Treasure Hunt

The visit by these two men was a surprise, and far from an unpleasant one. Hunt had last seen them together during the small but very well-covered ceremony at City Hall where the mayor had presented the reward distribution money-two hundred thousand dollars to Al Carter, and fifty thousand each to Ellen Como, Cecil Rand, and Linda Colores. Though Lorraine Hess was still a long way from actually being convicted, there was no doubt that she had killed Dominic Como, and on this basis, Len Turner decided to release the reward funds before he was technically committed to do so.

It seemed that Al Carter was the spokesman for the two of them, and after a few more pleasantries catching up on life, they sat again on their chairs while Hunt perched himself on the side of Tamara’s desk. But no sooner had he sat than Al Carter half-stood again so that he could get at his wallet, which he extracted and from which he then produced a couple of business cards, which he handed over to Hunt.

Hunt looked down at the beautifully designed card, light blue with a colorful logo of a toucan, and the words “Toucan Limousine Service.”

“We realize that this is short notice, but we were hoping, Cecil and I, that since this is the first formal day of our new business-I don’t know if you’ve heard we’ve gone into partnership with two brand-new Town Cars-maybe we could drive you and your lovely associate here to the place of your choice and take you both to lunch.”

“We go by convoy,” Rand added. “All the way out to the Cliff House you want.”

Hunt half turned back to Tamara. “This is a tough call, but I’m thinking we need to close up for the afternoon, Tam. How’s that sound to you?”

She made a mock pout. “You’re the boss. If we have to.”

Hunt straightened off the desk. “You drive a hard bargain, but you gentlemen have got yourselves a deal. When do we go?”

“Tout de suite,” Carter said. “As soon as you’re all ready.”

Tamara was on her feet. “I’ll be right back. Just let me go and freshen up.”

As she disappeared back through Hunt’s i

Hunt sat back down on the desk. His first thought being that this was like the old deal he’d had with Mickey when he’d been driving a cab, but better. And his second, that he couldn’t accept it. “Guys,” he said, “that’s extremely generous, but you’ll need your clients.”

“And we’ll get them,” Carter said. “But in the meanwhile, we’re at your service.”

“Would you let me at least pay for gas?”

The two men exchanged a glance and a quick nod. “Gas would not compromise our position too badly,” Carter said. “You can pay for gas.”

“Thank you.” Hunt shook hands with them again. “So what’s with the name?”

Both men smiled and Rand said, “Toucan.”

“Right.” Hunt still not seeing it.

“Mr. Hunt.” And then Carter said slowly, “Two con.”

Mickey had missed six weeks of cooking school because of his broken arm. He’d had the last soft cast finally removed earlier this week and though he was still stiff, he could at least raise it and move things around in the kitchen. And this morning, he was so anxious to get started that he woke himself up at a few minutes after six, had his coffee, and started his cutting-onions, celery, fe

He’d gone down to the Ferry Building last week and ordered a fourteen-pound Diestel family Heirloom turkey that he’d picked up yesterday and soaked in the Chronicle’s famous “Best Turkey” brine. Truth be told, there really wasn’t much to cooking a turkey, as long as you didn’t overcook it, and even that was easy to time and guarantee with an instant-read thermometer. To his mind, the trick to the great Thanksgiving di

He was cutting the onions when he heard a scratching noise and he stopped and listened again. There it was again. A scratch and a soft tap.

Going out into the living room, he went over to the front door and opened it.

“I know it’s too early,” Alicia said, and then added all in a rush, “and the last thing I want to do is intrude on you or your kitchen, but I know how much you were doing today and I figured that since we were going to be eating here, our combined families, I mean, what there are of them, the least I could do would be to help you out a little, even if it’s early, although I haven’t really had much practice with exactly what to do on Thanksgiving, I mean, they’ve all been so different when we’ve even had them at all, and since Ian and I haven’t really ever had one exactly together, this one’s going to be at least one we can remember even if it’s the last one we ever…”

She stopped talking and just stood in front of him with her hands down by her sides. She took a deep breath and let it out, her eyes begi

“I’ve been waiting for the right time,” she said, “and I so don’t want to be wrong, and I’m not completely sure if this is it yet.” She took another breath. “But unless you tell me not to, I’m going to kiss you.”

He beat her to it.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

While casting about for an idea that would drive this book, I was hoping to be able to include an element or two that was more or less pure fun. I have found that when you’re writing about very serious issues, such as abuse of charity funds and murder, it adds to a book’s readability and enjoyment if there’s something else going on besides the heavy stuff. My muse (aka my wife, Lisa Sawyer) suggested I include a whole bunch of restaurants, San Francisco being such a great restaurant town. This struck me as such a good idea that I considered naming this book Thirty Restaurants and setting every scene in an eating establishment. Fortunately, I didn’t carry the conceit that far. But I did decide that my main character, Mickey Dade, wanted to be not a private eye, but a chef. Since cooking has long been one of my own passions, I knew I could bring a certain authority, and definitely some fun, to that approach.

But there is a nearly unbridgeable chasm between recreational cooks and professional chefs. Since I am definitely one of the former, I didn’t have a good idea of the mind-set and ambitions demanded of the latter. I was mentioning this to a friend, Laurie Lovely (her real name!), at my workout club, and she suggested I take a look at Michael Ruhlman’s The Making of a Chef. It was a terrific book and set me well on the way to knowing who Mickey Dade was and what he was made of. I wish I could have incorporated more of the fascinating life of a chef-in-training in this book, but my story was after all about murder and corporate malfeasance and I didn’t want to burden my readers with too many distractions.

Serendipity then intervened again in the guise of an article by Terri Hardy that ran in the Sacramento Bee about some questionable practices with the bookkeeping and business practices of a well-known charity that I won’t name here. But I did call Terri and speak to her at length about her research and discoveries, and I’d like to thank her for providing the key that unlocked the door to the real meat of this novel. I’d also like to thank another journalist, Michelle Durand, columnist and reporter for the San Mateo Daily Journal, who contributed some anecdotal information on ducks and ground squirrels (really!) that got the book off and ru