"Plan A?"
"The one where you and I work together."
"Together?" Her mouth kicked up at the corner. "Surely you jest, Mr. Chastain. I thought you had concluded that I was a conniving little scam artist. Why on St. Helens would you want to work with me?"
Nick felt the heat rise in his face. He wondered if he was turning red. "I've changed my mind. I don't think you were in on the scam."
"Really? Tell me, what brought about that grand cognition? Did you utilize your phenomenal matrix-talent to deduce that I'm innocent? Or was it my naive charm and big blue eyes."
"Silvery," he corrected, without thinking.
She blinked. "What?"
He felt like a fool. "Your eyes aren't really blue. They're sort of silvery."
She raised her gaze to the ceiling. "Trust a matrix to fuss over details."
"Look, I admit that I was annoyed when I realized that I'd been conned. It was logical to assume that you'd been involved."
"Logical, my Aunt Willy's left foot. All that happened was that you finally calmed down long enough tonight to use some common sense. You've no doubt realized that I'm not stupid enough to risk cheating the notorious Nick Chastain out of fifty thousand dollars and then hang around my apartment waiting for him to find me."
"I figure Polly and Omar pulled a fast one on both of us."
"Brilliant deduction." She contemplated him with narrowed eyes. "So tell me why you want to work with me?"
"Simple. We can help each other."
"Hah. Don't give me that. You don't have any real interest in finding Morris's killer. All you want is the journal." She smiled grimly. "I know perfectly well why you suddenly want us to be partners."
He folded his arms. "Is that so? Why?"
"Simple. You're afraid that I'll cause problems for you if I continue my investigation on my own. My blundering around could interfere with your own strategy. And now that I know you're a matrix-talent, it follows that you do have a strategy."
"I don't want you poking around on your own because it could be dangerous," he said patiently.
"That's not what's worrying you. The real problem so far as you're concerned is that I'm a loose cannon. An uncontrolled element in the matrix. You want to keep tabs on me and you've decided that the easiest way to do that is to pretend we're partners."
"It wouldn't be a pretense."
"Oh? What's in this for me, partner?"
"I told you that first night, I've got connections on the street."
"No offense, Nick, but I don't see you sharing information very readily. Not your style."
"Because I'm a matrix and all matrix-talents are secretive?"
She raised her wine glass in a salute. "That's one good reason."
He tapped a finger on his forearm while he considered the challenge. Then he reached for the phone and punched in a familiar number.
It was answered on the first ring.
"That you, boss?" Feather was not given to polite preliminaries.
"Yes. What have you got on Polly Fenwick and Omar Booker?"
"Looks like they moved fast last night. Must have had their bags packed and in the car when they met you in the park. Their house is locked up tight. Yesterday they told the neighbors they were going on vacation."
"Keep on it. They've probably left the city-state. Ask our friends in New Vancouver and New Portland to keep an eye out for them."
"Right, boss."
Nick hung up the phone and glanced at Zinnia as he punched in another number. "Polly and Omar were packed and ready to leave town before they met us last night. Looks like they had a plan, too."
She frowned. "They either knew the journal was a forgery or Morris's last instructions really did scare them."
"Yes." Nick broke off as the second call was answered. "Stonebraker? This is Chastain. I need a favor."
"I don't do favors, you know that." Rafe Stone-braker's voice was that of a man who lived in shadows. It was laced with a bleak, cynical ennui. "I have bills to pay, same as everyone else. And you, of all people, can well afford my services. What are you looking for?"
"The name of a very, very good forger."
"How good?"
"Good enough to create a fake copy of Bartholomew Chastain's journal from the Third Expedition."
"When you say good enough, do you mean good enough to fool you?"
"For a while, yes. It took me almost an hour of close analysis to be certain that I had just paid fifty grand for a fake. And I doubt that I would ever have figured it out if I had been something other than . . . what I am."
"A matrix?"
Nick was aware of Zinnia watching him. "Yes."
"You're right." Rafe sounded marginally more interested in the problem now. "There are very few craftsmen of that caliber. Fewer still who would take on that kind of project. I'll get back to you in a day or two with a name."
"Thanks." Nick hung up the phone again and met Zinnia's eyes. "That was a friend. He'll find the forger for us. When I get a name, I'll share it with you. Satisfied?"
"Maybe." She confronted him with a calculating expression. "What do you want from me?"
Everything. The realization took away his breath. He sucked in air and forced himself to sound calm and in control. "Cooperation. No more going off on your own. We talk before we make our moves."
She appeared to think that over for a few seconds. Then she nodded once. "Okay, it's a deal."
He felt something inside himself untwist and relax slightly. "Like I said, we're back to Plan A. As far as everyone else is concerned, you're my new interior designer. And to answer your earlier question, yes. The invitation to dinner tomorrow night still stands."
Zinnia smiled slightly. "Your place or mine?"
He glanced around the bright, airy loft. "I like your place better."
"Let's make it yours," she said softly.
"You want to eat above a casino?" He didn't want to entertain her there. The casino represented the past he intended to leave behind soon.
"Not the casino," Zinnia said. "Your new home. The one I'm supposedly going to redecorate for your future bride."
Chapter 12
"You've got to be kidding." Leo swept the crowded coff-tea house with a worried glance, as though he feared that some of the students or faculty clustered around the small tables might eavesdrop. Then he turned back to Zinnia. "You're going to be his what?"
"His interior designer." Zinnia grinned. "Don't get excited. It's not quite the same thing as being his mistress."
"This is not a joke, Zin."
"No. Actually, it's just a pretense."
"You're talking about a little game of pretend with the guy who just happens to operate the most exclusive casino in town. Are you out of your mind? Chastain is dangerous."
"He may be able to turn up information that will point to Morris's killer. Something that I can take to the cops to get their attention."
Zinnia had been braced for a negative reaction to her plans, but Leo seemed more upset about them than she had anticipated.
When had her gangly little brother turned into a strong handsome man, she wondered. Leo had their mother's clear, thoughtful blue eyes and their father's lithe build. His dark brown hair was drawn back from his face and tied with a black cord in a style left over from the waning Western Islands look.
Zinnia was grateful that he hadn't gone in for the garish colors and outlandish designs of the new Alien Artifact fashions as had so many of the other students on campus. In truth, he was already starting to look like a budding young professor of Synergistic Historical Analysis in his cuffed khaki trousers, unpressed button-down shirt, and slouchy tweed jacket.
It seemed only yesterday that he had stood beside her at the memorial service that had been held for their parents. With their stoic-faced relatives ranged behind them, they had held each other's hands and fought back tears. Perhaps it was then that Leo had begun to emerge into manhood, Zinnia thought.