Zinnia

Chapter 3

"Are you telling me that Morris Fenwick has disappeared?" Nick concealed his rage and frustration behind a calm emotionless mask of polite interest. It was not easy.

"Don't play the innocent, Mr. Chastain. Mr. Fenwick is a client of mine. He told me that he was negotiating with you for the sale of an old journal that he had discovered. He said you wanted it badly."

"I do," Nick said very softly.

Zinnia Spring's fingers clenched more tightly around the strap of her shoulder bag.

So much for the expression of polite interest, Nick thought. His determination to get his hands on the journal was obviously leaking through the mask. He watched Zinnia narrow her very fine, very unusual, very clear eyes. He had never seen eyes quite that color. For some reason the odd silvery blue fascinated him.

"Morris also told me that he had informed you that he had another potential customer for the journal," she said pointedly.

"He did."

"And now poor Morris has vanished."

"Define vanish for me, Miss Spring."

She glared. "I can't find him. We had an appointment this afternoon at his shop, but when I got there the door was locked. Morris never forgets appointments. He's a mid-range matrix-talent. You know how they are. Obsessive about details."

"Obsessive? You've had a lot of experience with matrix-talents, then?"

She shrugged. "More than most people. But, as I'm sure you're well aware, no one's had a lot of experience with them. They're not only quite rare, they're reclusive, secretive, and a little odd. They don't like to be studied."

"Just because most of them won't consent to be guinea rat-pigs in some university research lab doesn't mean they're odd." This was ludicrous. Nick could not believe that he was allowing her to goad him like this. He breathed deeply, centering himself. "It just means they value their privacy."

"Mr. Chastain, I am not here to debate the oddness of matrix-talents. I'm here to retrieve Morris Fen-wick. Hand him over."

"Tell me, Miss Spring, what, precisely, caused you to leap to the conclusion that I've got him stashed away somewhere in the casino?"

"I suspect that you were afraid poor Morris would try to drive up the price of the journal by starting a bidding war between you and his other client. So you grabbed him with the goal of intimidating him into accepting your offer."

"An interesting assumption."

Her mouth tightened and so did her elegantly sculpted jaw. "Poor Morris knew that journal was extremely valuable to certain parties. He told me that he had it hidden in a safe place until he could complete the negotiations and close the sale."

"Do you always call him 'poor Morris'?"

She frowned. "Morris is delicate. Most matrix-talents are. They don't function well under stress."

Nick was torn between disbelief and disgust. "In your considered opinion?"

"I told you, I've had more experience with matrix-talents than most of the experts. Morris is a gentle soul who is consumed by a passion for antiquarian books. He will become frantic if you apply the sort of pressure tactics to him that you were obviously using on that poor Mr. Batt who just left."

Nick managed, barely, not to grind his teeth. "Let me get this straight. "You think I kidnapped Fenwick because I was afraid I couldn't outbid my competition. Presumably I'm holding him hostage until he turns over the journal."

"We won't call it kidnapping if you release him at once," she said smoothly.

"You're too kind." Nick got to his feet and stalked around the vast desk. He watched Zinnia's face as he moved toward her. She tensed but held her ground. The bright, fierce challenge in her eyes intrigued him.

He knew who she was, of course. He had recognized the name and the face immediately. A year and a half ago she had been notorious throughout the city-state for three days. The trashy newspaper, Synsation, had labeled her the "Scarlet Lady."

Nick detested the tabloids, but he kept track of them because he devoured information from all sources. His primary objective was to watch for photos and stories featuring those from the city's elite social circles who had the misfortune to show up on the front pages of the scandal sheets. He never knew when a tidbit from a gossipy piece involving one of the upper-class families might come in handy.

Eighteen months ago Zinnia Spring had been photographed walking out of the bedroom of a wealthy, influential businessman named Rexford Eaton. Eaton was not only the head of one of the city-state's most prominent families, he was also married. The resulting scandal had been a three-day sensation for Synsa-tion.

The damning photograph of Zinnia in a dashing crimson-red suit not unlike the one she wore tonight had been featured in a place of honor on the front page.

Nick recalled the photo and the accompanying story, not only because it had involved Rexford Eaton but because something about the unsavory details of the affair had failed to ring true. His matrix-tuned mind had detected hints of wrongness between the lines. But that was hardly a surprise, given the low level of Synsation's journalistic integrity.

He had been absently impressed by the way the "Scarlet Lady" had handled the pushy reporters and gossip columnists who had hounded her for those three days. He had followed the story and he knew that she had refused all interviews with an arrogant disdain that he had admired.

Tonight he was even more impressed. He was accustomed to one of three basic reactions from those who found their way into this chamber: wary respect, extreme caution, or desperate appeal. He did not get a lot of visitors who dared to issue an outright challenge. It took guts.

He was well aware of his own reputation. He had worked hard to build it, first in the wild jungle frontier of the Western Islands and later here in the so-called civilized city-state of New Seattle. A reputation was one of the few things a man in his position could depend upon.

He wondered if Zinnia had worn the scarlet suit to underline the impact of her demands or to shore up her own nerve. Whatever the case, that particular shade of bright, bold, unabashed red looked good on her, even though it clashed with the darker, more menacing red of the carpet and curtains around her. The well-cut, snug-fitting little suit managed to appear both professional and stylish even as it issued a subtle challenge. It skimmed over gently shaped breasts and emphasized a small waist. It also hinted at the appealing curve of a full rounded derriere.

The way she wore the suit interested Nick far more than the color or the style. Zinnia held herself with a graceful hauteur that said a lot about her fortitude and will. This would be one stubborn woman, he decided. Definitely difficult.

Definitely intriguing.

The feeling of rightness that surged through him was annoying. It also made him wary. One of the problems with being a strong matrix-talent was that he was far more sensitive than most to small nuances and subtle details in everything around him. For better or worse, he noticed things that most people ignored.

Even when he was not actively trying to use his talent, some part of his mind was always observing, assessing, and analyzing. He intuitively searched for patterns, looking for factors which felt wrong or out of place or which generated warning signals. He was always watching for the specters of chaos and disruption.

His acute senses had kept him alive in the jungles of the Western Islands and helped him amass a fortune as a casino owner. But lately Nick had discovered that the constant search for the pattern in the matrix had a downside. After years of watching for the shadow of that which was wrong or dangerous, he found himself hungering for that which felt right.

And Zinnia Spring felt inexplicably right.

It made no sense. She had just accused him of kidnapping.

He tried to make himself step back into that remote, detached place where he could study and assess without reacting to what he saw. He made himself look at Zinnia with the calculating intuition that was such an essential part of his nature.

She was striking but not beautiful. He liked the way her straight nose, high forehead, and well-defined cheekbones came together in a package that could only be called aristocratic. The dark sweep of her hair curved sleekly at chin length.

By any standard, there were far more stunning women dealing gin-poker at the tables downstairs. There were several working the bar at the very moment who could make heads turn from a block away. And the new redheaded lounge singer was considered spectacular by every man and a few of the ladies in the casino.

Unfortunately, one of the curses of a strong matrix-talent was that a man who possessed it found himself looking at lovely women in a decidedly skewed manner. Nick could appreciate superficial feminine beauty as well as the next healthy heterosexual male, but the physical attraction that resulted was also superficial. The older he got, the more unsatisfying relationships based on that attraction proved to be.

He wanted something else, something more, something deeper, something infused with meaning. He wanted something he did not understand and could not name.

The unfulfilled yearning had grown stronger during the past few years. It had played havoc with his sex life, which, he reflected glumly, had become virtually nonexistent in recent months. He wondered if all matrix-talents were burdened with this unpleasant side effect of their paranormal power or if he was just especially ill-fated.

He pushed the intruding thoughts aside and indicated the chair that Hobart Batt had recently vacated. "Please sit down, Miss Spring. Obviously we have a lot to discuss."

She glanced at the chair, hesitated, and then walked defiantly over to it, sat down, and crossed her legs. One red high-heel shoe swung impatiently. "The only thing I want to talk about is Morris Fenwick."

"Strangely enough, that's the subject that interests me most at the moment, also." He leaned back against the desk and planted his hands on the elaborately carved edge. "Let's start by straightening out a minor misunderstanding. I don't know where Fen-wick is."

She eyed him with a trace of uncertainty. "I don't believe you."

"It's the truth. I swear it. I may not fit your image of a respectable businessman, Miss Spring, but if you know anything at all about me, you must be aware that my word is considered good enough to take to the bank."

"You're the only one who would have had any reason to kidnap Morris."

"Fenwick, himself, told you that there is someone else who is interested in the Chastain journal."

Zinnia frowned. "Yes, but he said that you were the one who seemed most obsessive about it. He said that you claimed that it was written by a relative."

"My father, Bartholomew Chastain. The journal is the record of his last expedition into the uncharted islands of the Western Seas."

She studied him carefully. "That would be the Third Chastain Expedition. The one in which the crew is said to have mysteriously vanished."

"Yes."

She looked distinctly wary now. He could see that she was swiftly slotting him into a mental file labeled

KOOKS, ECCENTRICS, AND OTHER ASSORTED WEIRDOS.

"There isn't much information on the Third," she pointed out diplomatically. "According to the official sources, it never took place. Morris told me that the University of New Portland records show that it was canceled. And everyone agrees that no Third Expedition ever filed a report."

"I know," Nick said. "Twenty years ago a crackpot named Newton DeForest turned the story of the Third Expedition into a tabloid legend by claiming that the team was abducted by aliens."

She cleared her throat cautiously. "I take it you, uh, don't subscribe to that particular theory?"

"No, Miss Spring, I do not."

"But you do believe that the journal Morris discovered is actually Bartholomew Chastain's personal record of the venture?"

"Fenwick told me he was very certain that he had found my father's journal. I want it and money is no object."

"Morris told me that you said you would top any offer he received for that journal, whatever it is."

"I will," he said very softly. "Fenwick and I have an understanding."

Zinnia tensed in her chair. Her red heel stopped swinging. "Morris told me that he planned to sell the journal to you. He just wanted to get the best possible price. He contacted another client just to test the market. Get a feel for price. That's all there was to it. If you had just been patient, he would have eventually sold it to you. Produce him and I'll leave and we can all forget this ever happened."

"For the last time, Miss Spring, I did not kidnap him. Believe it or not, it's not my style."

"Your style?"

"Contrary to what you may be thinking, a man in my position prefers to conduct his business affairs in a normal manner." Nick smiled. "Besides, the bottom line is that I can afford anything I want. There's no reason for me to take the risk of committing a crime that could get me thrown in prison for thirty or forty years."

A stubborn look appeared in her eyes. "All I know is that Morris is gone. His shop is closed. He doesn't answer his phone. No one has seen him all day."

"One day is not a long time," Nick said gently. "He could have simply left town to buy books in New Vancouver or New Portland."

"No, I told you, we had an appointment. Morris would have called to cancel if he had intended to leave town. I wouldn't be so concerned if it weren't for this business with the journal."

"Why exactly are you so interested in Morris Fen-wick's continued good health?"

"I told you, he's a client."

He recalled bits and pieces of the Synsation articles he had read during the Eaton scandal. "You're an interior designer, aren't you?"

She gave him a cool look. "I see you know who I am."

"I read the papers."

"Only the tabloids, apparently."

"I collect information where I find it," he explained.

"If you get your information from the gossip columns, my advice is not to rely on it. But that's your problem. Yes, I'm an interior designer but I'm also a full-spectrum prism. I do some part-time work for a firm called Psynergy, Inc."

That caught him by surprise. "The focus consulting agency?"

"That's right. Psynergy, Inc. grabbed a lot of headlines a few months ago when one of our prisms helped solve the murder of a very well-known university professor."

"I'm aware of the case. A friend of mine was involved."

Shock lit her eyes. "Do you mean Lucas Trent?"

"Yes."

"You're a friend of Mr. Trent's?"

For some reason her undisguised astonishment amused him. "Is that so hard to believe?"

"I can verify all this, you know," she warned.

"I know." He glanced at the phone. "I can call Trent at home now if you like and have him vouch for me. Save you the trouble."

"It's one o'clock in the morning."

"So Trent may grumble a bit."

Zinnia glanced thoughtfully at the phone and then pursed her lips. "Never mind, I'll check your story later."

"My story? You're beginning to sound like a cop, Miss Spring. Maybe it's time you showed me some identification."

She stared at him, clearly startled. "I'm not with the police. I told you, I have a business of my own and I do some part-time work for Psynergy, Inc."

Nick was pleased with the progress he was making. The tables had finally started to turn. He had her on the defensive now. "I take it you focused for Morris Fenwick?"

"Yes. It's difficult for matrix-talents to work with most prisms. I'm one of the few who doesn't mind focusing for them." She gave a small elegant shrug. "So my boss gives me all the matrix assignments. That's how I met poor Morris. I help him authenticate some of the really rare stuff he buys."

A nagging unease trickled across Nick's acute senses. "Did you help him discover the Chastain journal?"

"No. As a matter of fact, he found it strictly by accident when he was called in by the heirs of an old reclusive collector who recently died in New Portland. Morris came across the journal when he evaluated the man's private library. He said he didn't require my help to authenticate it. He knew it would be valuable to certain people. Naturally, being a matrix, he promptly hid it."

"Naturally," Nick muttered. "So you never actually saw the Chastain journal?"

"No."

"And now both the journal and Fenwick are missing. It would appear we have a problem on our hands."

She widened her eyes. "We?"

"If Fenwick has really disappeared, Miss Spring, I assure you, I want to find him far more than you do."

She searched his face for a few tense seconds. Then she exhaled slowly and leaned back in her chair. She drummed her fingers on the arms.

"Damn." She sounded morosely resigned to the inevitable. "I think I believe you."

"I can't tell you what that means to me. Perhaps now we can move forward. But before we do, I have a question for you."

She cocked a brow. "What is it?"

He watched closely. "You said you don't mind working with matrix-talents."

"No. Their psychic energy is different, not quite like the energy of other talents, but what the heck, I'm a little different, too."

He frowned. "You said you were a prism."

"I am. Full-spectrum, in fact. But for some reason, I can only focus well with matrix-talents. Creating a prism for any other kind of talent is extremely stressful for me and I can't hold the focus for long."

"I see."

"Look, I didn't come here to discuss my part-time job. We need to concentrate on poor Morris. If you didn't grab him, who did?"

He considered that for the first time. "Assuming anyone grabbed him as you put it, the next suspect in line would seem to be the mysterious other client. The one he was using to drive up the journal's price. Did he mention the name of the other bidder?"

"No. Matrix-talents are so bloody secretive." She narrowed her eyes. "But even if I knew the name of your competitor, I don't think I'd tell you. I'm not sure I trust you completely, Mr. Chastain. I'm going to have to think about this for a while."

"Is that so? Well, think about this, Miss Spring. I did not kidnap Morris Fenwick. And since I had nothing to do with his disappearance and since he's got my journal, it's only logical that I've got the strongest motive for finding him."

"I suppose you do have a vested interest."

He could not believe that he was allowing her to annoy him. He shoved himself away from the desk and walked around to stand behind it. It was time to take control of the matrix.

"You can relax, Miss Spring. I'll locate Fenwick for you."

"Hold on here, Mr. Chastain." Zinnia got swiftly to her feet. "I'm not at all sure I want your help in this."

"That's unfortunate because you're going to get it. I want the journal and Fenwick is apparently the only one who knows where it is. I intend to find him."

"I came here tonight because I thought you had snatched poor Morris. But if you say you haven't got him-"

He looked at her. "I not only said it, I gave you my word on it."

She blinked and took a step back. Then her chin came up. "Well, that's that. There's nothing more you can do." She slung the strap of her purse over her shoulder. "I'll be on my way. Sorry to have bothered you, Mr. Chastain."

"You're suddenly very eager to leave, Miss Spring."

"I've got things to do and places to go," she said with breezy disdain.

"At one o'clock in the morning? You must have an interesting personal life."

"My private life is none of your business." She reached the door and turned. "The important thing now is to make certain that Morris is safe. I'm going to contact the police."

Nick silently ran through the possibilities and probabilities of such a move. He had a reasonably good relationship with the cops in New Seattle, but he definitely did not want them involved in the search for the journal. "You'll have to wait awhile before you contact the police."

Renewed suspicion flared in her eyes. "Why?"

"For one thing, they won't take a missing-persons report on an adult, especially a matrix-talent adult, for at least forty-eight hours. You won't get any action out of them until the day after tomorrow. Second, if Fenwick is in trouble, going to the cops could scare the kidnapper into doing something desperate. Something that might make Fenwick's situation worse than it already is."

"Oh, my God." Alarm flashed across Zinnia's vibrant face. "I hadn't thought of that. What are we going to do?"

Now, finally it was we. Much better, Nick thought. At least she was not going to run straight to the cops tonight. "Give me a chance to make a few inquiries."

"Inquiries?"

"In my business I get to know a lot of people," he said, deliberately vague. "All kinds of people. I may be able to turn up some rumors on the street."

She hesitated. "You think some of your, uh, associates might know something about poor Morris?"

He didn't care for the emphasis she placed on the word associates. She obviously assumed he consorted with a less-than-socially-acceptable crowd. The assumption wasn't that far off the mark. He was planning to change all that, but he figured this was not the time or place to explain his grand scheme to become respectable.

"Kidnapping is not a simple crime," he explained in what he hoped was a calm, reasonable tone. "It requires planning and coordination. There's usually more than one person involved and that means that, sooner or later, there will be rumors and leaks."

"But it could be days before one of the kidnappers lets some vital piece of information slip. Who knows what they'll do to poor Morris in the meantime? If he does tell them where the journal is, they may kill him once they've got their hands on it."

"Assuming he's been kidnapped in the first place."

"The more I think about this, the more I'm convinced that's exactly what's happened."

Nick almost smiled. "Careful, Miss Spring. Common wisdom has it that matrix-talents are the ones who have a tendency to succumb to conspiracy theories. But you're doing a damned good job of it."

Bright color bloomed in her cheeks. She glowered at him as she reached for the doorknob. "Speaking of matrix-talents. You may be interested to know that a very big matrix, possibly a class-ten in my professional opinion, is working one of your gin-poker tables."

For an instant everything in Nick's world, including the blood in his veins stilled. He stared at Zinnia.

"How do you know that?" he asked so quietly that he was almost surprised she heard him. "Tell me."

She was suddenly very busy opening the door. "I accidentally brushed up against him on the metaphysical plane. He was questing for a prism. I sensed him and started to respond. It was an instinctive thing. I stopped as soon as I realized what had happened."

"How long ago was this?"

"I ran into him, so to speak, just before I came up here." She looked briefly amused. "Calm down, Mr. Chastain. I'm sure your security people will catch him before he cleans out the casino bank."

He flattened his palms on the desk. "Are you certain?"

"About the matrix downstairs? Oh, yes. I know they're rare, but no prism could mistake a matrix. By the way, you might want to tell your security personnel to be careful. I've never encountered a really strong matrix-talent before but I have a hunch that this one could be dangerous if cornered or provoked."

She went out the door and closed it hastily behind her.

Nick sank slowly down onto his chair.

She was the one.

Zinnia was the powerful prism he had collided with and briefly captured when he tried to use his talent to assess Hobart Batt. She had picked him up even though she had been one whole floor below him at the time.

His finely tuned brain failed to function properly for at least thirty seconds. He felt as if the matrix of his world had just been thoroughly scrambled.

With an heroic effort of will, he pulled himself together and punched the intercom button on the gilded phone.

Feather answered immediately. "I'm here, boss."

"Follow Miss Spring. Discreetly. Make sure she gets home safely. And make a note of the address."

"Sure, boss."

Nick put the phone down very gently and leaned back in his chair. He flexed his hands on the curved arms as he tried to reorient himself in the newly altered matrix.

Zinnia Spring had walked through his door wearing a red suit and red high heels and now everything had changed.

He brooded over the altered matrix for a long time.

Fifteen minutes later the phone rang. The private line. Nick picked up the receiver and heard the muffled sound of street noises.

"What is it, Feather?"

"Sorry to bother you, boss, but I don't think she's headed home. Want me to stay on her?"

"Where are you?"

"Second Gen Hill. She's driving real slow."

"Second Generation Hill?" Nick surged to his feet. "That's where Fenwick's book shop is located."

"Looks like she's going to park on a side street."

"Five hells. Keep an eye on her but don't do anything until I get there." Nick slammed down the phone.

He knew exactly what she was going to do. Zinnia was going to break into the book shop to see if she could find any clues to Morris Fenwick's fate.

Nick crossed the gilded red chamber toward the door. He glanced at the black-and-gold watch on his wrist. Breaking and entering would not be routine for a woman like Zinnia. With any luck he would get to Fenwick's shop before she worked up the nerve to try her hand at it.

Then again, his luck had been nothing less than bizarre all evening.