Zinnia

by Jayne Castle

  “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 torn-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 matchmaking 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 b
ut 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 connection 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.”

  Zinnia breathed deeply. “A paranoid matrix?”

  “I agree with you. This entire affair has the fingerprints of a matrix all over it,” Nick said softly. “A matrix who undoubtedly knew or suspected that my father was also a matrix.”

  “And didn’t trust him?”

  “Right.”

  Zinnia thought that through. “Talk about conspiracy theories. If what you’re saying is correct, then whoever funded the Third Expedition was also part of it.”

  “He was there when my father made his discovery, whatever it was. He understood the significance of it. After he killed my father and the other four men, he took the journal. When he returned, he concealed the records of his own involvement so that there was no way he could be traced to the expedition. And then he systematically erased all documents relating to the venture.”

  “Nick, hang on here. You’re going too fast for me. If the killer has had the journal safely hidden for the past thirty-five years, why would the rumors about it have suddenly started up in the past few months?”

  “From what I know of the rare-book trade,” Nick said, “I’d guess that the journal ma
y have been lost or stolen recently. It was resold to that collector in New Portland who then died.”

  “And poor Morris Fenwick came across it in the estate sale.”

  “I told you that whoever searched Morris’s shop the other night was not actually looking for anything,” Nick said. “There was no pattern to the way the place had been torn apart.”

  “Which meant that the killer knew the journal was not there. He just wanted the police to think Morris had been murdered for drug money.”

  Nick nodded slowly. “The murderer had already commissioned a fake journal from Alfred Wilkes. He planted it so that Polly and Omar would find it and sell it to me. He wanted to put me off the scent.”

  Zinnia wrapped her hands around her damp iced coff-tea glass. “Whoever he is, he must not have realized that you’re a high-class matrix.”

  “Maybe he thought he could fool me, even if I was a matrix.”

  “Very arrogant of him. But, then, this entire plan is breathtakingly arrogant.”

  “Yes.”

  “Nick, are you sure about all these conclusions? This is a very heavy-duty conspiracy theory, even for a matrix-talent like you.”

  “I’m as certain as I can be without hard proof. I have to find out who financed my father’s last expedition.”

  “Thirty-five years have gone by,” Zinnia said gently. “And the records have been destroyed.”

  Nick’s eyes burned with a fierce light. “Even a matrix-talent would have a hard time getting rid of every single clerk, accountant, and secretary who worked in the budget offices of a large university thirty-five years ago.”

  Zinnia frowned. “I see what you mean. There must be a few left who would recall the source of the funds for the Third Expedition. Probably retired by now, though.”

  “We can trace them through their pensions. I’ll have Feather make some calls this afternoon.”

  Zinnia smiled. “You’re incredible.”

  “Is that a compliment or an accusation?”

  “Never mind. What do I get to contribute to this new plan?”

  “You’ve made your contribution.” Nick picked up her hand and brushed his lips across her palm. “You are my inspiration. If it weren’t for you, I would never have been able to put it all together so clearly and quickly.”