Deluge (The Best Thrillers Book 2) by James Best (ebook reader with built in dictionary .txt) 📕

stepped aside, an old, unkempt man approached the public podium. Evarts recognized him as a bothersome owner of a beach house on Rincon Point. Now, what did he have to complain about?

“Mayor, council members, thank you for your time. I have a question for our illustrious chief.”

Evarts sat slightly straighter. A javelin was about to be hurled in his direction.

“Our city is under-policed. Ruffians wander our streets and beaches wherever they want and do whatever they want. They throw trash around, strip naked, steal, blaspheme, and even have sex in the open. This is our home, not theirs. They don’t live here. They don’t pay taxes here. They’re trespassers. I called the police this morning when a gaggle of these punks were hooting and hollering on my beach, and the dispatcher told me they were shorthanded because Chief Evarts loaned officers to the Highway Patrol. Yes. And not even for our local highway. Someplace inland. I can’t believe it.”

He quit talking and stared at Evarts.

Evarts waited a beat, and then said, “Is there a question in there?”

“Hell, yes. Are you deaf? What are you going to do about policing my property?”

Evarts bristled but took a slow, deep breath and told himself to relax. “Mr. Vargas, these storms we just heard about from Ms. Beecher have been far worse inland. A half mile of I-5 washed away. If we—”

“That’s a state problem. Or maybe national. Isn’t that why we call it US Interstate 5? Not our—not your—responsibility. What those punks do in my front yard is your responsibility.”

“Mr. Vargas, we loaned only five officers, and in the future, we’ll be repaid in kind. In fact, as you know, the CHP patrols US 101 in front of your house. We’ll continue—”

“That’s not the front of my house. I meant the beach. That’s the real front. That’s where those kids were yelling like there was no tomorrow, and that’s your responsibility, not helping those worthless Chippies.”

Lots of things were wrong with that statement. Mr. Vargas’s property did not extend to the water. In California, beachfront property extended only to the average high-tide line. Beach below that line was public land. In a practical sense, if homeowners told beachgoers above that line that they were trespassing, they could move a few steps closer to the water and thumb their nose at them. Those kids had a right to be on the beach. They could be cited for being too boisterous, but they’d probably beat the fine if they fought it. Also, the California Highway Patrol discouraged people from calling them CHiPs or Chippies. Nor would they like being called worthless.

“Mr. Vargas, if you have an issue with obnoxious behavior on public beaches or your personal property, we’ll do our best to respond. However, at the moment, we have a problem caused by this weather. As soon as the rain stops, we’ll get back to normal. In the meantime, I appreciate your patience.”

“Patience. Who gave you the idea I was being patient? Can’t you hear me? Have I been unclear? I’m sick and tired of these hooligans disturbing my peace. I pay outrageous property taxes, and I expect the police to respond when these … these … kids encroach on my property. And don’t think you fool me for a second, Chief Evarts. I remember you as a kid. You threw beer cans on my property, built dangerous fires on the beach, and … and … I remember how you gave me the finger, all those years ago. You still hang out with those punks. I see you traipse across my property. I’m not all that eager to get back to normal, as you call it.” He faced the mayor. “Elections come around, mayor. If you don’t take charge of your subordinate, I and all my neighbors, will finance and vote for your opponent.”

An empty threat. Evarts knew Vargas and his neighbors, and his neighbors would never follow him. In fact, they would likely go in the opposite direction. He had a long history of being a pain in the butt to everyone he encountered. Since Vargas had directed his last query toward the mayor, Evarts remained quiet. Besides, he didn’t trust his temper.

“Mr. Vargas,” Mayor Walsh said evenly, “I approved the reallocation of resources due to unusual circumstances. Our police department will be back to full strength soon. If you have a legitimate trespassing complaint, Chief Evarts’s department will respond.” She gave Evarts a direct look. “I will insure that he does.” She returned her gaze to Vargas. “You’re right. Chief Evarts is my subordinate. He answers to me and this council. He will serve this community evenly and forthrightly. But—and we’ve had this conversation before—the trespassing must be on your property, not public beach. You have been in front of this council many times. You’ve previously issued threats.” Now she gave him a long, hard stare. “You bought that property decades ago, but at the time, you knew it was a popular surfing spot, and you also knew where state law defined the property line. Those laws were explained to you by the escrow company, and those statutes have not changed. You cannot bully a city administration into flaunting state law. Please sit down, Mr. Vargas. Your allocation of time has expired.”

“No, ma’am. I’m not done. I have—”

“Yes, you are. Unless you want to explain to the Coastal Commission why briar shrubs block the public access path to the beach.”

“I don’t maintain the public pathway. Why should—”

“Mr. Vargas, I’m reluctant to do this, but you have left me no choice. Over a year ago, I received a letter signed by two of your neighbors. They wrote that you tried to enlist their support in unlawfully blocking public access to the beach. You knew when you bought your house that California law mandates public access. You tried to coerce the other property owners on the point. Your actions were illegal and punishable by a sizable fine. You could be in serious trouble. May I