Deluge (The Best Thrillers Book 2) by James Best (top romance novels txt) 📗

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