Zinnia

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 Fen-wick'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 LaCon-ner 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 Chas-tain. 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