Zinnia (11 page)

In truth, there was not much of a family resemblance. Nick had been told that he looked very much like his father, Bartholomew. Orrin, on the other hand, had the light brown hair, hazel eyes, and sturdy build that characterized much of the rest of the Chastain gene pool.

Orrin ripped off his glasses and tossed them carelessly onto the desk. “What in five hells are you talking about?”

“You were dealing with that antiquarian book dealer, Morris Fenwick, who was murdered last night. You have no interest in rare books in general, so you must have been after the Chastain journal.”

“That's a goddamned lie.”

“I found your name and private phone number in Fenwick's address file last night.”

Orrin's jaw clenched. “You went through a dead man's address files?”

“I had a little time to kill while my companion and I waited for the cops. Don't worry, I removed the card with your phone number on it.”

Orrin's face reddened with anger. “You're a disgrace to your name.”

“I believe you've mentioned that once or twice.”

Nick's young unwed mother, Sally, had made certain that her son carried his father's name. That fact was a festering sore in the sides of the legitimate Chastains. They saw it as a blatantly encroaching move on Sally's part, an attempt to try to grab a share of the Chastain fortune.

Gruff, taciturn, good-hearted Andy Aoki had raised Nick after Sally's car had plunged off a jungle mountain road. Andy had owned the tavern in Port LaConner where Sally had worked. She had left her infant son with Andy the day she headed for Serendipity to find out what had happened to Bartholomew Chastain. She had never returned.

Nick had grown up in the tavern. He had learned a lot from Andy including how to stop a bar brawl, how to survive in the jungle, and the elements of honor and self-control.

Andy was the only parent Nick had ever known. When he was thirteen he had told him that he wanted to change his last name to Aoki.

Andy gave him a long thoughtful look and then slowly shook his head. “Your mama wanted you to be a Chastain, son. And so did your pa. You need to honor their memory by respecting that.”

“I'd rather honor you,” Nick said, meaning every word.

Andy's eyes lit with a rare warmth. “You've already given me more than you'll ever know, son. It's enough. Keep your name.”

Andy had died a little more than three years ago, a casualty of the Western Islands Action. He had been shot dead by one of the invading pirates while defending his tavern. At the time, Nick had been deep in the jungles together with Lucas Trent and Rafe Stone-braker, hunting more of the invaders.

Andy had died behind his cash register. The rifle at his side had been fired until it was empty. Nick had managed to shove his grief into a dark corner of his mind but he doubted if it would ever disappear entirely.

After he had tracked down Andy's killer, Nick had
finally gotten around to sorting through the contents of the cluttered storeroom behind the tavern. The old storage shed had been crammed with memories of a life that had spanned eighty-one years. Nick had found faded photos of Andy's long-dead wife, records of his early jelly-ice prospecting trips, business receipts, copies of Nick's school records, and childhood artwork.

He also found the small metal box that had belonged to his mother. The discovery had come as a stunning surprise. Andy had told him that all of her possessions had been destroyed in a fire that had consumed her house around the time of her death. But before she had left on the fatal trip to Serendipity, Sally had apparently hidden the metal box in Andy's back room without telling him what she had done.

Inside the box Nick had found only one item, the last letter that Bartholomew Chastain had written to Sally before he set out on the Third Expedition.

Nick still couldn't decide which irritated his Chastain relatives more, Sally's defiant attempt to force them to acknowledge her son, or the fact that he had made his fortune on his own and had no interest in their wealth.

The Chastains were accustomed to controlling people with money. Nick's failure to ask anything of them made him, in their eyes, uncontrollable and therefore dangerous. Nick understood. He was, after all, a Chastain, himself. He figured that his own need to be in command of any given situation was probably stronger than that of all the other members of the clan put together.

“I didn't come here to reminisce about the past, delightful as that no doubt would be,” Nick said. “I want to know about your interest in the Chastain journal.”

“What about it? If my brother's private journal exists, it belongs in the family.” Orrin's mouth tightened. “The
legitimate
branch of the family.”

“I've done a lot of thinking since last night. No offense, Orrin, but it's difficult to believe that you've suddenly developed a keen interest in family history, especially the part my father played in it.”

“Just what in hell is that supposed to mean?”

Nick smiled. “We both know that it was the fact that my father died out in the islands that made it possible for you to take over the reins of the family empire, wasn't it?”

“Bastard,” Orrin hissed.

“Yes, but that's old history. As I was saying, if Bartholomew Chastain had lived, you wouldn't be sitting where you are today. What's more, he would have married my mother and I would have become the heir apparent to Chastain, Inc. Funny how things work out, isn't it?”

“Bartholomew would never have married your mother.” Orrin's face worked furiously. “He knew his duty. He would never have given the Chastain name to some cheap hooker he met in a Western Islands bar.”

The blood suddenly pounded in Nick's ears. He was on his feet before he had time to think. He rounded the corner of the desk and seized a fistful of Orrin's expensive shirt.

“My mother was not a hooker,” he said very, very softly. “Don't ever call her that. Do you hear me, Uncle Orrin? Don't ever call my mother a hooker or, so help me, you and everyone else on the
legitimate
side of the Chastain family will pay.”

Orrin's mouth opened and closed. His eyes bulged. “I'll have my secretary summon security.”

“My parents planned to marry when my father returned from his last expedition. But Bartholomew Chastain didn't make it back alive.” Nick leaned closer. “No one knows exactly what happened, but we all know who benefited, don't we?”

Orrin's mouth opened and closed twice more be
fore he managed to put a coherent sentence together. “How dare you imply that I might have had anything to do with Bart's death or that I was glad he never returned. That's a goddamned lie.”

“Is it?”

“Face the facts, Nick. There never was a Third Chastain Expedition. It's just a legend. The most likely explanation for Bart's disappearance is that he walked off into the jungle one afternoon and committed suicide. He was a matrix. Everyone knows they're not real stable.”

“If you believe that there was no Third Expedition, why are you after his journal?”

“Look, I'm not saying that Bart didn't leave a personal diary of some kind,” Orrin snapped. “God knows, he was obsessive about keeping notes on everything. But it couldn't be a record of the Third Expedition because that venture never took place.”

The roaring in Nick's ears diminished. He noticed that his hand was clenched much too tightly around the fine fabric of Orrin's shirt front. Disgusted with the loss of self-control, he released his grip and took a step back.

A glint of gold caught his eye. He glanced at Orrin's expensive cuff links. They were each elegantly embossed with a large
C
and the initial
O.
Every man in the Chastain family received a pair of gold cuff links when he came of age. Nick wondered what had become of his father's set. Damned if he would ask Orrin.

He met his uncle's eyes. “So we come back to the basic question,” he said softly. “Why would you be willing to pay a lot of money for my father's journal?”

“Because it's a family heirloom.” Orrin straightened his tie and collar. “If you had any sense of responsibility toward the family you'd understand that. Now get out of here before I have you thrown out.”

“I'm on my way.” Nick walked to the door. He paused briefly just before he opened it. “I almost
forgot to ask, how are things going with Glendower? Any luck convincing him to pour money into Chastain, Inc.?”

Orrin stared at him with stunned shock. Then a slow flush rose in his face. “What do you know about Glendower?”

Nick shrugged. “I'm aware that Chastain, Inc. is in bad shape since the acquisition of Meltin-Lowe. You paid far too much for the company, didn't you? Meltin-Lowe turned out to be a very deep hole. Now you're in trouble. You need cash so you're wooing potential investors. I believe Glendower is the third one you've talked to in the past six weeks.”

“That is none of your business, damn it.”

“Relax, I'm family, remember?” Nick smiled. “But a word of warning, Uncle. I know you've got a cash-flow problem, but if you're after Bartholomew Chastain's journal because you believe those old rumors about the treasure, save your time and energy. The legend that my father discovered a fortune in fire crystal is just that, a legend. Old Demented DeForest invented that part of the story just like he did the part about aliens abducting the expedition team.”

Without waiting for a response, Nick let himself out of the office. He closed the door very quietly.

Helen bristled when she saw him.

“Have a nice day.” Nick smiled as he went past her desk.

She flinched.

He walked down the plush corridor to the elevator. When the doors slid open he stepped inside and glanced at his watch. Perhaps Zinnia had called by now. Impatience and a strange sense of eagerness pulsed through him.

A few minutes later, he walked out of the imposing entrance of the Chastain building and into a light misty rain. He strode quickly to where his dark green Synchron was parked at the curb.

He reached for the phone as soon as he was behind the steering bar.

“I'm on my way back to the casino, Feather.” Nick eased the sleek Synchron into the light traffic. “Any messages?”

“I put out the word that you were willing to pay five grand for any information about the Chastain journal, just like you said, boss. But nothing so far.”

“Double the reward.” Nick absently calculated the distances that separated the Synchron from the other vehicles on the street. He factored in the effects of the rain, the wet pavement, and the speed of the blue compact ahead of him. Something was not quite right in the matrix. He changed lanes.

The driver of the blue compact suddenly slammed on his brakes, narrowly avoiding a rear-end collision with another vehicle. Tires screeched. Horns blared. Nick accelerated smoothly past the near-accident.

He drove the same way he did everything else, with an instinctive awareness of all of the elements in the matrix in which he moved. He always knew exactly where he was in relation to the objects around him. His timing was nearly always perfect. It was one of the side effects of his psychic talent.

“Any other messages?” he asked.

“Nothing important,” Feather said.

Nick tightened his grip on the phone. “Has Miss Spring called yet?”

“No, boss.”

“I'll be there in a few minutes.” He punched the disconnect button on the phone.

She would call. He was good at this sort of thing. He knew she would call.

But he could feel something shifting again in the matrix. Zinnia was proving to be unpredictable.

* * * * * * * * * *

Zinnia poured coff-tea into the dainty antique Early Explorations Period cup. “Don't worry, Aunt Willy, the
Synsation
van is the only one left out in front. In another day or so it will be gone. This kind of news loses its impact fast.”

“It's outrageous.” Wilhelmina accepted the cup and saucer with the arrogant grace that had been bred into her bones. “One would think that the police would do something about those dreadful little insects who dare to call themselves journalists. In my day they showed a proper degree of respect for privacy. Now, nothing is sacred, not even one's personal life.”

Zinnia regarded her with irritation and admiration. Wilhelmina was a commanding presence in any setting. Seated here amid Zinnia's collection of airy, whimsical Early Explorations Period furnishings, she was a monument to family authority. Zinnia had to concede that Willy was the reigning matriarch of the Spring clan.

A large woman of statuesque proportions, Wilhelmina transcended any common notions of beauty.
She was endowed with the sort of strong, indomitable features that would have done credit to a statue of a First Generation Founder.

The decline and fall of the Spring family fortunes in recent years had only served to shore up Wilhelmina's aura of unbending determination. She was a woman with a mission. She would not rest until she had seen the bottom line of the family finances and the social position of the Springs restored to their former impressive levels.

“And as for you, Zinnia, whatever were you about last night? How did you come to be in the company of a common gambler?”

“Actually, Mr. Chastain is rather uncommon and I got the impression that he doesn't gamble.” Zinnia pursed her lips. “I wouldn't put it past him to take a few calculated risks, though.”

“Of course he's a gambler. He owns a casino, for heaven's sake.”

“Yes, but I don't think he plays any of the games.” Zinnia sipped her coff-tea. “Mr. Chastain prefers to be in control of things.”

“Be that as it may, the man is little more than a gangster. Hardly what one would call respectable. You had no business being seen with him.” Wilhelmina's eyes snapped. “And whatever possessed you to become involved in a murder investigation?”