“As it happens, I’m in the market for an interior designer.”
She seized the phone cord in a death grip. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me. I’m planning to marry in the near future. I want to redecorate.”
For some reason, that news caused Zinnia to tighten her hand even more violently around the cord. He was going to marry. So what? Almost everyone got married sooner or later. Even mysterious casino proprietors. She was probably the one exception in the city if you discounted a few assorted incarcerated felons and the inmates of some asylums.
“I see.”
“I have a feeling that my future wife won’t care for the casino look.”
“You live in a casino,” Zinnia pointed out grimly. “I doubt very seriously that you’ll be able to conceal that fact from her for long. The clang of the slot machines will be a dead giveaway.”
“I don’t expect my bride to live here above the casino. I’ve bought a house. A large one on a hill overlooking the city and the bay.”
“Oh.” She was not certain what to say. “When’s the wedding?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ve only recently begun the registration process.”
“You’re going through an agency?”
“You sound surprised. Doesn’t everyone with common sense go through an agency?”
“Sure. Naturally. In most cases.” Lord, she was babbling again. “But there are exceptions.”
“I don’t intend to be an exception. Contracting a non-agency marriage is a huge risk. I’m not a gambling man.”
She blinked. “You’re not?”
“I may make my living off the synergistic laws of probabilities and chance, but I don’t take stupid risks. Not with something as permanent as marriage.”
“Very wise,” she agreed hastily.
There was a discreet pause.
“Are you registered?” he asked softly.
She swallowed. It was a perfectly normal question, especially given her age. She was getting precariously close to thirty. “I was registered four years ago. But the agency declared me unmatchable.”
Dead silence greeted that information.
“I see,” Nick said eventually. “Unusual.”
That was the understatement of the decade. Zinnia almost smiled. “Very. But it happens.”
“You don’t sound too broken up about it.”
“Life goes on.”
“Full-spectrums are said to be difficult to please,” Nick observed.
“That’s not our fault,” she retorted. “We’ve got high standards. It goes with the territory. But in my case, the problem was complicated by the fact that I’m not exactly a normal full-spectrum prism.”
“Ah, yes. You told me that you could only focus comfortably with matrix-talents.”
“Uh-huh. Apparently that fact makes for a peculiar reading on the MPPI,” Zinnia said.
“MPPI?”
“The Multipsychic Paranormal Personality Inventory. It’s the standard syn-psych test that all the match-making agencies use. You’ll have to take the exam sooner or later, if you’re registered. Didn’t your counselor tell you about it?”
“I’ve just started the registration process. I haven’t had a chance to discuss all the details with my counselor yet.”
“I see. You’ll start with a questionnaire and then you’ll do the MPPI.” For some reason Zinnia’s curiosity would not let go of the matter. “Which agency are you using?”
“My counselor is from Synergistic Connections.”
“Good firm. That’s where I was registered.” She was more convinced than ever now that Nick possessed a strong psychic ability of some kind. Synergistic Connections was one of the few marriage agencies in town that worked with full-spectrum prisms and high-class talents. “Very expensive.”
“I can afford their services,” he said.
She winced. “Yes, I suppose you can.”
“As I was saying, I want my house redecorated for my future bride. I could tell people that I’ve employed you to design the interiors. It would provide a credible reason for us to be seen in each other’s company on a frequent basis.”
For some reason her brain seemed to be functioning as if it were mired in hardening amber. “Uh—”
“We can pool our resources and information.” Nick paused. “I’m quite prepared to pay your usual fees, of course.”
That remark broke through the congealing amber as nothing else could have done. Zinnia was incensed. “How dare you bring money into this? I guess I should have expected that from a man who owns a casino. I’ve got news for you, Mr. Chastain. The only thing that matters here is justice for poor Morris.”
“Of course,” he said quickly. Too quickly.
“All you want is that journal. For some reason you’ve decided I might have some useful information that you can use to find it.”
“Now, Zinnia, I was only putting forth a reasonable proposition, one that will benefit both of us.”
“The hell you were. You’re trying to manipulate me, Mr. Chastain. I don’t like being manipulated.”
“Think about it, that’s all I ask.” He was the essence of reasonableness now. “Give me a call when you’ve had a chance to consider my plan.”
“Don’t hold your breath.” She slammed down the phone before he could try another tactic.
Chapter
7
* * * * * * * * * *
He had her hooked, Nick thought as he hung up the phone. Now all he had to do was reel her in quickly and carefully. She would call back by the end of the day. She would not be able to resist.
True, she had gotten a little stubborn, even a trifle annoyed with him there at the tail end of the conversation, but when she’d had a chance to cool down and think it over, she would call.
Nick was satisfied with his analysis of the matrix that now included Zinnia Spring. She was the loyal type. To a fault, in his opinion. She was under the impression that she had a responsibility to find Fenwick’s killer. He had offered her a chance to do just that.
She would call. Soon.
In the meantime, he had another problem to sort out.
He stood and walked to one of the mirrored panels on the wall of the lushly decorated chamber. He pushed a hidden switch with the toe of his shoe. The panel slid open to reveal the functional state-of-the art office where he did the real work required to manage the casino and his extensive investments.
When the section of mirrored wall closed behind him, he went to the desk and opened a small concealed drawer. He wondered what Zinnia would say if she could see the hidden office and the secret drawer. Typical matrix-talent. Obsessive. Secretive. Probably paranoid.
The truth was, in his business, it paid to be cautious and careful. Besides, there was an old saying to the effect that even paranoid matrix-talents had enemies.
He removed the two small white cards he had retrieved from Morris Fenwick’s address file. He had waited until Zinnia’s back was turned the previous night before he had taken them. He suspected she would have disapproved of him removing anything from the crime scene.
He studied the neatly typed address cards. One contained his own name and the number of his private phone line. It had been no surprise to discover it in Fenwick’s file. He had given his number to the book dealer, himself. But with Fenwick dead it seemed only prudent to remove the record from the file. The fewer people who had access to his private phone number, the better.
What he had not anticipated was the name on the address card that had been filed directly behind the one that contained his own private phone number. Orrin Chastain. President of Chastain, Inc. Brother of Bartholomew Chastain.
Nick’s uncle.
He knew for a fact that Orrin had no interest in rare books. There was only one reason why his name would have been in Fenwick’s files. Orrin was after the Chastain journal.
The discreetly embossed name on the plate in front of the formidable-looking receptionist
read MRS. HELEN THOMPSON. She took one look at Nick and managed to appear both disapproving and polite at the same time. A neat trick, Nick thought.
“Do you have an appointment with Mr. Chastain?” she asked, coughing discreetly. “Mr. Chastain?”
“No.” Nick glanced at the closed door of Orrin’s office. “But he’ll see me, Helen. Don’t worry about it.”
“I’m afraid he’s in conference this morning.” Helen’s expression was tight with reproof. “He does not wish to be disturbed.”
Nick smiled. “But, I’m family, Helen. Of course he’ll see me.”
He started around her desk without waiting for a response.
“Wait.” Helen surged to her feet when she saw that Nick was halfway to the closed door. “Come back here, Mr. Chastain. Where do you think you’re going?”
“Hold his calls, Helen. This won’t take long.” Nick opened the door and walked into his uncle’s office.
Unlike Chastain’s Palace, Chastain, Inc. had been decorated with Restraint and Good Taste. Everything was done in muted shades of beige and gray. It was a model of corporate elegance. In fact, it had been featured in a recent issue of Architectural Synergy magazine. Nick had read the entire article. He was studying Good Taste these days. It was part of his five-year plan to become respectable.
“You know, Uncle Orrin, this place could use a touch of red.”
Orrin was seated at his desk, speaking into the phone. At Nick’s words, he swung around, scowling.
“Get back to me on that as soon as you get the numbers from Riker, understand? Fine. Do it.” Orrin dumped the phone back into its cradle and glared at Nick. “I see you’ve managed to drag the Chastain name into the papers. The least you could have done was stay clear of Chastain, Inc. until the worst of the fuss blows over. We don’t need that kind of publicity.”
“How long have you been looking for the journal, Uncle Orrin?” Nick sank down into one of the gray leather chairs. Orrin hated to be reminded of their biological relationship, so Nick made it a point to drop the word “uncle” into the conversation as often as possible whenever he visited.
In truth, there was not much of a family resemblance. Nick had been told that he looked very much like his father, Bartholomew. Orrin, on the other hand, had the light brown hair, hazel eyes, and sturdy build that characterized much of the rest of the Chastain gene pool.
Orrin ripped off his glasses and tossed them carelessly onto the desk. “What in five hells are you talking about?”
“You were dealing with that antiquarian book dealer, Morris Fenwick, who was murdered last night. You have no interest in rare books in general, so you must have been after the Chastain journal.”
“That’s a goddamned lie.”
“I found your name and private phone number in Fenwick’s address file last night.”
Orrin’s jaw clenched. “You went through a dead man’s address files?”
“I had a little time to kill while my companion and I waited for the cops. Don’t worry, I removed the card with your phone number on it.”
Orrin’s face reddened with anger. “You’re a disgrace to your name.”
“I believe you’ve mentioned that once or twice.”
Nick’s young unwed mother, Sally, had made certain that her son carried his father’s name. That fact was a festering sore in the sides of the legitimate Chastains. They saw it as a blatantly encroaching move on Sally’s part, an attempt to try to grab a share of the Chastain fortune.
Gruff, taciturn, good-hearted Andy Aoki had raised Nick after Sally’s car had plunged off a jungle mountain road. Andy had owned the tavern in Port LaConner where Sally had worked. She had left her infant son with Andy the day she headed for Serendipity to find out what had happened to Bartholomew Chastain. She had never returned.
Nick had grown up in the tavern. He had learned a lot from Andy including how to stop a bar brawl, how to survive in the jungle, and the elements of honor and self-control.
Andy was the only parent Nick had ever known. When he was thirteen he had told him that he wanted to change his last name to Aoki.
Andy gave him a long thoughtful look and then slowly shook his head. “Your mama wanted you to be a Chastain, son. And so did your pa. You need to honor their memory by respecting that.”
“I’d rather honor you,” Nick said, meaning every word.
Andy’s eyes lit with a rare warmth. “You’ve already given me more than you’ll ever know, son. It’s enough. Keep your name.”
Andy had died a little more than three years ago, a casualty of the Western Islands Action. He had been shot dead by one of the invading pirates while defending his tavern. At the time, Nick had been deep in the jungles together with Lucas Trent and Rafe Stone-braker, hunting more of the invaders.
Andy had died behind his cash register. The rifle at his side had been fired until it was empty. Nick had managed to shove his grief into a dark corner of his mind but he doubted if it would ever disappear entirely.
After he had tracked down Andy’s killer, Nick had finally gotten around to sorting through the contents of the cluttered storeroom behind the tavern. The old storage shed had been crammed with memories of a life that had spanned eighty-one years. Nick had found faded photos of Andy’s long-dead wife, records of his early jelly-ice prospecting trips, business receipts, copies of Nick’s school records, and childhood artwork.
He also found the small metal box that had belonged to his mother. The discovery had come as a stunning surprise. Andy had told him that all of her possessions had been destroyed in a fire that had consumed her house around the time of her death. But before she had left on the fatal trip to Serendipity, Sally had apparently hidden the metal box in Andy’s back room without telling him what she had done.
Inside the box Nick had found only one item, the last letter that Bartholomew Chastain had written to Sally before he set out on the Third Expedition.
Nick still couldn’t decide which irritated his Chastain relatives more, Sally’s defiant attempt to force them to acknowledge her son, or the fact that he had made his fortune on his own and had no interest in their wealth.
The Chastains were accustomed to controlling people with money. Nick’s failure to ask anything of them made him, in their eyes, uncontrollable and therefore dangerous. Nick understood. He was, after all, a Chastain, himself. He figured that his own need to be in command of any given situation was probably stronger than that of all the other members of the clan put together.
“I didn’t come here to reminisce about the past, delightful as that no doubt would be,” Nick said. “I want to know about your interest in the Chastain journal.”
“What about it? If my brother’s private journal exists, it belongs in the family.” Orrin’s mouth tightened. “The legitimate branch of the family.”
“I’ve done a lot of thinking since last night. No offense, Orrin, but it’s difficult to believe that you’ve suddenly developed a keen interest in family history, especially the part my father played in it.”
“Just what in hell is that supposed to mean?”
Nick smiled. “We both know that it was the fact that my father died out in the islands that made it possible for you to take over the reins of the family empire, wasn’t it?”
“Bastard,” Orrin hissed.
“Yes, but that’s old history. As I was saying, if Bartholomew Chastain had lived, you wouldn’t be sitting where you are today. What’s more, he would have married my mother and I would have become the heir apparent to Chastain, Inc. Funny how things work out, isn’t it?”
“Bartholomew would never have married your mother.” Orrin’s face worked furiously. “He knew his duty. He would never have given the Chastain name to some cheap hooker he met in a Western Islands bar.”
The blood suddenly pounded in Nick’s ears. He was on his feet before he had time to think. He rounded the corner of the desk and seized a fistful of Orrin’s expensive shirt.
“My mother was not
a hooker,” he said very, very softly. “Don’t ever call her that. Do you hear me, Uncle Orrin? Don’t ever call my mother a hooker or, so help me, you and everyone else on the legitimate side of the Chastain family will pay.”
Orrin’s mouth opened and closed. His eyes bulged. “I’ll have my secretary summon security.”
“My parents planned to marry when my father returned from his last expedition. But Bartholomew Chastain didn’t make it back alive.” Nick leaned closer. “No one knows exactly what happened, but we all know who benefited, don’t we?”
Orrin’s mouth opened and closed twice more be fore he managed to put a coherent sentence together. “How dare you imply that I might have had anything to do with Bart’s death or that I was glad he never returned. That’s a goddamned lie.”
“Is it?”
“Face the facts, Nick. There never was a Third Chastain Expedition. It’s just a legend. The most likely explanation for Bart’s disappearance is that he walked off into the jungle one afternoon and committed suicide. He was a matrix. Everyone knows they’re not real stable.”
“If you believe that there was no Third Expedition, why are you after his journal?”
“Look, I’m not saying that Bart didn’t leave a personal diary of some kind,” Orrin snapped. “God knows, he was obsessive about keeping notes on everything. But it couldn’t be a record of the Third Expedition because that venture never took place.”
The roaring in Nick’s ears diminished. He noticed that his hand was clenched much too tightly around the fine fabric of Orrin’s shirt front. Disgusted with the loss of self-control, he released his grip and took a step back.
A glint of gold caught his eye. He glanced at Orrin’s expensive cuff links. They were each elegantly embossed with a large C and the initial O. Every man in the Chastain family received a pair of gold cuff links when he came of age. Nick wondered what had become of his father’s set. Damned if he would ask Orrin.
He met his uncle’s eyes. “So we come back to the basic question,” he said softly. “Why would you be willing to pay a lot of money for my father’s journal?”