Zinnia (10 page)

“I'll look into the possibility.” Nick paused. “If I do turn up a matrix-talent who can assist me in locating the journal I'll need to hire a prism who can focus for him. Would you be available?”

The thought of getting involved with Nick Chastain again brought back visions of the long empty elevator shaft she'd imagined last night. Her stomach did flip-flops as she saw herself stepping out into midair.

“I don't know.” That sounded weak, even to her. “I'd have to look at my schedule. I've been very busy with my interior design business lately. I'm not taking on a lot of focus work these days. Morris was something
of an exception.” It was getting worse. She was on the brink of sounding like a blithering idiot.

What was it about Nick Chastain that set her senses on edge and stirred the hair at the nape of her neck, she wondered. Other than the fact that he was dangerous, mysterious, and reclusive and the two of them had discovered a body together, of course.

“Has it occurred to you that if your hunch is right and there's more to Fenwick's murder than Detective Anselm thinks there is, locating the journal would be a major step toward finding the killer?” Nick asked.

She suddenly wished that she could see his eyes. Not that she would have been able to read much in those green-and-gold depths, she thought. Nick wore his enigmatic mask as easily as he wore his expensively tailored clothes.

“I thought you said you didn't think that anyone else except yourself wanted the journal badly enough to kill for it,” she said very carefully. “Have you changed your mind?”

“This is your conspiracy theory, not mine. All I want is the journal. I was merely pointing out that if you happen to be right, then we have a mutual interest in locating it. It's safe to say that the police won't go in the direction your theory is taking you. Anselm seemed convinced of the drug-robbery motive.”

Zinnia propped her elbow on the desk and rested her forehead in her hand. “To tell you the truth, I don't know what to think at the moment.”

“I suggest you don't take too long to make up your mind. I'm going to start making inquiries immediately. There's no time to waste. This kind of trail grows cold very quickly.”

“Yes, I imagine it does.”

“Do you want to work together on this or shall I handle it on my own?”

She twisted the telephone cord in her fingers. He
was applying pressure. It was subtle but unmistakable. “You're suggesting that we should join forces?”

“Why not? We both have compelling reasons to search for the journal. Together we would be able to accomplish more than we could separately.”

Zinnia drummed her fingers on the desk. “It would be impossible to keep our association a secret.”

“That's true. There is a risk that the tabloids would get interested in us all over again.”

“Well?” She was annoyed by his obvious lack of concern. “That's the last thing you'd want, isn't it?”

“I can live with it if there's a good reason to do so. What about you?”

“I'd hate it.” She flopped back in her chair and released a long breath. “But I've had to put up with having my name smeared across the front pages so often that it's beginning to seem routine. I can handle it.”

There was another of the unsettling silences on the other end of the line. “You think that having your name linked with mine amounts to a smear?”

Great. She'd managed to insult him again.

“I didn't mean to imply that. I only meant that there's no really terrific way to appear in the tabloids. No matter whose name is involved.”

“Never mind,” he interrupted. “Since we can't avoid the inevitable, I suggest we give the gossips a logical reason for the two of us to be seen together.”

Zinnia's instincts went on full alert. “What sort of reason?”

“As it happens, I'm in the market for an interior designer.”

She seized the phone cord in a death grip. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. I'm planning to marry in the near future. I want to redecorate.”

For some reason, that news caused Zinnia to tighten her hand even more violently around the cord. He
was going to marry. So what? Almost everyone got married sooner or later. Even mysterious casino proprietors. She was probably the one exception in the city if you discounted a few assorted incarcerated felons and the inmates of some asylums.

“I see.”

“I have a feeling that my future wife won't care for the casino look.”

“You live in a casino,” Zinnia pointed out grimly. “I doubt very seriously that you'll be able to conceal that fact from her for long. The clang of the slot machines will be a dead giveaway.”

“I don't expect my bride to live here above the casino. I've bought a house. A large one on a hill overlooking the city and the bay.”

“Oh.” She was not certain what to say. “When's the wedding?”

“I don't know yet. I've only recently begun the registration process.”

“You're going through an agency?”

“You sound surprised. Doesn't everyone with common sense go through an agency?”

“Sure. Naturally. In most cases.” Lord, she was babbling again. “But there are exceptions.”

“I don't intend to be an exception. Contracting a non-agency marriage is a huge risk. I'm not a gambling man.”

She blinked. “You're not?”

“I may make my living off the synergistic laws of probabilities and chance, but I don't take stupid risks. Not with something as permanent as marriage.”

“Very wise,” she agreed hastily.

There was a discreet pause.

“Are you registered?” he asked softly.

She swallowed. It was a perfectly normal question, especially given her age. She was getting precariously close to thirty. “I was registered four years ago. But the agency declared me unmatchable.”

Dead silence greeted that information.

“I see,” Nick said eventually. “Unusual.”

That was the understatement of the decade. Zinnia almost smiled. “Very. But it happens.”

“You don't sound too broken up about it.”

“Life goes on.”

“Full-spectrums are said to be difficult to please,” Nick observed.

“That's not our fault,” she retorted. “We've got high standards. It goes with the territory. But in my case, the problem was complicated by the fact that I'm not exactly a normal full-spectrum prism.”

“Ah, yes. You told me that you could only focus comfortably with matrix-talents.”

“Uh-huh. Apparently that fact makes for a peculiar reading on the MPPI,” Zinnia said.

“MPPI?”

“The Multipsychic Paranormal Personality Inventory. It's the standard syn-psych test that all the match-making agencies use. You'll have to take the exam sooner or later, if you're registered. Didn't your counselor tell you about it?”

“I've just started the registration process. I haven't had a chance to discuss all the details with my counselor yet.”

“I see. You'll start with a questionnaire and then you'll do the MPPI.” For some reason Zinnia's curiosity would not let go of the matter. “Which agency are you using?”

“My counselor is from Synergistic Connections.”

“Good firm. That's where I was registered.” She was more convinced than ever now that Nick possessed a strong psychic ability of some kind. Synergistic Connections was one of the few marriage agencies in town that worked with full-spectrum prisms and high-class talents. “Very expensive.”

“I can afford their services,” he said.

She winced. “Yes, I suppose you can.”

“As I was saying, I want my house redecorated for my future bride. I could tell people that I've employed you to design the interiors. It would provide a credible reason for us to be seen in each other's company on a frequent basis.”

For some reason her brain seemed to be functioning as if it were mired in hardening amber. “Uh—”

“We can pool our resources and information.” Nick paused. “I'm quite prepared to pay your usual fees, of course.”

That remark broke through the congealing amber as nothing else could have done. Zinnia was incensed. “How dare you bring money into this? I guess I should have expected that from a man who owns a casino. I've got news for you, Mr. Chastain. The only thing that matters here is justice for poor Morris.”

“Of course,” he said quickly. Too quickly.

“All you want is that journal. For some reason you've decided I might have some useful information that you can use to find it.”

“Now, Zinnia, I was only putting forth a reasonable proposition, one that will benefit both of us.”

“The hell you were. You're trying to manipulate me, Mr. Chastain. I don't like being manipulated.”

“Think about it, that's all I ask.” He was the essence of reasonableness now. “Give me a call when you've had a chance to consider my plan.”

“Don't hold your breath.” She slammed down the phone before he could try another tactic.

* * * * * * * * * *

He had her hooked, Nick thought as he hung up the phone. Now all he had to do was reel her in quickly and carefully. She would call back by the end of the day. She would not be able to resist.

True, she had gotten a little stubborn, even a trifle annoyed with him there at the tail end of the conversation, but when she'd had a chance to cool down and think it over, she would call.

Nick was satisfied with his analysis of the matrix that now included Zinnia Spring. She was the loyal type. To a fault, in his opinion. She was under the impression that she had a responsibility to find Fenwick's killer. He had offered her a chance to do just that.

She would call. Soon.

In the meantime, he had another problem to sort out.

He stood and walked to one of the mirrored panels on the wall of the lushly decorated chamber. He pushed a hidden switch with the toe of his shoe. The panel slid open to reveal the functional state-of-the
art office where he did the real work required to manage the casino and his extensive investments.

When the section of mirrored wall closed behind him, he went to the desk and opened a small concealed drawer. He wondered what Zinnia would say if she could see the hidden office and the secret drawer.
Typical matrix-talent. Obsessive. Secretive. Probably paranoid.

The truth was, in his business, it paid to be cautious and careful. Besides, there was an old saying to the effect that even paranoid matrix-talents had enemies.

He removed the two small white cards he had retrieved from Morris Fenwick's address file. He had waited until Zinnia's back was turned the previous night before he had taken them. He suspected she would have disapproved of him removing anything from the crime scene.

He studied the neatly typed address cards. One contained his own name and the number of his private phone line. It had been no surprise to discover it in Fenwick's file. He had given his number to the book dealer, himself. But with Fenwick dead it seemed only prudent to remove the record from the file. The fewer people who had access to his private phone number, the better.

What he had not anticipated was the name on the address card that had been filed directly behind the one that contained his own private phone number. Orrin Chastain. President of Chastain, Inc. Brother of Bartholomew Chastain.

Nick's uncle.

He knew for a fact that Orrin had no interest in rare books. There was only one reason why his name would have been in Fenwick's files. Orrin was after the Chastain journal.

The discreetly embossed name on the plate in front of the formidable-looking receptionist read M
RS.
H
ELEN
T
HOMPSON
. She took one look at Nick and managed to appear both disapproving and polite at the same time. A neat trick, Nick thought.

“Do you have an appointment with Mr. Chastain?” she asked, coughing discreetly. “Mr. Chastain?”

“No.” Nick glanced at the closed door of Orrin's office. “But he'll see me, Helen. Don't worry about it.”

“I'm afraid he's in conference this morning.” Helen's expression was tight with reproof. “He does not wish to be disturbed.”

Nick smiled. “But, I'm family, Helen. Of course he'll see me.”

He started around her desk without waiting for a response.

“Wait.” Helen surged to her feet when she saw that Nick was halfway to the closed door. “Come back here, Mr. Chastain. Where do you think you're going?”

“Hold his calls, Helen. This won't take long.” Nick opened the door and walked into his uncle's office.

Unlike Chastain's Palace, Chastain, Inc. had been decorated with Restraint and Good Taste. Everything was done in muted shades of beige and gray. It was a model of corporate elegance. In fact, it had been featured in a recent issue of
Architectural Synergy
magazine. Nick had read the entire article. He was studying Good Taste these days. It was part of his five-year plan to become respectable.

“You know, Uncle Orrin, this place could use a touch of red.”

Orrin was seated at his desk, speaking into the phone. At Nick's words, he swung around, scowling.

“Get back to me on that as soon as you get the numbers from Riker, understand? Fine. Do it.” Orrin dumped the phone back into its cradle and glared at Nick. “I see you've managed to drag the Chastain name into the papers. The least you could have done
was stay clear of Chastain, Inc. until the worst of the fuss blows over. We don't need that kind of publicity.”

“How long have you been looking for the journal, Uncle Orrin?” Nick sank down into one of the gray leather chairs. Orrin hated to be reminded of their biological relationship, so Nick made it a point to drop the word
“uncle”
into the conversation as often as possible whenever he visited.