Deluge (The Best Thrillers Book 2) James Best (best e book reader .TXT) 📖

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