Zinnia

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  They were miscellaneous receipts for some expensive office equipment. Forged receipts, he concluded after a closer glance. Probably commissioned by one of Wilkes’s clients for use in an embezzlement scheme.

  “If Wilkes was a professional forger he must have made a few enemies over the years,” Leo noted.

  “Yes.” Nick rose and began to walk slowly through the disarray, searching for some pattern that would give him a clue to the object of the hasty search.

  “I wonder what happened to Wilkes.”

  “I don’t see any signs of a struggle. No blood on the floor. I don’t think he was around when this happened.”

  Leo looked up from an examination of a small printing press. “He probably decided to take a long vacation in one of the other city-states after he finished forging the Chastain journal. If I’d been in his shoes, I’d have gone all the way out to the Western Islands. Maybe a little farther. He must have known that sooner or later you’d come calling.”

  “Yes.” Nick paused beside a desk and surveyed the cluttered surface. “He must have known. He was the cautious, careful type. He’d have left town as soon as he got his money.”

  A glint of gold on the floor caught his eye as he turned away from the desk. It winked at him from under a table. He bent down and scooped up a small cuff link. An elegantly scrolled letter C entwined with a smaller O was inscribed on it.

  “Find something interesting?” Leo asked from the other side of the room.

  “No.” Nick dropped the small bit of beautifully wrought gold into his pocket. He would have to pay another call on his uncle to ask him why one of his cuff links had been found in the secret room of a master forger.

  “Any idea why someone would have done this?” Leo asked.

  Nick glanced at more papers lying on the floor. “I think whoever went through this room was trying to cut off the money trail.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s a pattern to the papers that have been pulled out of the drawers and the desk. Most of them relate to routine business matters. Receipts, bills, orders, that kind of thing. Some are real, some are forged.”

  Leo glanced at the papers. “So?”

  “I have a hunch that whoever went through this room was trying to find any records Wilkes might have made regarding the sale of the forged copy of the Chastain journal.”

  “You mean the man who ordered the fake journal came back because he figured out that Wilkes might have made some incriminating records of the deal?”

  “It’s one of a couple of possibilities.” Nick thought of the cuff link in his pocket. “Money leaves a stain that is just as permanent as blood. Very hard to wash out.”

  Leo slanted him a sidelong glance. “You sound like you know something about the subject.”

  “Anyone who runs a large business has to know something about it. A money trail can be dangerous.” Nick was suddenly annoyed with himself. “I should have considered that element of the matrix more closely. I’ve been concentrating on other factors.”

  “Think the guy who did this found what he was looking for?”

  Nick surveyed the room. His attention was caught by the broken lamp. “I don’t know. But it’s clear he was in a rage when he did it.”

  “How can you tell?”

  Nick gestured toward the smashed lamp. “It didn’t fall accidentally. It was hurled against a wall.”

  “Whoever tore this place apart was real mad, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe he was scared, too,” Leo offered. “Maybe like the forger, he figured out that you’d come calling.”

  Zinnia held the phone in one hand and used the other to flip through the latest copy of Architectural Synergy as Wilhelmina continued her tirade.

  “The entire family is appalled.” Wilhelmina’s voice rose to a shrill pitch. “Absolutely appalled. How can you shame us like this? What will that nice Duncan Luttrell think when he sees that dreadful picture in that cheap tacky tabloid?”

  “You’ll be glad to know that Duncan called an hour ago, Aunt Willy. We had a pleasant chat.”

  “Thank God. Such a nice man. How on St. Helens did you explain that disgusting photo?”

  Duncan had been kind, understanding, and very sympathetic. He had, however, offered a gentle warning about the folly of risking one’s reputation with a man such as Nick Chastain. Zinnia had resisted the nearly overpowering urge to tell him to mind his own business. She knew that Duncan meant well.

  “I told him the same thing I’m telling you. Mr. Chastain has hired me to restore the interiors of his new property. He was showing me the house.”

  “That isn’t his property. It’s the old Garrett estate.”

  Zinnia smiled. “Better start calling it the new Chastain estate.”

  “Nonsense,” Wilhelmina sniffed. “That would imply that it belongs to the legitimate branch of the Chastain family, which it most certainly does not.”

  “Has anyone told you that you’re a snob, Aunt Willy?”

  “Someone in the family must maintain standards.”

  “I know, it’s a tough job, but somebody has to do it. Look, I’ve got to run. I’ve got an appointment in a few minutes. Goodbye, Aunt Willy.”

  “I haven’t finished, yet—”

  Zinnia pretended not to hear Wilhelmina’s squawk of protest. She hung up the phone very gently.

  She exhaled deeply, tossed the magazine aside, and leaned back in her chair. Morosely she eyed the heavy glass paperweight that sat atop a stack of sketches.

  The sketches had been made for a new client who had phoned a few minutes earlier to fire her. The client had been horrified by the photo in Synsation.

  Business was drying up quickly. She wondered if she ought to accept Nick’s offer of a real job. She needed the money and the designer in her was excited at the prospect of redoing the classic interiors of the new Chastain estate.

  But the part of her that was falling in love with Nick found it difficult to accept the fact that another woman would live in the house once it was completed. Better not to pour her heart and soul into that particular project, she decided. Things were dicey enough as it was.

  On impulse, she reached for the phone and punched in his private number. Feather answered.

  “Yeah?”

  “You have a lovely telephone personality, Ms. Feather. So warm and welcoming. Is Mr. Chastain back yet?”

  “He just walked in the door with your brother.”

  “Leo?” Zinnia was so surprised she nearly dropped the phone. “What’s he doing there?”

  “How the hell should I know?”

  “Put him on the phone, please, Feather.”

  “Mr. Chastain or your brother?”

  “My brother,” Zinnia snapped.

  There was a short pause and then Leo came on the line. He sounded energized. “Hey, Zin, you’ll never guess where Nick and I were when you called earlier.”

  “What’s going on, Leo?”

  “We went to the forger’s house.”

  Zinnia felt her jaw drop. “The forger who did the fake Chastain journal?”

  “Right. Alfred Wilkes. Nick got his name from somebody named Stonebraker and we drove over there. The place had been ransacked. Wilkes was gone but Nick thinks someone searched the place to find any kind of financial paperwork that would have linked him to the forgery.”

  Zinnia clamped her hand very tightly around the receiver. “Let me get this straight. The two of you went to see this suspected forger together?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Without bothering to tell me your plans?”

  There was a short pause before Leo rushed into explanations.

  “Things happened kind of fast. Nick said there was no time to lose. It was really weird, Zin. The guy had a secret door built into his icerator.” He broke off abruptly. “Hang on, Nick wants to talk to you.”

  “Good,” Zinnia said through set teeth. “Because I have a few things to say to him.�
�

  “Hello, Zinnia.” Nick’s voice was as cool and controlled as always, just as if last night had never happened.

  “How dare you go to that forger’s house without me?” Anger made her chest suddenly tight. “We’re supposed to be partners. That means we consult with each other before we take action. Either we work together on this project or you can forget the whole plan.”

  “Calm down, Zinnia.”

  “I will not calm down. I’m furious. Listen to me, Chastain, we had an agreement. You promised to share information with me.”

  “I had to move quickly. As it was, Wilkes had already skipped. I’ll tell you everything over dinner.”

  “Forget dinner. I’ve got other things to do tonight.” The depths of her rage and anguish stunned her. She realized that both were far more powerful than the situation warranted, but she could not squelch the emotions.

  “Zinnia, give me a chance to explain the situation.”

  “The only thing I want to know is why my brother is involved in this.”

  “Leo showed up just as I was leaving. He was concerned about the photo in Synsation.”

  “Oh, no.” Zinnia braced her head on her hand and closed her eyes. “He went to see you about it?”

  “It was a perfectly normal reaction for a brother. We talked and then I offered to take him with me when I went to Wilkes’s house. Which should tell you that I wasn’t trying to be secretive. I simply wanted to move fast.”

  “Would you have bothered to tell me anything about this Alfred Wilkes person if Leo hadn’t happened to be there when you decided to talk to him?”

  There was an acute silence on the other end of the line.

  “I’m getting the impression that you don’t trust me.” Nick’s voice dropped to an exquisitely dangerous whisper.

  “You’re damned perceptive for a matrix.” Zinnia slammed down the phone.

  Suddenly it was all too much. She had a vision of pressure building steadily for over four years. Her parents’ death, the bankruptcy, the never-ending money problems, the scandals, the marriage-agency verdict declaring her to be unmatchable, her worries about Leo, Aunt Willy’s unceasing demands, Morris Fenwick’s death.

  And now this. The only man she had ever wanted badly enough to have an affair with was acting like the secretive, manipulative matrix-talent that he was.

  It was just too much.

  She put her head down on her arms and burst into tears.

  Chapter

  16

  * * * * * * * * * *

  She had overreacted, Zinnia told herself later that evening while she held the focus for an accountant. It was all right. Perfectly understandable. There was no need to chastise herself for the emotional outburst and the tears. She had been temporarily overcome by events. That sort of thing happened. One could not always control one’s emotions, although certain people seemed to think they could do just that.

  The important thing was that it would not happen again.

  She had herself together now and she would not allow Nick Chastain to destroy her composure so thoroughly a second time. Sleeping with him had obviously been a grave mistake, but she prided herself on learning from her mistakes.

  She forced herself to concentrate on the job at hand. Not that it took a great deal of attention. She estimated Martin Quintana to be approximately a class-three matrix. He had been retained by a midsized manufacturing corporation to find evidence on a suspected embezzler. To that end he had been poring over voluminous computer printouts of various financial transactions all evening, searching for patterns.

  He was humming to himself. In typical matrix fashion he was lost in a design that only he could fully appreciate. Zinnia could glimpse some of the rhythms that Quintana perceived because she was holding the focus for him. But to her the subtle ebb and flow of the endless tide of numbers on the printouts were mere curiosities, not compelling puzzles. Only a matrix would find them fascinating.

  She glanced at her watch. It was getting late. Clementine had warned her that Quintana only wanted to pay for three hours’ worth of focus time. They were well into the fourth hour. Zinnia was getting stiff from sitting still for so long. She was also hungry. She had missed dinner again.

  She cleared her throat politely. “Mr. Quintana?”

  He did not seem to hear her. He was busily entering a string of figures into his computer.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Quintana, but your time is up. I’ll have to ask you to stop now.”

  “What’s that?” He jerked his head around to peer at her over the rims of his reading glasses. “Oh, yes, Miss Spring. Three hours I believe I said.”

  “Yes. If you want to contract for more time, I’m sure my boss can arrange it.”

  “No need. Can’t justify charging the expense to my client.” He lounged back into his chair with a long sigh. “I’ve got all the information I need to nail the perpetrator of the fraud. Had that an hour ago. I’m afraid I was merely entertaining myself.”

  “I understand.” Zinnia gave him a sympathetic smile. Clementine got annoyed with her because she frequently allowed her matrix clients to fool around in the pattern for a while after the agreed-upon allotment of time. It was hard to tell a matrix who was having a good time that things had to come to a halt. “I’m glad you got what you wanted from the printouts.”

  “Oh, yes, it’s all there. I take a great deal of satisfaction in my work at times like this.” Quintana riffled through the stack of papers. “Money always leaves a trail, you see. It’s almost impossible to hide the traces when one knows where to look.”

  “I see. Well, I’d better be going.” Zinnia rose from her chair and picked up her shoulder bag. “Psynergy, Inc. will bill you within a week.”

  “Of course. I’ll see you to your car.” Quintana stood and stretched. “Always a pleasure to work with you, Miss Spring. So few prisms can focus properly for a matrix. And even fewer can do it for long periods of time.”

  “Thanks. Be sure to tell my boss.”

  “I most certainly will.”

  He escorted her out the door and walked with her to where her car was parked at the curb. It was the only vehicle left on the street. Zinnia could barely see it through the fog that had coalesced during the past few hours.

  She glanced at the darkened windows and doorways and automatically took a firmer grip on her purse. This was a quiet neighborhood of small businesses and shops that was buttoned up tight after closing time.

  “Allow me.” Quintana gallantly opened the car door. “The fog has grown worse, hasn’t it? Do drive carefully, won’t you, Miss Spring?”

  “I will.” She slid behind the steering bar and smiled up at him. “What about you?”

  “I’m going to go back inside and write my final report. Then I’ll go home. Goodnight, Miss Spring.”

  “Goodnight, Mr. Quintana.”

  Zinnia waited until he closed the door and then she made certain that all the locks were set. She activated the ignition and pulled away from the curb.

  She tried to remember what she had at home in the icerator. Extended periods of focus work took a considerable amount of energy. Granted, it was psychic energy, but energy was energy. She was starving.

  Glumly she recalled the dinner invitation from Nick that she had summarily turned down over the phone that afternoon.

  She was several blocks away from Quintana’s office when a sputtering sound from the car’s engine immediately took her attention off the matter of food. Startled, she surveyed the small number of simple gauges on the dashboard. She had plenty of fuel and nothing appeared to be amiss with the ignition system. Jelly-ice engines were as reliable as the sunrise.

  The sputtering grew louder. She felt the car hesitate. She increased the flow of jelly-ice but nothing happened. With one last jerk and a cough, the engine shut down. She hastily turned the steering bar to guide the coasting vehicle to the side of the deserted street.

  The sudden silence was more alarming than any no
ise could have been at that moment. The fog swirled around the car, silently menacing.

  She tried to prod the engine back to life, but there was no response. A chill of dread shot through her as she surveyed her surroundings. As luck would have it she was in a section of town that had been slated for redevelopment for some time. But to date little had been done. The few windows that she could see through the mist were boarded up and several of the street lamps were out. She could not see a telephone booth.

  The only sign of life was an eerie blue glow in the distance. She gazed at it for a long time. There was something vaguely familiar about that particular shade of blue light.

  She considered her options and realized she only had two. She could remain in the locked vehicle until a police cruiser happened by, which could be hours from now, or she could get out and search for a phone booth. Neither choice held much appeal.

  She looked at the glowing blue light in the distance again, pondering the sense of familiarity. Then she realized why she recognized it. The light was the same shade of azure blue that the Children of Earth, one of the largest of the Return cults, used to illuminate its temples.

  This was just the sort of neighborhood the cult favored, she thought. She had read in the business pages that the Children of Earth had begun acquiring cheap real estate in depressed areas.

  She hesitated a while longer and then made up her mind. She opened the door and got out. There was no sign of anyone around. She buttoned her coat, locked the car and pocketed the keys.

  She set off briskly through the fog toward the beckoning blue light.

  She did not hear the echo of a second set of footsteps behind her until she paused at an intersection. She froze at the hollow sound.

  The footsteps halted.

  She made herself whirl around and stare into the misty darkness. The dim beam of one of the few functioning street lamps revealed nothing.

  She tightened her grip on the strap of her purse and stepped off the curb. The footsteps followed, moving more swiftly now, moving with purpose.

  A thick fear rose in her throat. She broke into a run, heading toward the welcoming blue glow. She tried not to think about what she would do if the beacon turned out to be the lights of a billboard.