Zinnia

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  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 Fenwick’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.

  Chapter

  4

  * * * * * * * * * *

  This was probably not a good idea. Unfortunately, she did not have a better one. She knew something was wrong. Morris Fenwick was an eccentric, neurotic, mid-range matrix-talent, but he was a client. And he was delicate. She could not help worrying about him.

  Zinnia took one more look at the shadowed alley. The mingled light of the twin moons, Chelan and Yakima, gleamed dully on the lid of a large trash container. The rest of the narrow bricked passageway lay in dense shadow.

  She took a grip on the unlocked window. If she did not do this right now, she would lose her nerve. She could not go home tonight until she had taken a look around the shop. She had to be sure that Morris was not lying dead or injured inside.

  A strong sense of foreboding had settled on her after she left the casino. No surprise, she thought. She was not used to this kind of excitement. It was not every evening that she got jumped by a genuine psychic vampire and then went on to have a jolly little interview with the reclusive owner of the most notorious casinos in town. No doubt about it, her social life was a lot more exciting lately than it had been in a very long time.

  She shoved hard on the sill. The window opened with a moan. The musty odor of old books wafted past her. This was not technically breaking and entering, she
decided. After all, she had found this window unlocked.

  She eased first one leg and then the other over the ledge and dropped lightly to the floor. She was in Morris’s back room. The place where he stored his less valuable stock.

  The darkness was absolute. She took a tentative step forward and immediately stubbed her toe against something hard. Stifling a groan, she switched on the small flashlight she had retrieved from the glove compartment of her car.

  The narrow beam of light revealed a maze of boxes stacked on the floor. Each was stuffed with books. She raised the light and used it to scan her surroundings. The storeroom was crammed from floor to ceiling with volumes of all shapes, sizes, and descriptions. The shelves that lined the walls sagged beneath the weight of aging tomes.

  The stillness was even more disconcerting than the darkness. The light beam wavered a little. Zinnia realized her pulse was racing.

  The sense of dread intensified. She glanced at the open window. It would only take a couple of minutes to get back to the safety of her car. Another few minutes and she would be at the door of her loft apartment. The knowledge was tempting.

  But she could not leave yet.

  If only Aunt Willy and Uncle Stanley could see her now, she thought ruefully. They would faint with shock. They still had not recovered from the dizzyingly swift decline in the Spring family fortunes which had followed the death of her parents four years earlier. Nor had they even begun to rally from the humiliation they had been forced to endure eighteen months ago when she had gotten herself involved in what had become known as the Eaton scandal.

  Only her younger brother, Leo, would be likely to appreciate tonight’s adventure. She suddenly wished he was with her.

  She made her way through the storeroom and cautiously opened the door on the far side. The smell was a lot worse in the main room. She realized it must have been shut up for some time.

  The blinds were pulled closed on the windows that faced the street. The darkness was very dense.

  She paused on the threshold and flicked the flashlight around the interior of the high-ceilinged shop. The sight that greeted her made her jaw drop.

  “Dear God.”

  Chaos reigned. She gazed, stunned at the mess. Books had been pulled from the shelves and dumped on the floor. The glass counter top had been smashed. The surface of Morris’s heavy old-fashioned Later Expansion Period desk was strewn with papers. The contents of the drawers were scattered every which way. The aging swivel chair lay on its side.