He wanted something else, something more, something deeper, something infused with meaning. He wanted something he did not understand and could not name.
The unfulfilled yearning had grown stronger during the past few years. It had played havoc with his sex life, which, he reflected glumly, had become virtually nonexistent in recent months. He wondered if all matrix-talents were burdened with this unpleasant side effect of their paranormal power or if he was just especially ill-fated.
He pushed the intruding thoughts aside and indicated the chair that Hobart Batt had recently vacated. "Please sit down, Miss Spring. Obviously we have a lot to discuss."
She glanced at the chair, hesitated, and then walked defiantly over to it, sat down, and crossed her legs. One red high-heel shoe swung impatiently. "The only thing I want to talk about is Morris Fenwick."
"Strangely enough, that's the subject that interests me most at the moment, also." He leaned back against the desk and planted his hands on the elaborately carved edge. "Let's start by straightening out a minor misunderstanding. I don't know where Fen-wick is."
She eyed him with a trace of uncertainty. "I don't believe you."
"It's the truth. I swear it. I may not fit your image of a respectable businessman, Miss Spring, but if you know anything at all about me, you must be aware that my word is considered good enough to take to the bank."
"You're the only one who would have had any reason to kidnap Morris."
"Fenwick, himself, told you that there is someone else who is interested in the Chastain journal."
Zinnia frowned. "Yes, but he said that you were the one who seemed most obsessive about it. He said that you claimed that it was written by a relative."
"My father, Bartholomew Chastain. The journal is the record of his last expedition into the uncharted islands of the Western Seas."
She studied him carefully. "That would be the Third Chastain Expedition. The one in which the crew is said to have mysteriously vanished."
"Yes."
She looked distinctly wary now. He could see that she was swiftly slotting him into a mental file labeled
KOOKS, ECCENTRICS, AND OTHER ASSORTED WEIRDOS.
"There isn't much information on the Third," she pointed out diplomatically. "According to the official sources, it never took place. Morris told me that the University of New Portland records show that it was canceled. And everyone agrees that no Third Expedition ever filed a report."
"I know," Nick said. "Twenty years ago a crackpot named Newton DeForest turned the story of the Third Expedition into a tabloid legend by claiming that the team was abducted by aliens."
She cleared her throat cautiously. "I take it you, uh, don't subscribe to that particular theory?"
"No, Miss Spring, I do not."
"But you do believe that the journal Morris discovered is actually Bartholomew Chastain's personal record of the venture?"
"Fenwick told me he was very certain that he had found my father's journal. I want it and money is no object."
"Morris told me that you said you would top any offer he received for that journal, whatever it is."
"I will," he said very softly. "Fenwick and I have an understanding."
Zinnia tensed in her chair. Her red heel stopped swinging. "Morris told me that he planned to sell the journal to you. He just wanted to get the best possible price. He contacted another client just to test the market. Get a feel for price. That's all there was to it. If you had just been patient, he would have eventually sold it to you. Produce him and I'll leave and we can all forget this ever happened."
"For the last time, Miss Spring, I did not kidnap him. Believe it or not, it's not my style."
"Your style?"
"Contrary to what you may be thinking, a man in my position prefers to conduct his business affairs in a normal manner." Nick smiled. "Besides, the bottom line is that I can afford anything I want. There's no reason for me to take the risk of committing a crime that could get me thrown in prison for thirty or forty years."
A stubborn look appeared in her eyes. "All I know is that Morris is gone. His shop is closed. He doesn't answer his phone. No one has seen him all day."
"One day is not a long time," Nick said gently. "He could have simply left town to buy books in New Vancouver or New Portland."
"No, I told you, we had an appointment. Morris would have called to cancel if he had intended to leave town. I wouldn't be so concerned if it weren't for this business with the journal."
"Why exactly are you so interested in Morris Fen-wick's continued good health?"
"I told you, he's a client."
He recalled bits and pieces of the Synsation articles he had read during the Eaton scandal. "You're an interior designer, aren't you?"
She gave him a cool look. "I see you know who I am."
"I read the papers."
"Only the tabloids, apparently."
"I collect information where I find it," he explained.
"If you get your information from the gossip columns, my advice is not to rely on it. But that's your problem. Yes, I'm an interior designer but I'm also a full-spectrum prism. I do some part-time work for a firm called Psynergy, Inc."
That caught him by surprise. "The focus consulting agency?"
"That's right. Psynergy, Inc. grabbed a lot of headlines a few months ago when one of our prisms helped solve the murder of a very well-known university professor."
"I'm aware of the case. A friend of mine was involved."
Shock lit her eyes. "Do you mean Lucas Trent?"
"Yes."
"You're a friend of Mr. Trent's?"
For some reason her undisguised astonishment amused him. "Is that so hard to believe?"
"I can verify all this, you know," she warned.
"I know." He glanced at the phone. "I can call Trent at home now if you like and have him vouch for me. Save you the trouble."
"It's one o'clock in the morning."
"So Trent may grumble a bit."
Zinnia glanced thoughtfully at the phone and then pursed her lips. "Never mind, I'll check your story later."
"My story? You're beginning to sound like a cop, Miss Spring. Maybe it's time you showed me some identification."
She stared at him, clearly startled. "I'm not with the police. I told you, I have a business of my own and I do some part-time work for Psynergy, Inc."
Nick was pleased with the progress he was making. The tables had finally started to turn. He had her on the defensive now. "I take it you focused for Morris Fenwick?"
"Yes. It's difficult for matrix-talents to work with most prisms. I'm one of the few who doesn't mind focusing for them." She gave a small elegant shrug. "So my boss gives me all the matrix assignments. That's how I met poor Morris. I help him authenticate some of the really rare stuff he buys."
A nagging unease trickled across Nick's acute senses. "Did you help him discover the Chastain journal?"
"No. As a matter of fact, he found it strictly by accident when he was called in by the heirs of an old reclusive collector who recently died in New Portland. Morris came across the journal when he evaluated the man's private library. He said he didn't require my help to authenticate it. He knew it would be valuable to certain people. Naturally, being a matrix, he promptly hid it."
"Naturally," Nick muttered. "So you never actually saw the Chastain journal?"
"No."
"And now both the journal and Fenwick are missing. It would appear we have a problem on our hands."
She widened her eyes. "We?"
"If Fenwick has really disappeared, Miss Spring, I assure you, I want to find him far more than you do."
She searched his face for a few tense seconds. Then she exhaled slowly and leaned back in her chair. She drummed her fingers on the arms.
"Damn." She sounded morosely resigned to the inevitable. "I think I believe you."