Collector of Secrets (12 page)

“That’s it?” He shifted into a sitting position to better view the demonstration.

“There’s a bit more to it, but picking one is simply a matter of moving the pins without a key.” She dropped the lock in Max’s palm and raised her eyebrows. “It’s a bit more challenging if it’s a wafer lock, double-wafer lock, or even a tubular lock.”

“Yeah, which means I’m back to using a crowbar.”

Zoe gave a slightly malicious grin. “Odds are it’s a simple pin-and-tumbler, which I can show you how to ‘rake.’ You’ll have a good chance.”

“Thanks.” Max tried to read her face. “But where’d you learn all this?”

“My step-father.” Her eyes dropped, avoiding his gaze. “Fear is a fantastic motivator.”

T
he cutesy Pokemon recording instructed Max to leave a message at the sound of the bell. Tomoko was obviously screening her calls. Each of his half dozen attempts had gone unanswered.

He knew the frustration in his voice would be evident—he hated fighting with anyone, but most of all her—so he chose his words carefully. “What happened last night, Tomoko, and what I said . . . I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean what you think. Give me a chance to explain.” He paused briefly. “Things are about to change, big time. Call me back.”

Lowering the receiver, he stared at the return portion of the plane ticket in his hand, reflecting on the fact that he had kept its existence to himself. Purchased almost a year earlier, it was a “use it or lose it” deal that was set to expire in less than a month’s time. He knew he could choose to toss it away, but each time he tried he remembered shelling out the hard-earned cash, believing in the moment that personal choice and calculated risks could rise above circumstance, that all the books he’d read about having a “can-do” mantra were really true. That maybe he wasn’t just like the rest of his family, and would actually make something of himself. The past year had been about new beginnings, exciting and fresh, but now the cracks of reality were showing through, as they always did. Was it possible that every place was the same, after all? Maybe his dad was right―maybe it was just best to keep moving and never look back.

He folded the ticket and exchanged it for the loose door lock lying on the floor next to his futon. Only a few hours remained for some final practice before a night trip to the office.

THE LATE hour meant little foot traffic. Max used exit A1 of the Mita subway station to approach the office, since it avoided the police box at the intersection to the west. Cars and taxis rolled by from time to time. Thankfully, most cab drivers already had fares and were just taking a shortcut through the area. A group of rosy-cheeked businessmen staggered along the sidewalk after exiting a nearby pub, and he kept his head down in order to avoid drawing undue attention.

The air smelled fresh for a change. Light drops of rain flecked the concrete sidewalk. Max pulled the black-and-orange Yomiuri Giants ball cap down farther over his eyes and stooped a little to appear shorter. A black hoodie and blue jeans allowed him to blend more easily into the patchwork of dark and light between the intermittent overhead street lamps. Cold wind swirled down from the buildings above, nipping at his nose and ears.

Forty feet from the slender office building, he could see that the Plum Tree Restaurant’s rolling metal shutters were pulled down. This was a good sign; it meant he wouldn’t have to deal with the gruff owner. The man’s mess of stained teeth and his shaggy appearance were alarming enough in the daytime. He certainly wasn’t someone Max wanted to encounter on a stormy night.

Zoe’s wrong. I can do this.

He paused next to the metal door at the building’s front, his breathing shallow and underarms wet. The Ferrari keychain felt smooth as he played it between his thumb and forefinger.

Just get the passport. It belongs to you, anyway. No big deal.

Steeling himself, he twisted the key in the lock. The deadbolt was oddly sluggish, and he tugged it a few times before it finally turned. The door pressed open and he was inside.

Gradually, his eyes adjusted to the dim glow of an emergency exit sign. The closet-sized entryway was empty. To the right was a locked glass door leading into the restaurant.

Ascending the twisting flights of stairs was difficult in the dark, so he moved cautiously, cursing as he tripped and caught himself on the second landing. The baseball cap fell off, but he found it and stuffed it into a pocket.

Swinging open the third-floor door, Max slipped into the short central hallway.
Odd that it’s unlocked.
Shards of street light cut along the edges of the half-closed kitchen blinds and stretched past him down the corridor. He could see Murayama’s office was open, and he stepped toward it. In the stillness, the free-moving stairwell door slammed closed, resonating with an echoing thud. Ominously, from behind him, a deep Japanese voice spoke.

Max whirled around. He could see a shaft of light dancing on the wall of the open storeroom in the back. The deep voice spoke again. He couldn’t make out the words, but they masked the sound of his squeaking shoes as he charged forward into the kitchen and ducked to the right. The beam of approaching light bounced against the kitchen blinds as the voice came down the hallway. Max held his breath and prayed that the man would turn left into the office.

A second voice with a harsh but hushed edge resonated from within the office.
“Jun! Damare!”

Max understood the demand to “shut up,” but the remainder of the men’s conversation was lost on him as he hunched anxiously in the shadowy kitchen. He suddenly found himself wishing he’d paid more attention in Japanese language class.

“J
un, get to work!”

“There are at least forty filing cabinets in the back storeroom and thirty in here. How the hell are we supposed to open them all?”

“If you’d stop wandering around and focus on this room, we could find the satchel and leave.”

“I can’t pick locks like you.”

“That’s why I brought a metal bar for you. And try not to make so much noise—at least not with your mouth.”

“Give me the bag. If I have to do this much work, I’m taking anything that looks valuable.”

“I don’t care. Just do something.”

C
rouched in terror, Max listened to the screech of twisting metal as cabinets were wrenched open, their contents tossed carelessly to the floor.

Beads of sweat formed on Max’s forehead, and he wiped them away. Any chance of recovering the passport was gone now. No building security meant there wouldn’t be a rescue. He needed to find help.

Peering out of the kitchen, he could see that the door to the office was wide open. Flickering light escaped from the dimly lit room. It would be risky to attempt passing the open entry on the way to the stairs. Max grabbed the kitchen door and prayed it wouldn’t squeak. Slowly, he pulled it to the point of closing. He needed time to think. Remaining motionless for what seemed like an eternity, he fished out his pocket watch, squinting to see the face. It was twenty minutes after midnight.

Thunder cracked in the distance and raindrops began tapping against the window.

The two voices in the office grew animated. It seemed they’d found what they were looking for. Summoning all his courage, Max decided his only chance was a quick retreat. Waiting would mean they could corner him in the kitchen. Taking a deep breath, he pulled open the door and edged into the corridor. His muscles tensed as he got set to run.

Then, from nowhere, a disembodied head poked out of the dark stairwell and looked straight at him. Max felt his racing heart tearing a hole in his chest. He pulled back and dropped to the floor. The figure of a crouching man skulked into the twilight of the hallway. A baseball bat rested on his sinewy shoulder. In the thin light, the grim face was unmistakable. The owner of the Plum Tree had awakened from a booze-soaked sleep, and he was pissed off.

The restaurateur inched toward the kitchen before he stopped and his head flicked to the left, appearing to listen. Seconds dragged by while he remained coiled in place. Then, without warning, he charged into the office. His screaming battle cry soon joined with other voices in a chorus of angry shouting.

Awestruck, Max watched as the owner was immediately driven back into the hallway, entwined with a lunging thief. Both men hammered into the wall before toppling into a heap on the floor. The second thief leaped from the office doorway and joined in the scuffle, which became a sea of swinging arms and kicking legs.

Max knew he had to move fast. Reaching up, his shaking hand groped the wall until it felt the familiar round picture frame. A quarter turn, and the hidden doorway popped open. Without rising, he slithered into the adjacent office. He could hear the owner still swinging viciously as the action moved down the hallway to the kitchen. The secret doorway pressed closed just in time, shuddering with the weight of a violent body blow.

The leather chair was next to him and he pressed against it for support, his heart beating wildly. Other than the dim glow of the desk lamp, the only light entering the room was through the partially open blinds. Directly in front of him, leaning against the edge of the end table, lay the thieves’ daypack. But it didn’t make any sense. Why rob the place with such a small bag?

This is Mr. Murayama’s whole life. I can’t let them get away with it.

The owner’s screams of pain rang out. The sound of shattering bone galvanized Max, and in one swift movement, he leaped to his feet and grabbed the daypack. Managing to get it over one shoulder, he flew into the hall. The polished floor was smooth, and his feet slipped under him. Slamming into the stairwell door, he looked up and caught a brief glimpse of a thick-necked man in the kitchen.

With his pulse drumming in his ears, Max plunged down the dark stairs, racing to reach the door. Footsteps thundered behind him while he fumbled with the front latch before stumbling blindly onto the sidewalk. Charging across the empty street, he chanced a look back. The shorter thief was just steps behind, while the thick-necked guy was now running the opposite way.

Max tripped on the far curb and his pursuer lunged, grabbing at the daypack, pulling downward. Instinctively Max freed himself by spinning sideways and knocking the grasping hand away. The sudden release sent the thief tumbling to the ground.

The piercing sound of a whistle ripped the air. Max glanced up, with the sidewalk still flying by, to see a night patrol officer standing just thirty feet ahead. The man was pointing excitedly while fumbling with something on his belt: a gun.

Max made a sharp left turn into a laneway as he popped the daypack’s second shoulder strap into place and broke into a sprint. Flying past rows of silent shops, he continued down the lane before making another left along a side street. There was no need to look back. He could hear both pursuers close behind.

An approaching bicyclist zagged wildly. Ringing his bell in complaint, he barely avoided colliding with the pursuing thief. The short-lived delay allowed Max the chance to dart right, squeezing into a passageway between two buildings. It was barely wide enough for his shoulders, and with the daypack on he couldn’t turn sideways. His hands gripped the walls and he slowed, moving cautiously forward. Close behind, the thief hit the mossy clay ground and stumbled to his knees, cursing. A second later, the policeman entered the passageway at full speed, both legs shooting out from under him. His shout of surprise was followed by the thud of his skull as it hammered the ground.

The next laneway was just a few feet away, and Max charged to the right after his feet touched the pavement. Ahead, blinking lights outlined a nighttime road crew at work. A flagman was waving a glowing yellow baton as Max approached. Just before they collided, he dashed around the shocked man before leaping over a construction crew standing in a narrow hole in the road’s center. Seconds later, he heard the flagman shouting again. Looking back, he saw several other workers now standing together, blocking the road.

What the hell was I thinking?

From Max’s last ominous glimpse of the thief, he appeared to be texting with his both hands.

Turning left, working his way deeper into the maze of narrow streets, Max slowed his run as light from the next major roadway grew brighter. In the distance, he could hear, drawing closer, the rising whine of a high-pitched engine. A lime-green motorcycle flew past. The thick-necked man had overshot the entrance to the road. With sickening certainty, Max realized that he’d been herded into a trap. The noise of the engine became guttural as the sports bike geared down to turn around.