Dangerously Dark Read Free

domesticity. I couldn’t be. Thanks to my eccentric uncle Ross and the trust fund he left me (to be administered by Travis, my hyperintelligent keeper), I had no choice except to . . .
    . . . snag the handy street-side parking space that suddenly became free and swerve my rental Honda Civic into it. Score!
    My parking job was haphazard at best. I cut the engine and grabbed my gear, anyway—my excuse being that I don’t drive much.
    I prefer to walk, take the Metro, Tube, or U-Bahn, or grab a cab during my worldwide travels. That means I’m fairly rusty when it comes to expertise behind the wheel. If catching that killer in San Francisco (technically, the Marin Headlands, but who’s quibbling?) had depended upon me making sharp U-turns and navigating the Bay Area’s notoriously hilly streets . . . Well, let’s just say I’m glad it didn’t and leave it at that.
    Clambering out of the car, dressed in my go-to uniform of jeans, a slim gray T-shirt, and Converse sneakers (plus a jacket, my concession to the brisk prenoon weather), I headed toward Cartorama. The cart pod was easy to spot. It occupied what appeared to be the very last empty-corner parking lot in the area. Directly across the street from me stood a freshly built high-rise apartment building. Its banner outside boasted about its über-high-speed Internet, eco-friendly construction materials, and tricked-out “community gathering place,” aka fancified rec room. Next to that, a row of buildings hunkered down straight out of the Eisenhower era, sporting a variety of indie storefronts and looking especially geriatric (but charming, in a funky way) next to their sleek, new neighbor.
    The whole thing was a lesson in new supplanting old, but I didn’t have time to wax philosophical about time marching on. I’d agreed to meet Carissa for her “surprise,” but between my scheduled and rescheduled flights (and my usual A.M. fogginess), our plans had gotten jumbled. I wasn’t sure how long it would take for Carissa to arrive, but I wanted to look around before she did.
    Up close, the unopened cart pod reminded me of an after-hours amusement park. Or a deserted carnival, cut loose from its clowns and barkers. All of the food carts were different—one was housed in a cheerfully painted lumber shack, one in a repurposed metal storage container, one in a vintage VW bus, one in an Airstream trailer—and most were closed for the morning. Since Cartorama specialized in everything chocolate (or so Carissa had told me), the pod wouldn’t see much business until lunchtime.
    The chocolate whisperer in me knew that someone ought to bring in a chocolate-themed donut cart or a mobile boulangerie specializing in pain au chocolat —something to lure in customers during the morning hours. But I wasn’t here to work, I reminded myself. I was here to reconnect with my long-lost friend.
    Despite Cartorama’s momentary lack of customers, though, the place had definite appeal. The gimmick of offering all chocolate, all the time, was working on me. I was hungry already.
    If you’re not familiar with the food-truck phenomenon, let me explain: We’re not talking ho-hum spinner dogs and dodgy kebabs served on the sidewalk in Anytown, USA. We’re talking delicious, locally sourced fare from innovative restaurateurs, served up without pretension but with plenty of imagination and verve. Everyone from the New York Times to Anthony Bourdain has raved about Portland’s food cart scene, and with good reason.
    At Cartorama, the kitschy carts were parked facing an inner courtyard of sorts, which featured scrubbed wooden picnic tables beneath a sheltering awning. The awning’s canopy cover was tied back—probably on account of the clear weather—but the whole getup looked as though it could be covered quickly if diners needed protection from the elements. Overhead, strings of festival lights were