floss. "Daddy ain't cutting me outta my rightful share of the money. We'll just see who wins this game." Wynona flashed a vindictive smile.

Ah! Family discord! It often turned out to be a federal agent's best friend. I dropped Wynona off at her latest boyfriend's digs and hit the road to pay Woody a visit.