Deluge (The Best Thrillers Book 2) Read online

  “What are you eating?” she asked.

  He held up the chop by the bone. “Last night’s leftovers. I need protein.”

  He ripped off a piece of meat with bared teeth like he was ravished, and she laughed at his antics.

  “Don’t we make the couple,” she said. “You walk around chewing on a bone like a caveman, and I’ve been talking to the lieutenant governor in pajamas. I’m surprised they don’t deport us back to Oxnard with the riffraff.”

  “We had fun there. Maybe I can buy back my old house.”

  “No, I’m good. Just frustrated that this stupid commission can jump up and disrupt my life.” She smiled to show she wasn’t entirely serious and added, “It’s all your fault, you know. I wanted to decline the honor … if it can be called that.”

  “You’ll be back soon. You know bureaucrats, always making a big thing out of nothing.”

  She walked over to a sofa table and picked up her coffee. She took a sip while staring out to sea. “Perhaps not this time. I heard fear in Paul’s voice. They got seven inches of rain in the last week.”

  “Seven inches? Our drizzles haven’t added up to squat.” He thought about the implications. “Did he say if any dams were in jeopardy?”

  “Yes.” She didn’t turn away from the murky, cloud-enshrouded ocean. “All of them.”

  Chapter 2

  Baldwin felt Evarts join her at the glass doors that stretched across the entire expanse of the grand hall. They silently watched the rain together. She thought it was letting up, but the low, dark clouds were portentous.

  After a long moment, Evarts asked, “How many people are on the commission?”

  “Eleven, counting the chair. I tried to beg off, but Paul wouldn’t hear of it. He said they needed me. Whenever politicians feel threatened, they turn to committees, commissions, or studies. I guess they think I can provide additional cover.”

  “What cover can you provide?” Evarts asked, perplexed.

  She sipped her coffee and watched the threatening sky. “They think I’m a published expert on the subject.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Her husband’s question irritated her. She suspected he never read her articles. If anything, he merely scanned them. She shook it off. He was a policeman, not an academic. She had understood that when they became involved and, in truth, she wanted him to remain the same. He thought and talked differently than her faculty friends, and she often found his perspective refreshing. She smiled. Then there were the times when he failed to maintain the deportment of a city official, which could be embarrassing.

  “Greg, you must remember. I consulted with Professor Ashley about California’s role in electing Lincoln president in 1860 and 1864. In return for his help, he wanted me to edit his article on the Great Flood of 1862.” She shook her head. “He’s truly an awful writer. I spent weeks cleaning up his manuscript. It had already been rejected twice, but after my revisions, it was accepted by the California Historical Society Quarterly. He was so thrilled, he gave me coauthor credit.” She shrugged. “Now, I’m an expert on California flooding.”

  “I see,” Evarts said.

  At his tone, she turned away from the glass door. “What does that mean?”

  “It means this could be trouble. This emergency session is ass covering … and you’re the ass gasket. I don’t like it. You should make an excuse and stay home.”

  “Greg, don’t be ridiculous. You can’t believe an epic flood is about to wash us all away? I didn’t want to go because I have other commitments, not because I’m afraid of being a scapegoat. I’m sure the Great State of California has enough water experts to handle a flood of even biblical proportions.”

  “It doesn’t have to be a huge flood for them to need a scapegoat. The state has neglected infrastructure for years. Many of our dams are in disrepair. I know. Hell, I’ve sat through council meetings where they talked forever about how to get funding from the state to remove the silt behind Gibraltar Dam. The state won’t give us a dime. They’re too busy with grandiose pet projects to bother taking care of old stuff. No glory in that. Eventually, it’s gonna bite them in the ass, and this,” he waved a hand at the rain, “could be the trigger.”

  She didn’t like his trying to protect her, but she didn’t want to argue either.

  “Listen, Greg, I’m over it. I’m not angry. I volunteered. It’s my duty. And you’re right, this storm will pass, and I’ll make it to L.A. by Thursday.”

  “You’re going to pack clothes for your speech, aren’t you?”

  She took another sip of coffee and smiled over the rim. “Of course. If things wrap up quickly, I’ll fly direct to L.A. I was a Girl Scout. Our motto was ‘Be prepared.’”

  Evarts laughed. “I think you have that confused with the Boy Scouts.”

  “Greg, I really was a Girl Scout, and we had the same motto as the boys.”

  “This is new.” He looked away from the rain and examined her. “Are you pulling my leg?”

  “Nope. To quote our handbook, ‘A Girl Scout is ready to help out wherever she is needed. Willingness to serve is not enough; you must know how to do the job well, even in an emergency.’”

  “Well, damn. I learn something new about you every day. Walk with me to the kitchen.” He held up the bare pork chop bone. “Need to throw this away and get some of that coffee. It smells good.”

  On the way, he said, “I presume your Girl Scout gig was before your rebellious period.”

  She laughed. “Well before. My first direct act of defiance was quitting the Girl Scouts. At first, I had enjoyed scouting, but my parents took it far too seriously. They not only made me memorize those lines, but also had me write a dissertation on the meaning of the words, with special emphasis on knowing how to do a job well in an emergency.”

  Her parents had been domineering, and they had tried to instill in her a deep sense of obligation for less fortunate people or people ignorant of the constant threat of oppression. She had accused her father of patronizing the “little people” and pointed out that his noblesse oblige reeked of elitism. Eventually, she had rebelled by adopting everything common, including boyfriends. She had run far away from her home in New York City and enrolled at Berkeley, to their great consternation. For years, her relationship with her parents had been barbed. Now they were dead, and she missed them.

  Evarts’s parents, on the other hand, had indoctrinated him to stay away from anything organized. Although they appeared middle-class, their attitudes bordered on the hippie culture of the sixties. She suspected that his adoption of the hang loose surfer lifestyle garnered their approval. At least, she had never heard them object to that part of his life. On the other hand, they disapproved of his military service and police work. They even seemed displeased that their son had been appointed chief of police in their hometown.

  He poured himself coffee and refilled her mug. “Flying or driving?”

  She smiled at his acceptance of her going to Sacramento. “Driving … faster. After connecting through L.A., it’s nearly seven hours with layover, plus an hour before departure and another hour to get off the plane and out of the airport with a rental. I can drive it in six.”

  “And take more clothes,” he said.

  She harbored no qualms about being a clotheshorse. “Of course. And they won’t wrinkle. Besides, I can listen to my music.”

  Baldwin liked 90s pop and reggae, while Evarts preferred country music and ancient surfer tunes. He started every car trip with a monologue on why her music sucked. When she won control of the sound system, he would yawn theatrically. Their tastes, childhoods, and chosen professions could not have been more dissimilar, yet they meshed as comfortably as peanut butter and jelly.

  “This article?” Evarts asked. “Did you learn anything?”

  Good question. She thought about it. “Just the superficial stuff. I was more concerned with the narrative flow and grammar. But I did learn a little. In 1862, sixty-five days of rain fell in the western United States. It hit California, Oregon, and Nevada. California got the brunt of it. Between November 9, 1861, and January 14, 1862, seventy-two inches of rain fell on San Francisco. Sixty-six fell in Los Angeles. Almost a third of the state was under water, roads impassable, telegraphs down, rivers overflowed, hundreds of people died, and hundreds of thousands of livestock drowned. Sacramento remained under water for six months, and the government had to move to San Francisco.”

  “A freak event?”

  “No. At least Professor Ashley doesn’t think so. Not a one-off. Geological evidence shows that a flood of that magnitude hits California every hundred years or so.”

  She followed Evarts’s glance out the kitchen window.

  He asked, “Could that be what’s happening now?”

  “How should I know?”

  “You’re the published expert, aren’t you?” He smiled to show he wasn’t serious.

  “Yeah … except I just conveyed my entire knowledge of the subject.”

  “Surely there was more in that journal article.”

  “I didn’t retain much because it wasn’t my specialty.” She put her coffee cup on the counter. “I’d better reread it. It would be embarrassing if someone quoted my own words at me, and I didn’t recognize them.”

  She headed toward her office. At the door, she paused and glanced back at him with a naughty glint.

  “Let me know when you’re out of the shower,” she said.

  “Posthaste,” he answered as he gulped down his coffee.

  Over her shoulder, she added, “No rush. I have a ten-thousand-word article to read. Oh, and one more thing, I was thinking about a dinner guest tonight?”

  “Anyone in particular?”

  “Professor Ashley,” she said, disappearing
around the corner.

  Chapter 3

  Evarts answered the buzz from the call box at the gate and opened the front door before their guest arrived. Professor Ashley was not a friend, but they had met several times at city and UCSB functions. In his early fifties, he had only recently become an associate professor, in part because of the coauthored article in the California Historical Society Quarterly.

  “Hello, professor,” Evarts said, extending his hand. “Trish is in the kitchen putting final touches on our meal.”

  “Really?” After a perfunctory handshake, the professor surveyed the expensively furnished entrance hall. “I would have thought a lavish house such as this included servants.”

  Evarts remembered why he disliked the man. “Not on weekends. We like our privacy. Besides, you’ll find Trish an excellent cook.”

  Ashley asked, “How about during the week? Do you have many servants?”

  Was he rude to everyone, or just the wealthy? “A maid and a gardener.” Evarts waved him toward the kitchen. “This way.”

  As Evarts led the way, he could feel Ashley examining every little detail of their home. The pudgy, bespectacled man wore corduroy slacks, lace-up suede chukka boots, a washed-out madras shirt, and a muddy-colored sports coat festooned with leather elbow patches. His loose and overly long graying hair made him look like a relic of the sixties. Evarts guessed that, although he affected the outward signs of intellectual elitism, Ashley envied their display of wealth. Evarts felt certain he didn’t appreciate the irony.

  Baldwin heard them and turned from her preparations to greet their guest. “Jonathan, I’m glad you could make it.”

  Her hands were wet, so she put the heel of each palm on his shoulders, and they kissed air in the proximity of their cheeks. Evarts thought this a silly European artifice. At university functions, he had received disconcerted looks when he intercepted the ritual by extending a hand that kept the other party at a distance.

  “You look lovely,” Ashley said. “I have never been invited to your home before. It is beautiful.”

  Evarts referred to an insult surrounded by compliments as a bullshit sandwich. It was going to be a long night. A knowing glance from Baldwin reminded him to behave. Not a problem. He could put up with the pompous ass for the evening. Besides, Baldwin had prepared chicken piccata, one of his favorite meals.

  “Did you know Abe Douglass?” Evarts asked.

  “I did,” Ashley said. “A fine man.”

  “Then you must have attended one of his charity events here.”

  For the briefest moment, Ashley showed embarrassment, but he recovered quickly.

  “Never had the pleasure,” Ashley said. “I was sorry to see him go before I could get to know him better.”

  Evarts would behave, but that didn’t preclude him from throwing a zinger now and again. Douglass’s countless charity events were egalitarian affairs. Anyone who could contribute to an interesting evening would find an invitation in the mail. The only sin in Douglass’s world was being a bore.

  “We kept the house pretty much as he decorated it,” Evarts said. “Would you like to see the rest?”

  “Indeed.”

  Evarts led him through the butler’s pantry to the grand hall. Indeed, my ass, he thought. Who uses a word like that? No one at the police station, that’s for sure. He told himself to quit being critical. Evarts embodied two things Ashley probably disliked: wealth and law enforcement. Bias against the police didn’t bother him. It came with the job. Punk surfers shied away, and many of Baldwin’s academic friends remained aloof. The envy of his wealth was more difficult to accept. He’d grown up with parents who lived on a strict budget, so he still felt middle-class, even though his wants and wishes were no longer constrained by money. By day, he dealt with local powerbrokers, and by night, he frequently socialized with the moneyed class. Still, he didn’t understand the envy. When he was young, and later as a cop, he had never begrudged the lifestyle of prosperous locals. Douglass was a retired black multimillionaire who had made his money in the heyday of the Southern California aerospace industry. Even before his friend had willed him a fortune, Evarts couldn’t understand people who felt that anyone with more had injured them in some fashion.

  Evarts led Ashley to the center of the grand hall. An unobstructed view of the California coastline was the most impressive aspect of the elongated room. Douglass had designed the rear patio like a negative edge pool so that the ground seemed to fall away from the house cantilevered over the sheer cliff. Ashley gulped at the vista.

  “This is beautiful. You are a lucky man.”

  “Yes, very lucky, indeed.”

  Evarts checked Ashley’s expression, but he appeared not to notice the mockery.

  “Do you drink?” Evarts asked.

  “I love a good red wine.”

  Evarts wanted to say, what a shame, I’m afraid we have only swill. He restrained himself. “Excellent. I’ll show you the rest of the house, then we’ll return to watch the sunset with a glass of wine. Let me show you one of the finest private libraries in the country.”

  Evarts directed Ashley to the library, which ran almost the entire length of the north wing. The beautiful room held over six thousand books, some rare volumes and many first editions signed by famous authors. Evarts loved the library almost as much as the scenic hall and patio. He liked to pick books at random, then drop into one of the comfortable club chairs to read. He knew Abe Douglass had held and read the same books, and he felt that when he was in the room, he honored his good friend’s memory. His inheritance included all of the books except for Douglass’s extensive Lincoln collection. That he had willed to Baldwin. The Lincoln materials remained hidden away in a secret vault behind one of the bookcases. Evarts had no intention of showing that to Ashley, so instead, he led him over to two shelves filled with various editions of Baldwin’s books.

  “That is quite a life’s work,” Ashley sniffed. “You should be proud of your wife’s accomplishments.”

  “Since she’s only thirty-eight, that’s hardly her life’s work. Just a prelude. And what made you think I wasn’t proud of her? Why else would I have brought you over here?”

  Ashley appeared taken aback. “Excuse me. Poor choice of words.”

  Evarts doubted that was the case. He bet Ashley assumed that he was an uneducated cop, intimidated by a nationally renowned academic from a famous family that stretched back to the Revolution. Evarts never let it be known that he and Baldwin were distantly related through a family thread that went back to the same Founding Father.

  Ashley’s admission of poor word choice amused Evarts. One of many things he had learned from his author wife was that good communication required choosing the right words. No wonder Ashley needed help getting published. Evarts reminded himself to harness his competitive nature. There was nothing to be gained by needling Ashley. He smiled. Of course, putting down the pompous twit did bring him satisfaction.

  “That’s okay. I do it all the time. Drives Trish nuts. Shall we find ourselves a good red wine?”

  “Lead on.” Again, he hadn’t noticed the mockery.

  The Douglass home had come equipped with an extensive wine cellar that Evarts had barely dented since inheriting the estate. He preferred whiskey. Earlier, he had selected an assortment of middling wines and placed them on a mesquite cantina in the great hall. After he allowed Ashley to select a bottle from the reds and whites, they took seats in easy chairs facing the outdoors. Evarts slid open one set of stacking glass doors so they could feel and hear the rain splash against the tiled patio. After they had engaged in a few minutes of dull conversation, Baldwin informed them that dinner was ready.

  Evarts closed the door, and they moved to the dining area, located at the kitchen end of the room. When they hosted an event, the dining table was either removed or pushed against the wall to hold appetizers. Baldwin came into the hall from the kitchen, carrying a tray with three prefilled soup bowls.

  “I hope you like crème of asparagus soup,” Baldwin said, nodding toward the rain outside. “Seemed like the right weather for a hot starter.”

  “I am sure I will love it,” Ashley said. “Where would you like me to sit?”

  “At the head of the table,” she answered. “Greg and I sit opposite each other.”