Deluge (The Best Thrillers Book 2) Read online

  Also by James D. Best

  The Steve Dancy Tales

  The Shopkeeper

  Leadville

  Murder at Thumb Butte

  The Return

  Jenny’s Revenge

  Crossing the Animas

  No Peace

  The Best Thrillers

  The Shut Mouth Society

  Deluge

  The Templar Reprisals

  Other Novels

  Tempest at Dawn

  Nonfiction

  Principled Action

  The Digital Organization

  Collaborative Works

  Wanted, A Western Story Collection

  Wanted II, A Western Story Collection

  Miracles and Massacres

  Being George Washington

  Praise for James D. Best Books

  “James D. Best has written at least six books. I enjoyed them immensely.” —Gary Clothier, Star Democrat

  The Shut Mouth Society

  "The Shut Mouth Society is a fast-moving, well-written novel." David M. Kinchen, Huntington News

  "The author has done an excellent job of building the story. I wanted to know more about the secret societies, more about the Sherman family, and more about the resolution." Book Advice

  "The novel has everything from intrigue and murder to romance." Faith Friese Nelson, A Writer’s Journal

  The Steve Dancy Tales

  “The James Best books … are about the best new western series to come along since Larry McMurtry.” Larry Winget, True West Magazine

  “You’ll find yourself lost in the book—the fast pace keeps it interesting.” —Maritza Barone, Woman’s Day

  “This is a fast-paced tale with an interesting hero.” Western Writers of America, Roundup Magazine

  “Best paces his stories so well readers will find it difficult to put down.” Diane Scearce, Nashville Examiner

  “A great book; I do hope that The Shopkeeper gets the readership it richly deserves.” —Simon Barrett, Blogger News Network

  "Great stories, interesting and diverse characters and plenty of action! I can't wait for the next one and hope it comes soon!" "—Larry Winget, six-time New York Times/Wall Street Journal bestselling author

  Tempest at Dawn

  "The best novel EVER on the U.S. Constitution." Larry Schweikart,author of A Patriot’s History of the United States and over a dozen other books.

  "If you want to know the truth about the character of those gentlemen and you want to learn about one of the greatest documents ever created by man---the Constitution of the United States---relax in your bed, favorite chair or recliner, and enjoy."—Allen Ball, Beaufort Observer

  "Read it for its historical value. Read it for its dramatic value. But read it!"—Alan Caruba, Bookviews

  Deluge

  The Best Thillers

  James D. Best

  Queen Beach Publishers

  Copyright © 2018 James D. Best

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  ASIN : B07DDNQ4HK

  ISBN-10 : 1983125954

  ISBN-13 : 978-1983125959

  Cover design by: Wayne Best

  Cover Photograph by: danielo

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Charlotte and Kelly

  Our beautiful granddaughters

  Contents

  Also by James D. Best

  Praise for James D. Best Books

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Sample Chapter

  Thank You

  Chapter 1

  Despite Rincon’s reputation as the best surf spot along the Santa Barbara coast, other surfers gave Greg Evarts a wide berth. He didn’t flaunt being a cop, but the locals knew his profession. The teens and young adults in the water were normally highly territorial, but they didn’t want trouble with the local gendarmerie. Evarts purposely acted standoffish. He had no desire to compete or socialize with this younger crowd, but they’d be surprised to learn why. He wanted to avoid arresting them for beach misdemeanors or inland petty crimes. He knew what was going on. He had grown up on this same beach but had left behind his own minor delinquencies. Most of these kids would as well. He wanted to give them a break, but he didn’t want to be taken advantage of because he was a fellow surfer. That would lead to sorrow—for them and for him.

  Evarts seldom surfed in stormy weather. He didn’t fear lightning. Electrical storms almost never accompanied rain in Southern California. Here, it drizzled, often for days. Nebraska might get an inch of rain in less than an hour, but clouds over the Golden State politely sprinkled moisture so sparingly that a full-inch accumulation could take days. No, Evarts didn’t surf in the rain because he was getting old. Older, at any rate. He preferred to ignore having turned forty a couple of years before, but his aching joints reminded him daily. The young might surf during nasty weather, but Evarts preferred clear skies, no wind, and waves that didn’t block out the entire sky.

  None of these desirable elements were present today. The sideshore wind caused choppy water, heavy clouds hung low overhead, and the waves were thick and ranged from six to ten feet, with occasional sets more than twice his height. Bigger than Evarts preferred. He had gone in the water because he had given up waiting for a calm, sunny day. An endless line of storms had battered California, and ominous clouds had hung over Santa Barbara for nearly three weeks. Inland areas of the state had become saturated with rainfall, but Santa Barbara had received only a constant drizzle that irritated locals addicted to sunshine.

  Evarts examined the sky. He could discern not even a dull glow where the sun would be at this hour. He swiped water from his eyes. The rain was bad enough, but the wind made the ocean surface bumpy, and the nose of his board kept splashing salt water in his face as he paddled. He wanted to keep a clear eye out to sea, so it presented more
than an annoyance. The larger, outside waves could be brutal, and he didn’t want to be caught inside in what surfers called the impact zone. People generally thought of water as benign. It watered gardens, you could drink it, bathe with it, freeze it to chill a drink or a sore back, swim in it, or laze on the surface in a boat or on a floater. Water was an essential element of life, useful and often great fun. But surfers knew water could also be a killer. No one who had been hit by a huge wave disrespected moving water. You couldn’t fight it. You couldn’t beat it. You could only get out of the way or let it throw you around like a rag doll in a Rottweiler’s grip.

  He shook his head, scattering droplets of water in every direction. He was not having fun.

  Evarts caught a head-high wave. After a bumpy, mediocre ride, he decided to call it a day.

  No one yelled a greeting on the beach as he made the long trek to his vehicle. None of his aging surfing buddies felt desperate enough to challenge the cold for treacherous waves with little promise. Evarts cursed as he visualized them in their warm kitchens, sipping coffee, and reading the newspaper or computer screens. He used a metal manual key to unlock his Mercedes-Benz high-roof extended cargo van. Electronic keys didn’t fare well in water. The interior of his van had been customized as a twenty-first-century surf wagon, possessing every convenience known to wealthy surfers. He slid his board into its dedicated slot and used the portable shower system while standing in the street behind the van. He then climbed into the back and closed the door to change out of his wet suit. Most surfers wrapped a towel around them and removed their suit in the open, but it wouldn’t do for the chief of police to get arrested for indecent exposure on Pacific Coast Highway.

  Evarts had money but didn’t think of himself as rich. Habit, he supposed. He had grown up middle-class surrounded by rich people in this seaside town referred to as the American Riviera. When he had returned from military service and joined the local police force, he could only afford to live in the navy town of Oxnard, forty miles to the south. Everything had changed five years before. His best friend had been gruesomely murdered, and he discovered that Abe had bequeathed to him his Santa Barbara estate along with far more money than he would ever need to maintain it and pay property taxes. During the process of solving the murder, he had learned some hidden truths about his family and ended up marrying the woman who had helped him solve a related mystery with national implications. Evarts could hardly believe that he used to think he enjoyed living alone. Since marrying Patricia Baldwin, he had discovered that he hadn’t been content, just ignorant. At the time, four years ago, he had been head of detectives but had since been promoted by the city council to chief of police. His life was good—and if the rain would go away for a few days, everything would be perfect.

  He hated rain. The worst duty for a police officer was going to a car crash. The carnage unsettled even the most jaded officer, no matter how many accidents witnessed. Unfortunately, rain made accidents a frequent affair. Cars dripped imperceptible amounts of oil on the roads, and when it eventually rained in uber-dry Southern California, the oil seeped to the surface to make it slipperier than a surfboard without wax. As chief, he seldom went to crash scenes, but they took a toll on his force that required careful management.

  Evarts lived high up a secluded canyon in the foothills of the Santa Ynez Mountains. To get there, he had to drive State Street through the main part of town, which the city advertised as the most beautiful downtown in America. Despite the exaggeration, the Spanish architecture, abundant sidewalk cafés, curio shops, fine restaurants, and countless coffeehouses exuded the charm and relaxed atmosphere of a Mediterranean coastal village. As he drove home, Evarts paid attention to happenings on the street. This was his hometown. His job was to keep it safe.

  After leaving the city proper, Evarts drove into the foothills and followed a serpentine road to a gravel path in front of a wrought-iron gate. He pushed a combination on the security box, and the gate opened. After passing through, he drove a quarter mile on a private road that extended toward the sea. His house had been built on the apex of an outcropping that overlooked the coastline for miles in either direction. The white stucco house, with its flat façade and red-tile roof, had been built in the hacienda tradition. The crushed rock driveway, minimalist landscaping, and unpretentious entrance gave an impression of ordinariness while disguising a rambling home of over eight thousand square feet.

  The large square house surrounded a huge central courtyard. To take advantage of the expansive view of the Pacific coastline, the primary living quarters were in a two-story section at the rear. Evarts could walk the perimeter indoors or cut through the exposed courtyard. The drizzle had turned to a light rain, so he walked the longer, indoor route. Passing through the kitchen, he grabbed a cold pork chop from the refrigerator, gnawing as he continued to the back of the house.

  He found his wife on her cell phone, pacing the grand hall that spanned the rear of the hacienda as she talked. This was their favorite room. The prior owner had it built for charity events and it could easily accommodate a hundred people, with an additional hundred outside in good weather. In truth, being a police chief was more political than law enforcement, so he continued to host half a dozen charity events a year. Besides, the substantial sum his friend had left him, and his wife’s even larger family inheritance meant that they could afford to entertain extravagantly and make substantial donations to the community and national organizations.

  While Evarts was growing up, his parents had never joined any organizations, donated to any charities, or fought for any causes. Beyond not having the wherewithal, his parents were insular. But now, his position and good fortune required him to meet the expectations of a well-to-do community, no matter how much he disliked showy events that cost twice what the charity received. In truth, he would rather make a substantial donation than host a house full of snobs.

  He admired his wife’s athletic stride as she paced the room. She enjoyed lazing about on Saturdays and remained dressed in stylish flannel pajamas, a term he considered an oxymoron except when she wore them. She made the prosaic night wear look perfectly normal in this ostentatious room. In fact, all clothing looked appropriate on her. Her casual good looks, short light-brown hair, and engaging smile went well with jeans or a designer dress, and her lively green eyes, even behind her ever-present glasses, drew everyone’s attention.

  He checked his watch, a Christmas gift from her. The black Mühle Glashütte titanium diving instrument had cost more than all his surfboards combined. It was almost ten o’clock in the morning. Surfing was a break-of-dawn sport that got him home with most of the day still ahead of him.

  He swallowed a mouthful of pork chop and said, “Trish, who—”

  Baldwin stopped him with a single uplifted finger. She could do that. In fact, she often gave instructions with one or two fingers.

  Because of her renown as an author, historian, and speaker, she had kept her name after their marriage. They’d met during an investigation of a supposed trivial matter that had violently escalated into a dangerous race across the country to solve a century-old conspiracy. At first, he’d thought they couldn’t be more different. She was a college professor, and he was a cop. She came from wealth. At sixteen, he had worked sweeping out a surfboard shop. She grew up on the Upper West Side of New York. He grew up on the beaches of Southern California. She attended Berkeley and Stanford. He went to a state college. Her nonfiction books always hit the New York Times bestseller lists. The only thing he had ever published was a letter to the editor in the local newspaper.

  Baldwin said into the phone, “Mr. Gleason, I understand. I’ll be in Sacramento first thing Tuesday morning.” After a pause, she added, “Of course, sir. Thank you.”

  She tapped to end the call, turned off her phone, confirmed that it had gone dark, and then exclaimed, “Shit!”

  “The lieutenant governor?” Evarts asked.

  She lifted her eyeglasses slightly and let them
fall back on her nose. “Yes, damn it. They’re in a panic over this damn rain. Rain, for Pete’s sake.”

  “I take it they want you up there Tuesday?”

  “I wish,” Baldwin answered. “The commission meets at 8:00 am on Tuesday, meaning I leave noonish Monday, and they want me to bring a week’s worth of clothes. Damn it, I have classes, committee meetings, office hours, and a speech in Los Angeles on Thursday night.” She threw her phone onto the couch. “Damn, I wish I had never accepted the governor’s appointment.”

  The governor of California had appointed Baldwin to the Seismic Safety Commission, and she had been on the advisory council for less than a year. As a history professor, Baldwin had consulted for years with the Office of Historic Preservation while teaching at the University of California at Los Angeles and at the University of California at Santa Barbara, where she had transferred after their marriage.

  “I thought that commission dealt with earthquakes, tsunamis, and volcanoes.”

  “Some idiot evidently believes a few days of rain can trigger one of those. I don’t need some volunteer work to destroy my career. This is stupid.”

  “It may hamper your career, but it won’t ruin it. It’s Saturday. This storm will probably pass before you sit down for your meeting. You’ll be back in time to make your speech.”

  Baldwin was scheduled to give the keynote address at the Abraham Lincoln Historical Society’s annual conference. Lincoln was her specialty, preservation of historic sites a hobby. Evarts felt a twinge of guilt. She had intended to turn down the appointment, but he had convinced her that it would take little of her time while helping him with state officials.