Tokyo Heist (16 page)

A small, framed picture above Kenji’s desk catches my eye. I walk up to it.

It’s a pen-and-ink drawing of two
ayu
. They seem to be circling each other in a whirlpool, almost forming a yin-yang symbol. I quickly snap a photo of it with my dad’s cell phone.

I scan Kenji’s desk area in case anything else related to his brother might be there. A more recent photo or something. I feel like I want to understand the man who hid this art, and maybe a look at his face would help.

I don’t see any photos, other than one of Mitsue on the Spanish Steps in Rome. But underneath the desk, I see an old-looking cardboard file box. I kneel and lift the lid. It’s filled with files of architectural plans. Blueprints. I can’t read anything on them or the label on the box. I snap a picture of the label, in case it might be significant. I email it to Reika to translate. Then I stand up and head to the door.

As I reach for the doorknob, it turns on its own. Suddenly Hideki Yamada is there. Startled, I drop the cell phone.

He blinks at me. “Violet?”

I fumble to pick up the phone, hoping Hideki doesn’t notice my shaking hand. “I heard there was a conference call with the FBI here. I just got an important voicemail, and I wanted to tell you guys.”

He gives me a long look. “This is a private family matter. The call is confidential.”

“I just heard news from Seattle about someone who might be connected to this case. The guy the
yakuza
beat up last week. It’s really, really important!”

His eyes rest on me. A muscle twitches near his temple. I now see that this whole art heist business is as hard as him as it is on Kenji and Mitsue. After all, it concerns something his dad was closely involved in. “All right,” he says at last. “Then you had better come. The call is about to take place in my office. Follow me.”

He gestures for me to walk in front of him. Through the glass window on the office door, I catch his reflection behind me. He snatches a large yellow-and-red mailing envelope off Kenji’s desk, rolls it into a tube, and slips it into his jacket pocket. It’s kind of a funny way to pick up someone’s mail.

But I forget all about it as we approach Hideki’s office. I can hear Kenji’s voice. “No, I am proposing a financial settlement instead.”

Agent Chang’s voice crackles through the speaker phone. “Well, I think that’s a terrible idea. If you pay him off, he walks, and so do the van Goghs.”

“I am afraid you do not grasp the severity of the situation. Fujikawa is furious about the way we tried to trap him. A courier has just hand-delivered a letter from him. In this letter, he has given me one last chance to comply. He says if I attempt to deceive him again, or if I do not deliver the painting by July eighteenth, he will erase the
gaijin
artist.”

Erase the
gaijin
artist.

My dad! He’s going to kill my dad!

“For that reason,” Kenji continues, “and because undercover operations are illegal here in Japan, Hideki and I are gathering the necessary funds. We will pay whatever it takes to appease Fujikawa. Lives are more important than art.”

My legs stay rooted to the deep plush rug. I look at my hands, and they’re shaking. But Hideki beckons me into the office, where Kenji and Mitsue are sitting at a round table with a phone. They look up, startled.

“Violet! Didn’t Yoshi appear? I called him to take you to lunch,” Mitsue says.

“I didn’t see him. I just got a voicemail from back home, and I have some news about Julian Fleury. I wanted to tell you while you had Agent Chang on the phone. But my dad, is he—is he—”

Kenji and Mitsue exchange a worried look. Kenji pulls back a chair for me. “Please. Join us. And be sure to speak loudly,” he adds, gesturing to the speakers on the phone.

“Hi, Violet,” says Agent Chang. “What do you have for us?”

I try to block out everyone in the room and just talk to Agent Chang. I tell her about the message that Margo left for my dad. “I don’t know if Julian might have tipped them off about the sting,” I conclude, “or if he’s so freaked out about the
yakuza
assault that he didn’t even want to go back to work at the gallery. I just thought it seemed like a weird coincidence, and I thought you guys should know.”

“I am very glad you brought this to our attention, Violet,” says Agent Chang. “Every lead helps. We definitely want to get in touch with Julian Fleury.”

“Thank you, Violet,” says Kenji. “Personally, I find it unlikely that Julian knew of the sting, since he was in the hospital when the plan was discussed and he did not return to work. But we should let Agent Chang and her team explore this possibility.”

“Yes, thank you for your information, Violet,” Hideki says, standing up, indicating that I should do the same. “I will escort you to reception, where you may wait for Yoshi.”

We walk down the hall. Hideki has removed his jacket. I don’t know what he did with that yellow-and-red envelope, but I didn’t see him give it to Kenji.

But we’re near the elevator, and I’m running out of time to ask Hideki about that threat. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I heard Kenji say something about my dad. Is he in danger?”

“Oh, I am afraid you misheard,” Hideki says in a gentle and reassuring voice. He smiles, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. He’s movie-star handsome again, and a little part of my heart melts. For a moment, without Reika around, I have his full attention. It feels nice.

“This is just the way that Fujikawa talks,” Hideki goes on. “He is seeking money, which we will provide once we agree on a sum. It is a business negotiation. Your father is perfectly safe. Please do not worry yourself about this. Ah, here is Yoshi now. Thank you for your information and your time.”

I want to believe Hideki that Fujikyaya is just making empty threats. But all I can think of as I follow Yoshi to a noodle shop is that this does not sound like business as usual. I’m sure my dad’s in danger.

2

0

A
t the end of the day, back at the Grand Prince Hotel, I flop on my hotel bed, exhausted. My eyes burn from staring at Mitsue’s prints all afternoon, as well as at my cell phone photo of the
ayu
drawing in Kenji’s office. It has to be Tomonori’s. When I enlarged it, I saw a series of small
kanji
characters running vertically down the lower left side. I emailed the picture to Reika for a translation, as well as my photo of the old file box, but hours have passed with no reply, so I call her cell.

“Moshi moshi?”
says a breathy, high-pitched voice.

“Oh, sorry,” I mumble. “I mean,
sumimasen
.” I have no clue how to say “wrong number.”

“Wait—Violet? Is that you?”

“Reika! You sounded so different. I didn’t even recognize you.”

“I was just about to call you. My aunt and uncle found out I skipped Japanese school yesterday. They took away my daytime cell-phone privileges. Oh, and now my ‘responsible older cousin’ has to take me to and from school personally!”

“That sucks!”

“I know! Anyway, I just got your news, and that picture you sent me. Good work, finding Tomonori’s
ayu
drawing. That’s his signature in the corner.”

“What about that file-box label? I’m wondering if that’s the box of old blueprints where Kenji first found the portfolio of van Gogh drawings.”

“There is a year on the label. 1987.”

“That’s when Tomonori bought the van Goghs!”

“I know, right? And the label on the box translates to something like ‘Fine Ayu Food Products
.
’ It sounds like the name of a company.”

“So Tomonori probably didn’t hide the van Gogh drawings in some random file box.”

“He was very deliberate. The
ayu
on the picture he left in his briefcase must have been a clue to the drawings hidden in that file box. I bet wherever he hid the painting connects back to the
ayu
clue, too.”

Next, I tell Reika about the conference call. “It’s kind of weird that Hideki hosted this conference call and not Kenji. I mean, it’s Kenji’s art that got lost,” I say.

“Well, Tomonori was Hideki’s dad,” Reika reminds me. “Even if the art is Kenji’s now, he’s probably next in line for it, after Mitsue. It makes sense he’d want to be involved. Though it must be painful for him, all this talk of his dad, who, like,
died
when he was a kid.”

“Yeah, I can see that. But here’s what’s really freaking me out.” I tell her what I overheard Kenji saying about my dad. “Reika, I don’t know if Fujikawa’s going to accept cash instead of a painting on July eighteenth. I’m really worried something is going to happen to my dad! He said the
gaijin
artist would be ‘erased.’ That can only mean one thing.”

Reika is silent for a moment. She lets out a long breath. “July eighteenth. That gives us ten days to find the painting. I’m going to search online, right now, for Tokyo businesses that have
ayu
in the name. First thing tomorrow, you start searching that art storeroom for anything, uh, fishy.”

Fishy! I think of the Hiroshige
ayu
print by the storeroom door. Mitsue said the print has been there for a long time. Decades. Maybe the Hiroshige
ayu
print is a clue! Woudn’t it be amazing if the painting was hidden in the very storeroom where I’m working for eight hours every day?

“Should I warn my dad? Even though he said not to get involved in the case again?”

“How can you even ask that, Violet? If someone wanted to kidnap or kill me, I would want to know. Absolutely. Tell your dad.”

* * *

I DECIDE TO tell him at dinner, since we’d made plans to meet up at the hotel restaurant. I get a table and wait. A half hour passes.

I pull up my email on my dad’s cell phone and scroll down my inbox. I skip updates from manga and anime forums and a message from my mom that I can’t even bear to read right now because I miss her so much. There’s no message from Edge, no grateful response to my warning. Either he didn’t get the message yet or he’s still really mad at me.

The only other new message is from Jerry at Jet City Comics.

HEY, VIOLET. I NEED YOUR MAILING ADDRESS SO I CAN SEND YOUR FINAL PAYCHECK. I ASSUME, FROM YOUR ABRUPT DEPARTURE, YOU WILL NOT BE PICKING IT UP IN PERSON. I’M SORRY YOU QUIT. I DIDN’T SEE THAT ONE COMING. YOU COULD HAVE AT LEAST GIVEN NOTICE. I GUESS YOU HAVE YOUR REASONS.

I WAS THINKING ABOUT THOSE DOODLES OF YOURS. NOT THAT YOU SHOULD HAVE BEEN DRAWING WHEN YOU’RE ON THE CLOCK. BUT YOUR STUFF’S PRETTY GOOD. THE SEATTLE ASIAN ART MUSEUM IS SPONSORING A MANGA ART CONTEST THIS SUMMER FOR TEENS. I’M ATTACHING A FLYER. I GUESS MAYBE YOU ALREADY KNOW ABOUT IT. BUT IN CASE YOU DON’T, HERE IT IS.

WELL, I GUESS THAT’S IT. SAYONARA, AS YOU ALWAYS SAY, AND GOOD LUCK AND ALL THAT. JERRY.

A manga art contest. That would be an amazing opportunity, if I weren’t totally consumed with trying to find lost van Goghs and save my dad’s life. I glance at the flyer, wondering if I could ever have enough
chikara
to finish an episode of
Kimono Girl
and enter it in the contest. Then I check the time.

Nearly an hour has gone by. Still no dad. I can’t call him; I have his phone. Thinking he’s been hurt or worse, I dial the Yamada office’s main number. After a confusing exchange with a receptionist who can’t understand a word I’m saying, someone puts my dad on the phone.

“Violet? Is that you?”

“You’re still at the office!”

“I got a second wind and lost track of time. I’m on a roll, I think. How about you order some room service? I’m going to stay on a bit later.”

“But I have to—”

“I’ll catch you at breakfast, okay, Violet? We’ll get some omelets in the hotel.”

“Omelets. Awesome.” I punch the
END
button. Here I am trying to save him from
becoming
an omelet at the hands of a greedy gang boss, and he can’t even make time for a meal with me. Remind me, why am I doing all this for him? I’m so depressed, I can’t stand the thought of staying in this hotel restaurant alone.

I think of my fortune from Sens
o
-ji Temple.
The lost article will be found.
Could that mean the painting? But when? Where? By whom?
You are soon to cross dark waters.
Yikes. That sounds like death. But maybe it’s travel. Maybe I already crossed, flying over the Pacific Ocean.
Person with open heart await
. It’d be good if that person showed up soon.

“Anytime now,” I say aloud.

But except for Yoshi at the hotel bar a few yards away, drinking a beer and watching a ball game, I’m totally alone. Not even my bodyguard cares to dine with me.

I check email again. Still no word from Edge. He’s either so busy with camp or with Mardi that he hasn’t checked his email, or he hates me so much he deleted my urgent message. Or he’s beat up and lying in a ditch. Or worse.

I go back to my room, order a sushi boat from room service, and eat the whole thing while watching J-pop videos on TV. I can’t understand one word of the songs. I’ve never felt so alone.

* * *

THE NEXT DAY, Yoshi takes a break from his bodyguard-slash-babysitting gig while I’m on the clock with the print-measuring project. Mitsue starts me off with a portfolio of
kabuki
actor prints. They’re playing
samurai
warriors, facing off, brandishing swords. Their faces convey intense concentration and smoldering rage. Their taut bodies are coiled springs, poised for action.

Satisfied by my measuring skills and progress, Mitsue eventually leaves the storeroom to work on setting up the gallery show.

Alone at last, I look around the storeroom. And now I remember how in
Vampire Sleuths
29
,
Kyo and Mika found somebody’s will in the false bottom of a drawer in an antique cabinet. I gaze at the cabinet-lined walls. Could any of them have a secret panel concealing van Gogh’s lost painting?