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

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 Glashüttetitanium 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.

“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