Zinnia (18 page)

“How? Did he try to take control of the prism?”

“Yes, but he was much too weak to do it. That wasn't the scary part. The frightening stuff was the
talent, itself. It was—” She frowned. “Not normal. I don't know how else to describe it.”

He held her eyes. “You think I'm normal?”

“I don't know if I'd go that far. There is nothing real normal about you, Nick. But you certainly aren't a wacko.”

He took a sip of the weak green wine. “You'd know, huh?”

“Oh, yes. I'd know.” She watched him intently. “Your father was a matrix, wasn't he?”

“Yes.”

“Are you obsessed with finding his journal because you want to know if his talent drove him to suicide? Are you afraid the same fate awaits you?”

She was too damn perceptive. It was dangerous to continue any kind of association with her, let alone risk the intimacy of either a mental or sexual liaison. But she was part of the matrix now. He saw no escape. He did not even want to escape.

Perhaps she was his fate.

But he was not ready to face her blunt questions head-on. It would force him to confront some things he preferred to sidestep.

“How did you learn that my father was a matrix?” he asked instead.

“Professor Loony mentioned that the reason no one questioned Bartholomew Chastain's suicide was because it was strongly suspected that he was a matrix and people have so many misconceptions about matrix-talents.”

“Professor Loony?”

Zinnia made a face. “Newton DeForest. Retired history professor. Maniacal gardener.”

“You went to see Demented DeForest?” Nick was disgusted. “Why the hell did you do that? I told you he was just an old crackpot.”

“I'm not going to argue with that assessment. DeForest is about as stable as a deposit of jelly-ice.
You should see his garden.” She shuddered. “He's a horti-talent who specializes in carnivorous plant hybrids. A matrix friend helped him design a maze full of them. It's positively gruesome.”

“What in five hells were you doing in DeForest's garden?”

“I still think Morris's murder may be connected to the journal. My brother, Leo, is studying synergistic historical analysis. He told me that DeForest is the only person who ever actually researched the Third Expedition. I had an appointment to talk to DeForest today.”

“Damn.” Nick set the wine glass down on the tile counter with enough force to make it ring. “You should have told me that you were going to talk to him.”

“You made it clear that you were only interested in the journal.” She smiled coolly. “Of course, that was before you realized I was a cunning scam artist and that I had masterminded a diabolical scheme to set you up for a major con job.”

“Stop it, Zinnia. Please.”

“Do I take it that your curiosity about poor Morris's death has been renewed now that you know the journal is still missing?” she asked bluntly.

“Yes.” He took a step toward her. “You could damn well say that my interest in the matter has been renewed. Furthermore, for your information, I'm the leading authority on the Third Expedition, not Newton DeForest.”

“Is that right? How come no one, including my brother who's really into history, knows that interesting little fact?”

“Because I've never bothered to publish. I have no reason to share what I've learned with the rest of the world.”

“Every matrix I've ever met makes a fetish out of secrecy.”

He opted to ignore that goad. After all, she was right. “I've spent the past three years collecting every scrap of information I could find. I know every single theory, legend, and rumor. I've talked to everyone I could find who was in the Western Islands thirty-five years ago. If you want to know anything about the subject, ask me.”

A speculative look appeared in her eyes. “DeForest told me that none of the men on your father's team had much in the way of family ties.”

“He's right.” Nick picked up the wine glass and took another swallow. “Loners, misfits. But all good jungle men. That's one of the things that doesn't make sense. If an accident occurred on the trail, one or two of them should have survived.”

“You're assuming that the expedition did leave the jumping-off point.”

“It left,” he said softly.

“How can you be so sure?”

“I'm certain.”

She sighed. “Okay, back to the other issue. You said the team members were loners and misfits. But your father was hardly alone in the world. He was the heir to the Chastain business empire.”

“My father was the exception.” Nick hesitated. “Andy Aoki told me once that he thought that it was the Chastain family that drove my father out to the islands. Apparently they put a lot of pressure on him to take over the reins of Chastain, Inc. That was the last thing he wanted to do so he got as far away from the clan as he could.”

“Andy Aoki?”

“The man who raised me after my parents died.”

“You lost your mother, too?”

“Before I was six months old. She left me with Andy the day she went to Serendipity to look for answers concerning my father's disappearance. She
never came back. The six-track she was driving went over a cliff during a storm.”

“How terrible for you,” Zinnia said very softly. “To lose both parents.”

“To be truthful, I don't remember my mother. And my father disappeared before I was even born.” Nick gave her a level look. “Andy was a good man. He was a father to me in every way that counted.”

“I believe you.” Zinnia was silent for a moment. “It was probably Bartholomew Chastain's talent that led him to take up expedition work. The lure of analyzing and mapping the unknown would have obvious appeal to a strong matrix.”

“I suppose so.” Nick considered that. “Depends on the matrix, I think.”

“Did you ever consider expedition work?”

“No. I did a little jelly-ice prospecting to get a stake together but once I had the money I needed to open the casino, I quit the jungle work. I have … other interests.”

“Synergistic probability theory, I presume.” She eyed him shrewdly. “That would fit with your career choice.”

He shot her a sidelong glance. “I don't run a casino because I'm into gaming theory.”

“Why do you run one?”

“Because, among other things, it's a good way to make lots and lots of money.”

“Succinctly put. And what do you plan to buy with all the money?”

“Respectability.”
And everything that goes with it,
he added silently.

Her eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. I've got a plan.”

She gave him a look of reluctant fascination. “Amazing. What is this plan?”

“I'll tell you about it over dinner.”

“Hold on here, Chastain.” She put up a palm. “Things have changed in this little matrix. You can't just accuse me of fraud one moment and then expect me to go out to dinner with you the next. I've got some pride, you know. Plus which, I'm still pissed.”

The phone on the wall rang before Nick could decide how to deal with that.

Zinnia grabbed the receiver. “Hello? Oh, hi, Duncan. No, it's okay. I worked late tonight.”

Nick did not like the way her voice softened and warmed. Whoever Duncan was, he was more than a casual friend. A relative, he thought optimistically.

“I meant to call you this evening, anyway.” Zinnia lounged against the counter in a casual pose that said volumes about the easy nature of her relationship with the man on the other end of the line. “I wanted to thank you for dinner.”

Not a relative. Nick sipped morosely at his wine. He recognized the feeling of possessiveness that was uncurling within him but he did not fully comprehend it. Possessiveness implied jealousy. Jealousy was a byproduct of desire that was not properly controlled. He hadn't even gone to bed with Zinnia Spring yet. How could he be feeling anything as strong as jealousy?

He was still suffering aftereffects from the focus link, he decided. He would have to be careful. Very, very careful.

“I had a really bizarre day, as a matter of fact,” Zinnia said into the phone. “I'll tell you all about it the next time I see you. Thanks. Yes, I promise. I'll check my calendar in the morning. Good night, Duncan.”

Nick watched her hang up the phone. “Good friend?”

“A friend. His name is Duncan Luttrell.”

Nick made the connection swiftly. “SynIce?”

“Do you know him?”

“Not personally.” Nick summoned up an image of a big, good-looking, confident man. “But I know who he is. He gets a lot of business press. And I've seen him at Chastain's Palace a few times. Strictly a recreational gambler. Doesn't get into deep play.” But Luttrell usually won when he played, Nick reflected. Even when the stakes were penny-ante.

“Duncan would never gamble heavily.” Zinnia's smile was a little too sweet. “He likes money, too, just as you do, but he prefers to earn it the old-fashioned way.”

“Meaning he works for it and I don't?”

“I'm sure running a casino requires all sorts of executive ability. But I suspect your corporate style is somewhat different than Duncan's.”

Amazingly, Nick managed to hang on to his temper. “Are you and Luttrell serious?”

“You mean, are we having an affair? No.” She grimaced. “My relatives would dearly love us to get more closely involved. Aunt Willy reminded me just this morning that in certain social circles, marriages are sometimes made for what she likes to call family considerations.”

“You mean, she wants you to marry for money and position.”

“Let's just say she'd like to see the Spring family restored to what she considers its proper station in the world.”

“But you're digging in your heels.” Nick felt his spirits rise. His best ally in this new battle was Zinnia's own stubbornness.

“With the exception of my brother, none of my relatives is particularly concerned with whether or not Duncan and I would be happy together. They see marriage to him as a way to recoup the family fortunes.”

“How does Luttrell feel?”

“I don't know,” she said. “I've never asked him.
But he's a smart man. No intelligent person would consider marrying a woman who has been declared unmatchable.”

“He'd probably be real happy to consider an affair,” Nick muttered.

She blushed. “Maybe. But that's not any of your business, is it? I'm sure you're not interested in my personal plans. All you care about is the Chastain journal.”

“And all you care about is finding Morris Fenwick's murderer. It seems to me, we're back to Plan
A.”

“Plan
A?”

“The one where you and I work together.”

“Together?” Her mouth kicked up at the corner. “Surely you jest, Mr. Chastain. I thought you had concluded that I was a conniving little scam artist. Why on St. Helens would you want to work with me?”

Nick felt the heat rise in his face. He wondered if he was turning red. “I've changed my mind. I don't think you were in on the scam.”

“Really? Tell me, what brought about that grand cognition? Did you utilize your phenomenal matrix-talent to deduce that I'm innocent? Or was it my naive charm and big blue eyes.”

“Silvery,” he corrected, without thinking.

She blinked. “What?”

He felt like a fool. “Your eyes aren't really blue. They're sort of silvery.”

She raised her gaze to the ceiling. “Trust a matrix to fuss over details.”

“Look, I admit that I was annoyed when I realized that I'd been conned. It was logical to assume that you'd been involved.”

“Logical, my Aunt Willy's left foot. All that happened was that you finally calmed down long enough tonight to use some common sense. You've no doubt realized that I'm not stupid enough to risk cheating the notorious Nick Chastain out of fifty thousand
dollars and then hang around my apartment waiting for him to find me.”

“I figure Polly and Omar pulled a fast one on both of us.”

“Brilliant deduction.” She contemplated him with narrowed eyes. “So tell me why you want to work with me?”

“Simple. We can help each other.”

“Hah. Don't give me that. You don't have any real interest in finding Morris's killer. All you want is the journal.” She smiled grimly. “I know perfectly well why you suddenly want us to be partners.”

He folded his arms. “Is that so? Why?”

“Simple. You're afraid that I'll cause problems for you if I continue my investigation on my own. My blundering around could interfere with your own strategy. And now that I know you're a matrix-talent, it follows that you do have a strategy.”

“I don't want you poking around on your own because it could be dangerous,” he said patiently.

“That's not what's worrying you. The real problem so far as you're concerned is that I'm a loose cannon. An uncontrolled element in the matrix. You want to keep tabs on me and you've decided that the easiest way to do that is to pretend we're partners.”

“It wouldn't be a pretense.”

“Oh? What's in this for me,
partner?”

“I told you that first night, I've got connections on the street.”

“No offense, Nick, but I don't see you sharing information very readily. Not your style.”

“Because I'm a matrix and all matrix-talents are secretive?”

She raised her wine glass in a salute. “That's one good reason.”

He tapped a finger on his forearm while he considered the challenge. Then he reached for the phone and punched in a familiar number.

It was answered on the first ring.

“That you, boss?” Feather was not given to polite preliminaries.

“Yes. What have you got on Polly Fenwick and Omar Booker?”