Tokyo Heist (29 page)

When we finally leave the crafts museum, my dad hands me a package. It’s a cherry block and a rolled-up bundle wrapped in rice paper. When I unwrap it, I find a leather pouch, and inside that, a starter set of wood-carving knives.

“These are beautiful!” I exclaim. The blades glint in the afternoon sun. “Thank you!”

“Enjoy them, kiddo,” my dad says with a smile. “I know you think drawing’s your thing, but it’s always good to flex your muscles and try another medium. Mitsue tells me you have a good eye for prints. Who knows, maybe there’s a printmaker in you waiting to come out!”

We roam around Kyoto for several more hours. Even though the memory of last night’s gunshots still reverberates in my head, and my left ear still rings, the streets feel safer in daylight. I feel like a normal tourist. We stay in Kyoto for an early dinner before hopping the train back to Arashiyama.

As the boatman poles us back down the river to the
ryokan
, the sky turns pink with the first blush of sunset.

“Those must be people getting tickets for the
ukai
show already,” I say, pointing to a line of tourists at the dock that we’re leaving behind.

“It’s a beautiful night. A good night for seeing
ukai
,” Reika says a little enviously.

“Don’t get any ideas,” my dad says. “We’ll go another time, when gangsters aren’t out on a boating excursion. Hey, when we get back to the inn, let’s go to the riverbank and watch the sunset. That’s kind of a show, right?”

Back at the
ryokan
, the three of us put on our regular
yukata
and meet up again by the river. My dad brings a sketchbook and colored pencils, and I bring my new wood-carving set. As the sky turns a deeper pink, and then orange, my dad sketches. Reika writes a poem in her Hello Kitty notebook. I outline a simple shape of an
ayu
in pencil on my cherry block and begin to cut my pattern with a knife. It’s not nearly as easy as the man in the crafts museum made it look.

While I labor over my tiny cuts, I position myself so I can see the door to the
ryokan
in my peripheral vision, and I look up about every minute. I want to see the Yamadas leave for the boat launch with the painting. Maybe for a sense of closure. It’s so weird that nobody’s talked about the painting or the art exchange since breakfast. It’s almost as if the past two and a half weeks never happened.

Suddenly, my dad groans. “Oh, no. Sunflower yellow.”

“What about it?” I ask.

“It’s a colored pencil I need. I left it in my room. I’d love to finish up this sketch before we lose the light.”

I glance at my watch. It’s twenty of seven. The Yamadas should be leaving any moment. Maybe if I get the pencil I’ll bump into them in the hall. Besides, my hand is getting tired from cutting. “I’ll get it,” I offer, shaking out my cramped fingers.

“I’ll come, too,” says Reika, closing her notebook.

“Here, take this, in case Hideki’s left already.” My dad hands me the silver room key. “Oh, and this tablet of paper could go back, before the evening damp sets in,” he adds, handing me a large drawing tablet and a case of fine-tipped pens.

My hands are really cramped from woodcarving; I think I’m done with that for the day. My progress feels so slow. So I roll up my knives and chisels in the little leather pouch, and tie the string of the pouch to my
yukata
belt, freeing my hands to carry my dad’s stuff.

As we enter the
ryokan
, Reika remarks, “It’s so quiet. Where is everyone?”

“The business-retreat people left today. And everyone else is probably going to the
ukai
show,” I grumble. “I totally think we could be there watching this from afar.”

“There’s not even anyone at reception,” says Reika, pointing at the empty desk. A phone rings instantly, and no one comes running. The door to the
okami-san
’s private office is closed.

“The chambermaids are probably cleaning up dinner stuff, and maybe the
okami-san
’s helping,” I suggest. “We’re usually in the dining room now, so maybe it’s always this quiet.”

“I guess. It’s just sort of eerie. Let’s get this pencil and go.”

We tap on the door to my dad and Hideki’s room. Nobody answers. I insert the key in the lock and slowly slide open the door.

It’s easy to see which side of the room is Hideki’s. His black suitcase is open in one corner, all his clothes neatly folded and stacked. My dad’s clothes and art supplies are strewn around the floor. I spot the sunflower-yellow pencil with some other pencils on top of his portable easel. I also find his cell phone on top of a T-shirt, in the
tokonoma
, the sacred alcove where you’re not supposed to put stuff. Not wanting the
okami-san
or the maids to take offense, I pick those things up.

Reika gathers an armful of button-down shirts from Hideki’s suitcase. She holds them to her face and inhales. “I just love Hideki’s cologne.” Reika smiles. She looks almost drugged. “Why do high school boys wear that cheap Rite-Aid crap? Here, smell this.”

I back away. “I am not smelling Hideki’s shirts. Let’s go.”

Then I notice something in the suitcase, which is exposed now that she’s taken out shirts.

Two red-and-yellow courier envelopes. I think of the day I saw Hideki take one of those in his uncle’s office. And the one Inspector Mimura opened last night at the meeting. My feet propel me forward, as if I’m remote controlled, and I take those envelopes out. From each envelope, I shake out a document: crisp, white paper with typed
kanji
characters. I ask Reika to translate.

She reads both letters silently. “Oh, Violet. Something is way off. These letters are signed by Fujikawa, and demand the painting. But they don’t say a thing about your dad.”

“They don’t? Then what do they say?”

She translates. In the first letter, dated last week, Fujikawa expresses anger about the sting operation in Seattle, and demands the van Gogh by July 18. “I understand your company is facing an audit from the Osaka Securities Commission, to investigate possible past dealings with
yakuza
. Rest assured, I will use all my media contacts to make it known that your brother once worked for me, and that your company has made numerous payoffs over the years. Your company will not survive. Your nephew’s promising career will be destroyed.”

The second letter sounds almost exactly like the one Inspector Mimura read to us last night, detailing how he will collect the painting in exchange for the drawings on the water. But again, no mention of the
gaijin
artist being erased if he’s deceived. Instead, these words: “Do not attempt to deceive me again, or your history will be made known.”

“These are blackmail notes!” I exclaim. “Not death threats. Hideki must have intercepted these letters and changed them, adding stuff about my dad, before passing them on to Kenji!”

“But why?”

I stop and think about it for a moment. “Reika, I think that Hideki wants to get his hands on the art. The drawings and the painting. He wanted to scare Kenji into thinking my dad might get hurt, to make him—to make
all of us
—work even harder to find the painting. Which we did.”

“I don’t get it,” says Reika. “Isn’t Fujikawa the villain here?”

“He’s a villain, all right. He might have murdered Tomonori Yamada, and he ordered those two
yakuza
in Seattle to steal the drawings. And he’s done awful things to the Yamada Corporation. But he’s not the only villain. Don’t you see? Hideki’s the real mastermind!”

Reika stares at me, almost tearfully. “No,” she whispers.

“He is taking advantage of Fujikawa’s greed. He wants to get the drawings and the painting in one place so he can take off with them!”

Reika starts pacing, staring helplessly at the letters. “I don’t know, Violet. If Fujikawa doesn’t get the art, then it belongs to Kenji and Mitsue, right? Tomonori left Kenji all his art in his will. The only way that Hideki could possibly get it is if—” She claps her hands to her mouth and stares at me.

“If both Kenji and Mitsue were dead,” I finish. I take a deep breath. “Reika, I think the bathing yahoo from room nine is working for Hideki. I think he might be . . . a hit man.”

“What would Hideki do with the van Goghs?” Reika asks.

“Sell them. If they were ‘discovered,’ and legally inherited, he could sell them at auction and get way more money than he could selling them on the black market. And Hideki could use the money,” I add. My mind is racing now, memories flashing. I think back to that drive with Kenji through Roppongi Hills. The Mori Tower complex. “Hideki’s dream project is to build something greater than the Mori Tower. Some huge business and entertainment complex. He’d need a lot of dough.”

“But how can Hideki sell the painting if it probably belongs to Fujikawa?”

“He has to get rid of Fujikawa, too. I bet it was Hideki’s idea for Fujikawa to come here and collect the painting in person. That way he could get all three people with claims to the painting in one place and eliminate them at the same time.” I lay out the letters, take photos of them with my dad’s cell phone, in case something happens to the originals I’m about to steal. I set down the cell phone on Hideki’s suitcase while I slide the letters under the lapel of my
yukata
. I put the empty courier envelopes back in the suitcase.

Meanwhile, Reika arranges Hideki’s shirts as neatly as she can, cursing herself for having moved them. “I’m not sure if these blue ones were on the left or the right of the suitcase,” she mumbles. “Are you really going to take those letters out of this room?”

“Yes. We have to tell the Yamadas not to get on that boat tonight, and we’ll need these as proof to convince them. And we have to get them to Inspector Mimura as well. But first, let’s go tell my dad what we found.”

3

6

W
e race back to the river and show the letters to my dad. Reika translates them for him.

“We have to tell Kenji and Mitsue not to go to the river tonight!” I exclaim when she’s done. “We only have fifteen minutes to make sure they don’t get on that boat!”

“But Kenji and Mitsue already left the inn,” says my dad.

I look around. “What? When?”

“They took the painting down to the boat launch right after you guys went inside. You must have just missed them.”

Reika and I exchange an anguished look. The Yamadas are drifting toward doom right this moment. “Were they with Hideki?” I ask.

“No. When I said good-bye to them, they told me Hideki was staying behind to take care of some business. Something about an international conference call. I did think that was odd, considering how invested he was in finding this art. You’d think he’d want to see the exchange. I guess now it makes sense. He’s got to stay out of the way so a hit man can do his job.”

“You have to call Agent Chang!” Reika says.

“I think she’s already on her way back to Seattle,” my dad says. “She said there wasn’t much that Inspector Mimura could authorize her to do here.”

“Then how are we going to reach the Yamadas and Inspector Mimura?” I moan.

“We could call Kenji on his cell,” Reika suggests. “Since Hideki’s not with him yet. And we could call the police and ask them to help us reach Inspector Mimura.”

“Good plan!” My dad looks around the grass at his belongings. “Now where’s my cell?”

“I have it. It’s right—wait.” I look down. My hand is clutching the stupid yellow pencil, not the phone. “I left your cell in your room. Oh my God. I left it right on Hideki’s suitcase after I took pictures of the letters! If he sees it, he’ll figure out we were looking through his stuff.”

We all look at each other and then start walking quickly toward the
ryokan.

Suddenly, I hear thrashing in the hydrangea bushes on the path behind us. Before I can turn around, strong hands grab my arms and wrench them behind my back. Reika screams. The next thing I know, my wrists are bound together with twine. The twine cuts into my skin when I try to squirm free. I try to twist and kick my captor, but he holds my arms fast. The last thing I see, out of the corner of my eye, is two men grabbing my dad and Reika from behind. Then what seems to be a burlap sack is thrown over my head.

I feel like I’m drowning, choking, and I’m not even in water. I’m aware that we’re all being pushed downhill, down the path toward the river and the
ryokan
’s small dock.

I’m shoved onto some kind of moving platform. I fight to keep my balance, and lose. I fall, hard, on my side. A moment later, I hear Reika and my dad fall down next to me. Reika is trembling right by my side, my dad is breathing heavily next to her, and we all seem to be lying facedown. Then I realize we’re on a boat. I can hear the lapping of water. I can feel the
tatami
beneath my bare feet. I can smell grass on the riverbank. And a sweet, musky smell. Hideki’s cologne.

Wild hope seizes me. Reika once said she doesn’t read
kanji
as well as she speaks Japanese, and she didn’t use a dictionary when she translated the letters from Hideki’s suitcase. Maybe she misread the letters. Maybe Hideki’s not such a bad person. Yahoos have captured us, working off misinformation, and Hideki’s our only hope.

“Hideki! Help us!” I call out. My voice sounds so muffled from the sack over my head, I’m not sure he can hear me. I call out again.

“Help you?” says Hideki. “After you went through my personal belongings? Why should I help you?”

Something sinks inside me. He knows we know. He’s the one behind our abduction. These thugs are working for him.

“We didn’t go through anything!” I hear Reika protest.

“Lying will not help you,” Hideki says. His voice is as smooth as ever. “I found Glenn’s phone on my suitcase. I saw the pictures you took. Pictures of my personal correspondence.”

“The girls were just playing around with my phone,” my dad protests. “If they found anything of yours, I’m sure they didn’t read it.”