"Yeah, there's that." Hunt shrugged again, twisted a forkful of the noodle contingent of his dish. "What else do you want to talk about?"

"I've been thinking about it for a week now. It's driving me crazy. I don't know how you knew."

Hunt chewed. "I didn't. Not till the last minute. Before that, I was wrong on every guess. Turner, Ellen, Alicia. I was all over the money. I never even looked at Hess."

"So what changed?"

"She snagged herself. At Como's memorial, she pretended she had barely heard of Neshek's death, but then a few minutes later, before anybody had said anything about it, she asked me if the cops had found anything at Neshek's house."

Juhle spoke up. "And she shouldn't have known that soon that Neshek had been killed in her own home."

"See? You can figure things out, after all. But I didn't figure it out. At least not then. I just thought somebody might have included that detail before I went over to talk to them. You know, 'Did you hear Nancy got killed at her house last night?' kind of thing. So I didn't put too much on it. She possibly could have known. So I gave her the benefit."

"Okay."

"Okay, so the next day, Mickey's up at Sunset talking to her about her alibi for Monday night and she tells him she's got a son she's helping with homework all night, but then she lets drop that she doesn't even know where Neshek lived. So I get this little 'ding ding ding' in my brain and wonder how likely that is. I mean, she's worked with Dominic like for a decade and all these execs go to the same functions." He raised a hand and stopped one of the waiters going by. "You ordering?"

Juhle nodded and told the waiter he was going to walk on the wild side and have the Special and a Diet c.o.ke, and then he came back to Hunt. "So she said she didn't know where Neshek lived?"

"Right. At the same time, she tells Mickey how she's hurting for money. Big bills, medical stuff. But somehow before that she had the money for a full-time caregiver and a tutor. Anyway, that sticks with me a little bit. But still, I mean, possible, I suppose. And she's still got her kid as an alibi. Plus, there's absolutely no hint of a motive, so I let it pa.s.s again. Strike two."

"All right, the oh two pitch."

"I'm talking with Alicia Thorpe, trying to bust her story wide open, and she tells me that she'd met Ellen Como at a Sanctuary House benefit at Neshek's place."

"Ellen Como? Am I missing something?"

"No, hang on. So Alicia's talking about this first meeting with Ellen and then she lets slip-I mean, really just an aside, pure luck-that Dominic pulled her away from the Sunset staff to introduce her to Ellen. And she mentions Hess specifically, at Neshek's house."

"Better."

"Getting there. Then it occurs to me that the reason Ellen is sure that Dominic is s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g Alicia is because Hess told her so. She said she caught them in the act a couple of times. Now, there's no doubt that Dominic was s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around. How likely is it he's going to get caught in his office not once, but a few times? So I'm starting to wonder, if Hess isn't telling Ellen the truth, what's she got against Alicia? Bringing me, of course, to the oldest motive in the world."

"You got her."

"Not yet. I've got some thoughts and some definite issues, but nothing solid for Como and no reason in the world for Neshek. So I'm stuck."

"Until?"

"Until I remember Al Carter, who's worked there for eight years and presumably knows everything. And he's uptight because he's black and he's got a record and thinks you guys are going to come after him."

"That's bogus, Wyatt. We don't do that. We never even gave him more than a pa.s.sing look."

"I'm not the guy you've got to convince, Dev. Anyway, whatever, Al wants to help us find whoever did Como if he can, and not just for the reward either. So I have Mickey find him and we have a talk and I ask him, one, if, back in the day, did Lorraine and Como have a thing? And guess what? Not just back in the day, evidently, but back up until a few months after Alicia came on. In other words, until a few weeks ago."

"And Carter didn't think to mention that to anybody?"

"He thought Lorraine had no problem with it ending. She was cool. It wasn't like pa.s.sion anymore, he didn't think. She'd gotten old."

Juhle's Diet c.o.ke arrived and he took a long drink. "That's pretty much what she told us, motive wise. And you might like to know that what happened Monday night with Neshek is that she came up to Hess after the COO meeting and actually asked Hess if she should talk to you, Wyatt."

"Did she say why?"

"She was in Dominic's office one time and saw a concealed safe full of money. Wouldn't it be better for COO, she asked Hess, if they came forward with the money the feds claimed was missing? Or would it just tarnish Dominic's reputation and the work they were trying to do? Hess thought that what Neshek was really saying was that she knew that Hess had taken the money. So she killed her."

"So that would be the money you found in Hess's house?"

"Five hundred eighty-seven thousand, six hundred and eighty dollars, but who's counting? Not, by the way, in small bills." Juhle drank again. "But I still don't see you making your call to Hess, even if you had all of that-the contradiction about Neshek's house, the motive."

"Right. Still not enough. So I had a hunch. I knew that Jim Parr was on his way to Sunset, but either he never got there, or he got there and ran into somebody he knew who got him away."

"Hess."

Hunt nodded. "Hess. So I asked Carter if Hess had come back to Sunset that day after the memorial. He'd definitely been there and he'd know, and he told me she hadn't. But she'd told Mickey she had."

"There you go."

"Well, again, there was a luck element. Mickey found the bar she took him to like a block around the corner from Sunset."

"Okay, but why kill Parr?" Juhle asked.

"Basically same as Neshek. Jim knew from the old days that she had been doing Como. And he knew about the cash and the safe from his driving days too."

"But Al Carter knew all of that, too, and she knew it."

"So why didn't she kill him too? I don't know. Lack of opportunity? Or maybe she thought she'd convinced him-in fact I think she had-that she had nothing going with Como anymore. If it's any consolation, Gina thinks that she would have gotten around to Al next. By this time, she was ready to go off on anybody who got close."

"Actually, Wyatt, when you look at what she did, why she killed these people, maybe the insanity plea isn't so far-fetched after all."

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, the blunt instrument murders argue that she's crazy. I mean, women don't kill people with blunt instruments. They're too unpredictable. Plus, you've got to swing really hard."

Hunt chewed a moment. "Actually, I've thought about that, Dev, and it seems to me it's more an argument for premeditation than insanity."

"How do you figure that?"

"Well, I couldn't figure out, if Hess had a gun, why she'd use a tire iron. I mean, on the face of it, as you say, that's insane. But it's not insane if you want to kill Dominic and at the same time make it look like Alicia did it because you hate her for stealing him from you."

"Tire iron, limo, scarf."

"Bingo. Alicia's access to all of them. And by the way, it almost worked."

"But not quite," Juhle said.

Hunt let Juhle have his small face-saving moment. "And still, you know," he added, "it came to getting her down to my place. She might have just blown off everything and waited it out, let you arrest Alicia, maybe get out of Dodge with her boy. It was then or never. I had to move, Dev. Had to."

"Ever breathe a word of this to my partner, Wyatt, and I'll deny it to my dying day, but I'm secretly glad as h.e.l.l that you did."

Wyatt Hunt heard what appeared to be lighthearted conversation as he mounted the stairs that led up to his office just after his first appointment of the day, which had been over at Gina Roake's firm.

Now it was close to ten o'clock, and he had no appointments that he knew of scheduled for his office. Opening the outer door, he caught Tamara in midlaugh at something. Across the room from her, two middle-aged African-American men in black suits, white shirts, and black ties filled up the tiny reception area. They both stood when he entered, and now he was shaking both of their hands. "Mr. Carter, how you doin'? Good to see you again, Mr. Rand. Welcome to the Hunt Club, such as it is. What can I do for you gentlemen?"

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 a.s.sociate 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 inner office, Carter said, "There's one other thing, Mr. Hunt. We've discussed this, Cecil and I, and we'd like to offer you free service in town if you need it, whenever we're not driving paying clients."

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, fennel root (why not? he'd thought), green beans, Brussels sprouts, potatoes-a cornucopia of just-purchased fresh produce overflowing the counter on both sides of the sink.

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 dinner was the stuffing, and since everybody had different tastes, he was making several kinds-prune, chestnut, oyster, bread, and sausage, and what he and Tamara had always called "plain old," with celery, onions, stock, and poultry seasoning.

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 beginning to go gla.s.sy now. "And one other thing." She reached up a hand behind his neck.

"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 Francis...o...b..ing 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 pa.s.sions, 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, Mich.e.l.le 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 running.

As in all of my books, Al Giannini continues to contribute mightily from the planning stages right up through the final editing. Al knows just about everything about criminal law that there is to know, and is unstinting in his generosity in sharing that knowledge with me. If these novels read like they're written by somebody who knows the ins and outs of the criminal justice system, and I hope they do, it is due largely to Al's efforts and insights.

Other friends who added to this novel in one way or the other include Max Byrd, John M. Poswall, Don Matheson, Peter J. and Donna Diedrich, Dr. Mark Detzer, and Bob Zaro. Peter S. Dietrich, M.D., M.P.H., has once again vetted the book for medical issues. And my a.s.sistant, Anita Boone, continues to lighten my days and my workload by being among the most competent, efficient, and cheerful people on the planet. In ways too numerous and too intangible to mention, my two children, Justine Rose Lescroart and Jack Sawyer Lescroart, play a huge role in the gestation and creation of all of these books. Thank you.

This is the tenth book of mine to be published by Dutton, and I couldn't be happier in my "home" here. So many people at this company work diligently to see that these books find an enthusiastic, loyal, and large readership, and I'm grateful to one and all. The professionalism, style, and taste that are the hallmarks of the organization are second to none in the publishing industry; and more than that, the people here are just simply a joy to work with. So once again, I'd like to shout out a thanks to my publisher, Brian Tart, the marketing team of Christine Ball and Carrie Swetonic, Melissa Miller, Signet/NAL paperback publisher Kara Welsh, Phil Budnick, Rick Pascocello, and the mega-talented cover designer Rich Ha.s.selberger (who has outdone himself on Treasure Hunt). My editor, Ben Sevier, is smart, sensitive, insightful, and fun, and I hope nothing more than that we get to keep doing these books together for a very, very long time.

Karen Hlavacek and Peggy Nauts both were fantastic in catching those last little mistakes that so badly seem to want to creep into books even after a hundred people have read and edited them. Thanks to both of you for making the final book as clean as it can be.

Mick and Nancy Neshek have generously contributed to the naming of one of the characters in this book on behalf of the Sacramento Library Foundation.

Finally, Barney Karpfinger remains my great friend and tireless supporter. He is also, not incidentally, the finest literary agent there is. I am humbled and grateful to be working with him.

I very much like to hear from my readers, and invite all of you to please visit me at my Web site, www.johnlescroart.com, with comments, questions, or interests. Also, if you are on Facebook, please join me on my official page.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.

John Lescroart is the author of twenty previous novels, including A Plague of Secrets, Betrayal, The Suspect, The Hunt Club, The Motive, The Second Chair, The First Law, The Oath, The Hearing, and Nothing But the Truth. He lives in northern California.

Also by John Lescroart.

A Plague of Secrets.