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

floor halfway across the room, along with the outer shirt he had worn the prior two days. He stumbled over to his strewn clothing and found the phone in the front pants pocket. The call went to voice mail before he could answer it. Mayor Walsh. Why the hell would she be calling at this hour? He noticed the time on his phone. That couldn’t be correct. It had to be 7:15 in the evening, not morning. He glanced at the old-fashioned digital alarm clock on his wife’s nightstand. It read 7:15 am. What the hell? He had slept fifteen hours.

He punched redial and waited.

“Greg here,” he said when she answered.

“Where are you?”

“Evidently in a coma. I was dead asleep when you rang.”

“Home?”

“Yes.”

“Then you haven’t eaten. Let’s meet for breakfast at Joe’s.”

“Eight?”

“That will work. See you soon.”

She ended the call, and Evarts stumbled into the shower. In a half hour, he was showered, freshly shaved, and dressed in his standard business attire, which consisted of chinos, an oxford shirt with button-down collar, no tie, and one of his many sport coats. As chief, he could get away with dressing the way he wanted, but he kept slacks and a couple of ties in his office for the rare occasions when he needed to dress up. He chose his unmarked police Interceptor and was soon driving into town.

Joe’s had been a Santa Barbara staple since the 1920s and the mayor’s favorite out-of-the-office meeting place. He found her in back. Unusual for her. She normally preferred a front table where she could schmooze voters. He plopped into the opposite seat, grateful for the coffee already in place.

“Welcome home,” Walsh said. “Bad couple of days, I hear.”

“I’ve certainly had better. Hopefully, you’re not going to tell me that this day will be another for the record book?”

“It may have pitfalls, but nothing comparable to the last two. In an hour, I’m on a statewide teleconference. All the mayors and county executives will attend electronically. The state raised the emergency level, so the governor appointed an official director for the Emergency Operations Center. The new director will preside.”

“Who did the governor appoint?” Evarts asked.

“You don’t know?”

“I’ve been sleeping,” Evarts said.

“Paul Gleason.”

“Aw, hell. I hope my wife’s tiff with the lieutenant governor doesn’t hurt the city.”

Walsh looked confused, and he realized she was aware of only public pronouncements. He filled her in on the behind-the-scene squabbles.

When he’d finished, she said, “Thanks for the heads-up, but as long as they publicly sing Kumbaya, it shouldn’t be a problem. Politicians must keep up their narratives. I want you to join me for that teleconference. More than join me.” She gave him a direct look. “If necessary, I want you to play bad cop.”

“That may not help my wife,” Evarts said.

“Her bed is already made. This shouldn’t muss the covers any further.”

He shrugged. “Okay. What’s the issue?  Why the need for drama?”

“I expect the Central Valley and Bay Area to hog all the aid. You dealt with one of the state’s major dam failures and rampant gang warfare in the aftermath. Speak up. Don’t let them ignore us. We need to fight to get our due.”

Evarts smiled. “I can do that.” Their breakfast arrived. Each of them pulled back to allow the waitstaff to distribute the meals. “You ordered for me?”

“Eggs over easy, hash browns, bacon, rye toast.” She smiled. “How hard can it be?”

“Predictability is not a sin,” Evarts said as he dug into his meal. Between mouthfuls, he added, “You said the teleconference was part of the reason for this little get-together. What else?”

She hesitated now. “How was traffic on the way down?”

“Heavy … very heavy. Why?”

“I want a personal favor. We’ve been hit relatively light, so we’re an attractive evacuee destination—people from as far away as Sacramento and as close as Solvang. Every room in town has been booked, from the Ritz-Carlton Bacara to the two Motel 6s. Almost every home has taken in evacuees.” She put her fork down and gave him another direct look. “How many guest rooms do you have?”

“Four,” Evarts said automatically.

“Would you take in four families?”

“Of course. Is the Red Cross coordinating assignments?”

“The Red Cross is focused on the disaster areas, so the fire department took on that duty locally.” She waited until she was sure she had his attention. “Greg, I said I needed a personal favor. These are not random evacuees—they’re my family and friends.”

“Where are they now?”

“Living in their cars … in my driveway. My house is already full, and I don’t want to talk about the bathroom situation.”

“You should’ve called. I keep a key at the station.”

“After what you’ve been through, I didn’t want to bother you with a personal item until you returned to town.”

He gobbled down the remainder of his breakfast. “Call them. I’ll drive by your house, and they can follow me to my house.”

“Thanks, but be back to my office by nine o’clock.”

He glanced at his watch. “Then I need to run.”

As he drove into the mayor’s neighborhood, Evarts noticed an excessive number of cars jammed into every driveway. She had not exaggerated about everyone taking in boarders. When he cruised by her home, four cars pulled out and followed him up the hill to his house. After quick introductions and a distribution of bedrooms, Evarts excused himself and raced back to city hall with lights and siren.

He still didn’t make it until 9:07, and entering the mayor’s conference room, discovered that the electronic meeting had already started. He sat, noticing Walsh’s relieved look. Gleason was reading from a script that summarized the devastation across the state. He reiterated that the entire state had been activated to a Level 1 emergency, the highest alert level. Evarts wondered if the governor had read the state Emergency Plan. With his appointment as director of the EOC, Gleason was now the most powerful person in California.

Before giving a general review of state regions, Gleason said he wanted to spend a few minutes surveying the six