St Helens 02 Zinnia Page 4

  "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.

  She took a step back. Every instinct she possessed was screaming at her to get out of the shop. She had to find a phone so that she could summon the police, she told herself. That was reason enough to leave.

  Then she remembered that the nearest phone was the one on Morris's desk. She picked it out with the flashlight beam.

  With an effort of will she made herself start toward the instrument. She was halfway across the room when she saw the crumpled form at the edge of the circle of light. The too-still figure lay at the foot of the tall rolling ladder that was used to access the highest shelves in the shop.

  "Morris." She started forward. "No. Please, God, no."

  "For what it's worth, my advice is not to touch him."

  She gasped and spun around at the sound of Nick Chastain's dark disturbing voice. Her heart pounded as she aimed the light at the doorway of the storeroom.

  Nick stood cloaked in the shadows. He wore an enigmatic mask on his cold ascetic features that was about as comforting as the expression of one of the proverbial Guardians at the gates of the Five Hells.

  In that moment of acute awareness, she knew that he possessed strong psychic abilities of some kind. Even without a focus link, she could sense the metaphysical as well as the physical power in him. Math-talent or game-theory-talent, she thought. That would fit with his choice of career.

  She realized that he must have entered the shop through the same unlocked window that she had used a short while earlier. For a minute, she was too disoriented from the horror of her discovery to comprehend the significance of his presence.

  Then it hit her. Nick Chastain had followed her.

  The flashlight trembled again as she pinned Nick in the beam. She struggled to keep her hand from shaking.

  "What are you doing here?" she demanded.

  "I would have thought that was obvious. We both have a serious interest in Morris Fenwick. And apparently we aren't the only ones." Nick ignored the glare of the flashlight to glance at the body on the floor.

  Nothing flickered in his gaze as he studied Fenwick's motionless figure. Perhaps encountering dead bodies was not that much out of the ordinary for him, Zinnia thought. She realized she was hovering on the edge of hysteria.

  "I think—" She broke off and tried again. "I think he's—"

  "Dead?" Nick moved out of the light. He went to stand looking down at the pathetic shape on the floor. "Yes, I think we can safely assume that much. Looks like someone smashed in his skull with a heavy object. Most likely that stone figure."

  Zinnia jerked the flashlight to follow him. The beam gleamed briefly on his collar-length black hair, which was brushed straight back from a peak above his high forehead.

  She moved the light downward. A familiar face carved in pale marble lay on the floor near the toe of one of Nick's very pricey black leather shoes. She swallowed when she spotted the reddish-brown stain on one corner of the statue.

  "It's the bust of Patricia Thorncroft North that Morris always kept on the counter," she whispered.

  "North?" Nick's brows rose slightly. "The philosopher who discovered the Three Principles of Synergy?"

  "Yes. Morris specialized in the early theoretical works on synergy. He has, I mean he had, a fine collection of North's writings." Zinnia knew she was babbling. She had to get control of herself. "The police. I wa
s about to call them."

  "I'll do it." Nick turned away from the body and crossed through the rubble to the desk. "Why don't you see if you can find the light switch?"

  Belatedly Zinnia realized that she was still holding the flashlight. There was no longer any need to conceal her presence, she thought. Morris was dead and the police would soon be on their way. She walked to the wall and found the switch that activated the old fashioned jelly-ice lamps.

  Their soft warm glow spilled across the wreckage that had been Morris's book shop. Zinnia did not took at the crumpled body near the ladder.

  When she turned she saw Nick reach for the phone. For the first time she noticed that he was wearing a pair of thin black driving gloves. She stared, riveted by the sight of his powerful long-fingered hands, as he punched in the emergency number.

  He glanced at her, an expression of polite interest in his green-and-gold eyes. "Something wrong?"

  She would not let him reduce her to a trembling mass of jelly-ice. She was a Spring. The family coffers might be empty and the tabloids may have labeled her the "Scarlet Lady," but she still had sufficient pride to face down the owner of a gambling casino.

  "I just wondered why you bothered to wear a pair of gloves here tonight," she said. "No offense, but it gives the impression that you came prepared for something illegal."

  "Yes, it does, doesn't it? At least one of us was prepared. Unfortunately, you've probably left your prints all over the windowsill and everything else you've touched so far."

  His sarcasm outraged her. "I have no intention of denying that I was here tonight. Why would I lie to the police?"

  "If you can't think of a reasonable answer to that question, there's no point getting into an in-depth discussion of the subject." Nick broke off to speak into the phone. "Give me Detective Anselm, please."

  Zinnia listened as Nick spoke briefly with the person on the other end of the line. There was a marked note of casual familiarity in his voice. This was obviously not the first time he had dealt with the police. Given his line of work, that was probably not surprising, she thought.