Zinnia

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  “Spoken like a pro,” she murmured.

  Hobart brightened. “Your records from four years ago are still in our files. We could always reactivate them at your request.”

  “And a hefty fee.” Zinnia smiled. “Don’t bother. And by the way, don’t let Mr. Chastain intimidate you. His bark is worse than his bite.”

  Hobart blinked. He stared at her as if she’d just announced that the Curtain had reopened. Then he coughed a little. “Yes, well, I must be off. I have a full day of appointments.” He glowered at Nick. “I don’t suppose you’ve finished filling out your questionnaire?”

  “Close enough.” Nick scooped up the thick booklet. “Here, take the damn thing.” He tossed the questionnaire across the desk.

  Hobart caught it awkwardly. “I’ll call you when we’re ready for the next phase of the registration process.” Clutching the questionnaire, he turned and marched out of the room.

  Zinnia waited until the door closed. Then she looked at Nick with a speculative expression. “You told me that you’ve never had your psychic talent tested and rated.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Mind explaining how you obtained the services of a top-notch agency like Synergistic Connections without an official psychic classification? I know for a fact that agency insists on a rating. They refuse to match untested talents or prisms.”

  “Batt and I have a private arrangement. I’ve told him to consider me a class-ten matrix.”

  “But you’re much more than that.” Her eyes widened. “Wait a minute. I get it. You’re not officially registered with SC, are you? You’re trying to find a match outside the system.”

  Nick decided that comment did not require an answer. He came around from behind the desk. “I see you got my message.”

  “Yes.” She looked as if she wanted to question him further on the subject of his agency registration, but she apparently changed her mind. “Feather phoned an hour ago to tell me that you located Polly Fenwick and her friend Omar Booker in New Vancouver.”

  “I’ll tell you all about it over lunch.”

  “Lunch?”

  “Why not? It’s lunch time.”

  Polly and Omar had been located early this morning but Nick had told Feather to delay the call to Zinnia so that it would coincide with the noon hour. He saw no need to go into detail about the timing, however. Zinnia would probably get mad all over again.

  He took her arm. “We’re eating out by the pool.”

  “It’s raining.”

  “It never rains on my pool.”

  Chapter

  18

  * * * * * * * * * *

  Nick was right, Zinnia discovered a short time later when she found herself on the roof of Chastain’s Palace. She listened to rain beat down on the glass roof that covered the graceful pool and lush garden.

  “This is amazing. I never knew this was up here.”

  “These are my private quarters.”

  She noticed that he did not use the term home. Home for Nick was still an unrealized element in the pattern of the matrix that was his carefully planned future.

  He waited until the waiter had retreated out of sight. Then he looked at her across the small table. “I’m sorry you overheard that conversation between Batt and myself.”

  “I assume your decision to marry up in the world is all part of your scheme for becoming respectable?” Zinnia hid the pain she was feeling behind a forced smile as she examined the selection of salads and cheeses.

  She was trying to cope with the wrenching blow Hobart Batt had unwittingly delivered. How do you expect me to find you a respectable wife if you keep showing up on the front page of Synsation in these compromising photos with Miss Spring?

  She was overreacting again, Zinnia told herself. She must not get emotional. She had known all along that Nick intended to marry. It should come as no surprise to learn that he had some very specific requirements in a wife. He was a matrix, after all. Whoever he selected as a mate would have to fit into his grand design for the future.

  “I’d rather not talk about my marriage registration,” Nick said in his most remote voice. “I’m still in the preliminary phases.”

  “Okay.” It was not a subject she wanted to discuss, either. She forced another smile as she chose a small cracker and dipped it into the tom-olive spread. “Let’s get down to business. Tell me about Polly and Omar.”

  “In a minute. Did you really mean what you said to Batt?”

  “About what?”

  He watched her with hooded eyes. “About not wanting to reactivate your old registration with Synergistic Connections?”

  “I’ve got enough problems on my hands. Besides, it would cost a fortune. SC is the most expensive agency in New Seattle. And like I said, why would I want to go through the process a second time? You haven’t dealt with real rejection until a professional match-making agency tells you that you’re unmatchable.”

  “You seem to have borne up rather nobly under the crushing blow.”

  “One can adjust to almost anything,” she assured him.

  His jaw tightened as if that was not what he wanted to hear. “I have a hunch that Hobart is just looking for an excuse to tell me I’m unmatchable.”

  “He did seem a trifle disturbed about your prospects.” Zinnia munched on the cracker. “Especially given your somewhat stringent requirements. What are you holding over poor Hobart’s head to get him to work for you off-the-books like this?”

  Nick’s gaze gleamed with the essence of pure innocence. “What makes you think I’m holding anything over his head?”

  “I know you, Chastain.” Zinnia selected some cheese. “It’s second nature for you to use intimidation to grease the wheels in all of your operations. What have you got on Mr. Batt?”

  Nick shrugged as he forked up a bite of salad. “Batt owes me ten thousand dollars.”

  Zinnia nearly choked on the cheese. “Ten thousand? I don’t believe it. Hobart doesn’t look like a gambler. I can’t envision him losing that kind of money in a casino. What did you do? Set him up?”

  “No.” He gave her an amused look. “You don’t know much about the synergistic psychology of gambling, do you?”

  “I suppose you’re an expert.”

  “Yes,” Nick said. “I’m an expert. It goes with the territory. Hobart made the mistake of succumbing to the fever one night. Casino policy with mid- and low-range players is to intervene before they get in too deep.”

  “Bad for business if word gets out that middle-income people can lose their life savings in Chastain’s Palace, I suppose?”

  “Very bad.”

  “But when poor Hobart got in over his head, you didn’t intervene, did you?” she accused.

  “Don’t worry about Batt.”

  Exasperated, Zinnia put down her fork. “Look, Nick, if you want to become socially acceptable you’re going to have to stop using tactics like those to achieve your ends.”

  “Has anyone ever told you that your girlish naiveté is enchanting?”

  “One more crack about my naiveté and I’ll push you into the pool. All right, it’s obvious that you don’t want my good advice. So let’s get down to business. Tell me about Polly and Omar.”

  “Not much to tell.” Nick tore off a slice of bread from the fresh-baked loaf. “They’re registered under false names in a first-class hotel in New Vancouver. Living the good life on my fifty thousand, from what Feather could determine. I’ve got a private investigator keeping an eye on them.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Nothing for the moment. I still don’t think they’re involved in the fraud. The man I want is the one who used them to sell me the fake journal. Whoever he is, he’s rich enough and sufficiently well connected to be able to afford a master forger like Wilkes.”

  “So why pay an investigator to keep an eye on Polly and Omar?”

  “A simple precaution. I like to keep track of all the factors in the matrix.”

/>   “I see.” Zinnia pondered that. “Nick, I’ve been thinking about something you said.”

  “What was that?”

  “You told me it looked as if whoever searched Wilkes’s house was after financial records that could be used to trace the sale of the forgery.”

  “So?”

  “I focused for a matrix accountant last night. I was driving home from that assignment, in fact, when my car died.”

  Nick speared a stalk of chilled aspera-choke. “It didn’t die of natural causes. The mechanic told Feather that someone killed it. Loosened the jelly-ice injector.”

  She sighed. “Mr. Dexter does try one’s patience. At any rate, as I was saying, my client made a comment about the way money leaves a trail.”

  “He’s right. It does.”

  “This morning I thought about what both you and Mr. Quintana had said. It occurred to me that there must be a trail of financial paperwork connected to the Third Expedition.”

  “One of the first things I checked when I started looking into this three years ago. The financial records are gone, just like the personnel documents.”

  “All of them?”

  “The expedition was financed by the University of New Portland,” he explained patiently. “The financial records from that period were destroyed in a fire that occurred about thirty-five years ago.”

  She slowly lowered her fork a second time. “Another amazing coincidence, I take it?”

  Nick’s brows rose. “Being the world’s leading expert on matrix-talents, I’m sure you’re aware of the fact that for people like me there are no coincidences.”

  “You think someone deliberately destroyed the university’s financial files?”

  “Yes. Just as I think someone deliberately burned down my mother’s house after he arranged her death on that jungle road.”

  Zinnia shuddered. “I hate to say it, but I think I’m beginning to see a pattern here.”

  “Welcome to the wonderful world of Synergistic Matrix Analysis. You’re right. There is a pattern. But, then, there always is.”

  She could hardly believe her own conclusions. “Do you really think it’s possible that someone deliberately set out to destroy all traces of the Third Expedition?”

  “I think that is exactly what happened. Failing that, he tried to turn it into a legend.”

  She crumpled her napkin. “But why would anyone go to such great lengths?”

  “The only reason that fits is that the expedition discovered something so important or so valuable that the killer was willing to go to a lot of trouble to conceal it.”

  Zinnia contemplated that briefly. “Whoever he is, I’ll bet he’s a matrix.”

  Nick paused with a bite halfway to his mouth. He put it down very carefully and met her eyes. “Is that a serious observation from a self-declared expert on matrix-talents or was it just an off-hand remark?”

  “It was serious.” She frowned. “I think. There’s something about the thoroughness of what’s happened that makes me believe a matrix is behind it.”

  “I agree that there is a systematic pattern.” Nick stroked one long finger slowly down the length of the glass that held his iced coff-tea. “And the end result is that history has been rewritten.”

  He said nothing else but Zinnia felt the questing probe of psychic energy seeking a prism. She hesitated only an instant and then obliged …

  And experienced the deep tug of satisfaction that came whenever she focused for Nick. It was as if they were meant to focus together, she thought wistfully.

  But if Nick was aware of any emotional side effects to the focus link, he concealed the knowledge well. He went to work.

  Zinnia watched as a complex matrix construct took shape on the metaphysical plane. She glimpsed an overall design, but she did not understand it until Nick started talking quietly.

  “So much paperwork lost,” he said. “But there’s a pattern to the way the records disappeared. First and foremost, the financial data had to go.”

  Connections shimmered within the intricate matrix construct.

  “He must have concluded that those records would be the most damaging,” Zinnia said.

  “He was right. He reasons like a businessman. A very good one.”

  The metaphysical matrix that Nick had created grew increasingly sharp. At the same time it also became more complex. Myriad points spread throughout a finite universe. Zinnia knew that each one represented a thought or an idea, a fact or an impression for Nick. His mind was studying them as a whole, searching for connections and links. She realized that she was catching a rare glimpse into the way a powerful matrix-talent performed pure abstract psychic analysis.

  “Someone set out to make the Third Expedition literally disappear into the mists of history,” Nick said. “And he’s been remarkably successful. Only thirty-five years have passed, but the expedition has already been reduced to the level of a minor legend. Officially, it never even took place. In another few years it will have been forgotten altogether.”

  “Only you and perhaps a handful of others such as Professor DeForest will even remember the story.”

  “And we’ll have no proof,” Nick said softly.

  Complex designs within designs emerged throughout the mental construct that he had created.

  “What do you see?” Zinnia asked, fascinated and dazzled but unable to interpret the patterns. Only Nick could fully comprehend what had been crafted. He was the master of the matrix, a magician who worked in several dimensions, seeking invisible possibilities and improbable connections.

  Nick stirred. “The stain of money.”

  “What about it?”

  “I told Leo that you can never wash it out completely. But someone is trying very hard to do just that in this case. Which means that whoever he is, he knows enough to understand that the money trail will lead back to him.”

  “So?”

  “Only someone who truly understood how money works would know how and what to do to hide the trail.” Without any warning, Nick cut the flow of talent. The inward-looking expression vanished from his eyes. The matrix winked out of existence on the metaphysical plane.

  “Well?” Zinnia prompted.

  “The University of New Portland sponsored the Third Expedition,” he said.

  “We know that. You said their records indicate that it was canceled before it left Serendipity. What of it?”

  “Universities don’t usually fund major expeditions with their own money. Too expensive. They go after grants or tap wealthy corporations.”

  “I think I see where you’re going with this,” Zinnia said slowly.

  “Whoever destroyed the financial records did so because he knows they would point straight back to him. We need to find out who gave the university the money to finance the Third. When I identify him, I’ll have the man who killed my father.”

  “You’re sure that your father was murdered?”

  “Yes.” Nick’s hand tightened fiercely around the glass. “Just as my mother was. It’s all there in the matrix design. The logic is perfect now. My father didn’t commit suicide. He was killed because of the secret he discovered. That secret is in the journal. My mother was a threat because she was asking questions about Bartholomew Chastain’s disappearance. Her house was burned in case there were any letters or notes that might have made things awkward for the killer.”

  “But your father’s last letter survived because your mother hid it in Andy Aoki’s storeroom when she left you with him. I wonder why she didn’t tell Mr. Aoki about it?”

  “Probably because she was afraid that if he knew too much, he might be in danger. She wanted to protect him until she found out more about what was going on.”

  “She must have been a very brave woman,” Zinnia said. “No wonder your father fell in love with her.”

  “Yes.” Nick gave her a strange look. “I never knew either of my parents, but lately, for the first time, I’ve begun to feel as if I have a tangible connectio
n to them. Andy said it would be this way someday.”

  Zinnia touched his hand. “Nick, if you’re right, it wasn’t just your father who was killed in the course of the expedition. Professor DeForest told me that five men vanished in the jungle. Do you realize what that means? Someone murdered the entire expedition team and then altered all of the records.”

  “The sixth man,” Nick whispered.

  “What?”

  “My father’s letter clearly says that six men were due to leave in the morning, remember?”

  “Yes.” Zinnia drew a deep breath. “But DeForest said there were only five.”

  “I know. I’ve been assuming that DeForest got the number wrong just like he got so much else wrong. I figured he took a guess. My father’s previous two teams had each consisted of five men including himself. But what if old Demented was right for once in his life? What if only five men were scheduled to be on the team but at the last minute a sixth was added?”

  “That would mean that whoever murdered Bartholomew Chastain and the other four men was a member of the expedition,” Zinnia whispered.

  “Yes. And when the killer returned, he tried to rewrite history. Anyone who can destroy records so thoroughly is capable of planting a few false ones.”

  “Why would your father have accepted a last-minute addition to the team?” Zinnia asked. “You said he always insisted on experienced jungle men. If he only wanted five and he had those five, why take on a sixth?”

  Nick’s smile was slow and infinitely cold. “I don’t know. But I can take a guess. He may have had to accept the sixth man if that man was the one who had underwritten the entire expedition.”

  “But the university officials would have known about the sixth man. They would have known that he went out on the expedition.” Zinnia waved her hands, exasperated with circles within circles. “Good lord, if that was the case, their records would show that there was an expedition. Instead, they show that it was canceled.”

  Nick shook his head. “If the sixth man was a paranoid matrix-talent who never told the university officials that he intended to join the team, it would all fit.”