Collector of Secrets (30 page)

T
he train arrived in Osaka and slid smoothly up to the platform as the surrounding passengers rose and gathered their belongings. Both kids smiled and waved goodbye as the compartment emptied.

Max stuffed the anagram in his pocket while remaining seated with his head down. It would be better to depart with the final swell of passengers to avoid police eyes. Through the window, he watched the pre-holiday passengers surge onto the platform stairs.

He had been alone in the car for only a few seconds when he heard two voices; men were approaching from the car’s rear. It was a clear signal to move. The voices behind grew louder as he raced toward the car’s front end. He chanced a quick look back. At most, he hoped the two policemen entering the compartment had caught only a brief glimpse of a tall, brown-haired man disappearing from sight.

“YES, HELLO?” Yoko shouted across the open floor. The resonance of her authoritative voice bounced off the white walls and echoed in the cavernous gallery space. “Can I help you?” The man standing near the front door didn’t respond. She could see only his charcoal suit coat from the back. He was Caucasian and seemed to be admiring the oversized canvas paintings. Probably a foreigner who couldn’t read the writing on the sign that said the art exhibit was under construction. Kenji must have forgotten to lock the door. She’d deal with her foolish assistant soon enough.

Yoko turned to the two workers struggling to hold a mural at waist height. “Take a break, but be back in five minutes. You’ve been much too slow this morning.” She waved the scowling men away with a dismissive hand.

Her shoes clattered on the hardwood floor as she descended the open staircase to the main floor. The mysterious man turned to watch her. The fact that he was handsome did little to alleviate her upset at the unwelcome intrusion.

“The gallery is closed. You’ll need to come back on Saturday.”

“How unfortunate. I’m only in town for a short time, and I’m a great fan of Jake Poyser’s paintings.” His voice held a refined edge.

“Really?” A well-cut suit and liquid green eyes, she thought. “Where have you seen his work?”

“New York. In 2005—his Ice World exhibit. They’re very good, but I can see his style has changed since then.”

Yoko adjusted her blouse and her voice took on a mellifluous tone. “I’m very sorry if I seemed rude before. It’s just that we are setting up, and sometimes . . .”

The man nodded. “Please, there’s no need to explain. I should go.”

“No, no. Since you know the artist, let me show you the best ones.” She motioned with a sweep of her arm toward the far wall, where several large paintings rested atop plastic tarps. “They’re not hung but they’re still wonderful.”

V
incent followed behind Yoko as she moved across the open floor. He noted her waist-hugging skirt and how well preserved she was for a woman in her late sixties. It was understandable why she’d been an effective tool more than forty years earlier. No man would have been able to resist her charms.

“The exhibit is called
Turbidity of the Soul
,” she said.

They were standing before a ten-foot canvas. The colors changed from bright red near the bottom to dark brown at the top. Abstract patterns swirled across the painting’s face.

“Magnificent.” Vincent leaned in close. “Has he mixed wax in with the oil?”

“You do have a good eye, Mr. . . ?”

“Elgin. Lloyd Elgin.” He threw on a dazzling smile just as her cell phoned chirped. “Please take the call.”

“It’s just the hospital again. I’ll call them back.”

Vincent looked up toward the top of the canvas. Crossing his arms over his chest, he enjoyed the feeling of the dual ASP muzzles pressing against his ribcage. “Yes, it’s a shame about your father.”

A look of confusion swept over Yoko’s face. “Excuse me?”

“Your father and his unfortunate illness.”

He watched as her shoulders visibly tightened. “How do you know about that?”

“Your assistant mentioned it when he gave me directions to the gallery. He said something about an angioplasty procedure and that your father would be sedated for the day.”

“Why would he tell you that?”

“I’m not sure, but he was very chatty. He also mentioned a break-in that happened a few days ago. I hope nothing important was stolen.” Vincent was sure he saw a hint of anger cross her face, only to be replaced instantly with a calm, professional mask.

“Kenji should never have bored you with so many personal details.”

“Actually it’s quite all right. I’m in Tokyo doing research on crime statistics—meeting with the local police. It’s my field of expertise. Was anything valuable taken?”

She lifted her chin slightly. “It’s a private matter, and I would rather not talk about it.”

A loud bang reverberated from the second-floor loft. Yoko turned and shouted at the workers. Vincent noted that she probably would have been less vulgar if she’d known he was fluent in Japanese. The upstairs chamber grew quiet.

Turning back, she motioned toward the front door. “Thank you for coming.”

Vincent stared upward at the painting. The easy route he’d hoped for wasn’t going to work. It was time to take control. “Did you enjoy your time living in New York and Texas? It must have been exciting in the sixties. There was a lot of promise back then.”

“What? Who are you?”

He tilted his head to one side as he examined the painting from a different angle. “Do you think the red in this painting is the same color as the blood was on his shirt? You know, the blood caused by your lover. Or do you just try not to think about it?”

Yoko stepped backward toward the bench in the room’s center, her words catching in her throat. “You . . . you have to leave . . . I’m going to call the police.”

He turned to face her. “Your past sins can’t stay hidden forever.”

“I don’t know who you are, but he wasn’t my lover. I was too young to understand. They took advantage of me.” She sat down on the bench, visibly shaken.

Vincent moved in, sensing the kill. “We all have skeletons. Things we can’t erase. But we are absolutely responsible for them, regardless of age.”

“What do you want?”

“I simply want to know what was stolen from your office and why.”

“What does that have to do—”

“Just answer the question.” Vincent’s tone was harsh, and he let his anger seep through—it usually helped in these situations.

“Jewelry . . . just jewelry and a cell phone. The building manager interrupted the robbery.”

“Nothing else?”

“No, nothing.”

He stared at her a while, allowing the quiet room to gnaw at any composure she might still have. “I hope you’re being honest.” Vincent walked past her toward the entrance. “Because if I find out any differently, I’ll be back. And this exhibit won’t be the only thing with more red tones in it.”

T
error kept Yoko’s gaze locked on the hardwood floor as her horrible dream resurfaced. The Cadillac and the dark gravel road flashed through her mind. She could almost feel the weight of the envelope clutched in her frightened young hands.

She felt as if she might stay attached to the bench forever. Staring into space, she fought against a painful haze of memories—the rifle shot, the world’s collective gasp.

Time passed.

The distant thud of work boots finally made her look up. The gallery was empty. For now, the nightmare was gone.

THE SINGLE-LANE country road continued its steep wind up the mountainside. Forests of cedar and cypress grew interspersed with dense bamboo stands.

It had been at least three hours since the streets on the outskirts of Nara had faded into the distance. Homes became increasingly sparse, and when the odd one did appear, it seemed quiet and empty. Now and then Max saw access roads cut into the forest. It was impossible to know if they led to private or public property.

He was fed up with trying to find the address copied from Tomoko’s hastily written note. His feet ached, and he was tired of walking. A taxi ride would be the ideal thing, but no vehicles had gone by in the last hour. He just wanted something to eat.

It had only been a few days ago when he’d introduced Tomoko to Mr. Murayama, yet it seemed like a hundred years. So much had happened since then. Now he was wandering in the mountains, trying to save their lives by finding the former caretaker of a long-forgotten diary. Despair crept into Max’s mind, and he found himself battling against the growing feeling that there would more killings in the future.
My relationship is ruined, and I’m getting blisters looking for some guy who gave up a diary almost fifty years ago
. . . 
and who’s probably been dead for decades.

A break in the trees on the plateau offered the first clear glimpse of the valley below, stretching south to the next mountaintop. He sat down in the dirt near the roadside. A thin layer of hazy clouds blanketed the blue sky, but the sunshine sneaking through felt good.

It’s supposed to be around here somewhere, but I’m never gonna find this place on my own no matter how many people I ask for directions. They’re too polite to say they don’t know . . . or maybe it just doesn’t exist anymore.

A twig snapped noisily in the trees to his left. Max turned to see an elderly woman exit the forest about forty yards away. She was wearing tennis shoes and a loose-fitting gray kimono, topped with an olive green fishing hat. Trailing close behind her was a young girl of about ten, wearing jeans and a short-sleeved shirt. They walked briskly across the single-lane road without looking back. It seemed odd that the two of them would be out so far in the mountains with no extra clothing and no vehicle.

“
Sumimasen . . . 
excuse me!” Max yelled while scrambling to his feet. He walked rapidly up the road in the same direction as the woman, who continued to march away. Behind her, the young girl glanced back. The woman motioned for her to keep up, and they both continued to move quickly. In fact, they seemed to be running away.

He followed them up the road for a quarter mile before the woman vanished into a thicket of green trees. Behind her, the girl slowed before glancing backward once more. She appeared to be laughing as if it was a game they were playing. Then she too scurried into the forest.

Approaching the spot where they’d disappeared, Max pressed aside a covering of vegetation in order to peer through. Behind the leafy façade, heading into the forest, was a well-used lane, but the woman and child were nowhere to be seen.

Trespassing? All right, one more attempt, then I’m finished.
He pushed the loose branches aside and squeezed through.

As he started down the winding lane, a familiar feeling of warmth crept over him. His fingers wrapped around the watch in his pocket and he recalled the smell of liniment. This place was like the childhood trails he’d scouted at his grandpa’s ranch, before the heart attack had gone and changed everything.

The forest grew tight on both sides, and the hump of brown grass in the road’s center led the way between the tire ruts as he walked on for what felt like miles. His sore ankle twinged, and he was seriously thinking about turning back when the sound of barking dogs filled the air. He paused to listen more carefully. It wasn’t the bay of hounds on the hunt but rather dogs crying for the attention of an arriving master.