Tokyo Heist Read online

  Advance praise for Tokyo Heist

  “A terrific heroine, exciting and unexpected plot twists, and fascinating and beautifully wrought real-life settings: young adult mysteries do not get better than this.”

  —Peter Abrahams, author of the Echo Falls Mysteries and Edgar Award winner

  “Tokyo Heist is a fast-paced, exotic adventure, a story where The da Vinci Code meets the wildly popular manga genre! Author Diana Renn infuses protagonist Violet with plenty of chikara (power) and Renn’s fresh, spot-on author’s voice is irresistible. I couldn’t put it down!”

  —Alane Ferguson, author of the Forensic Mysteries and Edgar Award winner

  “Fly to the coolest city on earth. Hunt for a missing masterpiece. Battle tattooed gangsters while rocking a kimono. And don’t forget to try the shibazuke. Adventures don’t get any more thrilling than Tokyo Heist. You’ll want to jump right inside this book and live it.”

  —Kirsten Miller, author of the Kiki Strike series

  “Hidden paintings, yakuza assassins, vivid settings, artful intrigue, and a taste of manga make Tokyo Heist an absorbing tale mystery readers will love.”

  —Linda Gerber, author of Death by Latte

  Contents

  Cover

  Praise

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Part 1:Seattle

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Part 2:Tokyo

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Part 3:Koyoto

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Author's Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  VIKING

  Published by Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)

  Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi–110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published in 2012 by Viking, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Copyright © Diana Renn, 2012

  All rights reserved

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Renn, Diana.

  Tokyo heist / by Diana Renn.

  p. cm.

  Summary: After a high-profile art heist of three van Gogh drawings in her home town of Seattle, sixteen-year-old Violet Rossi finds herself in Japan with her artist father, searching for the related van Gogh painting.

  ISBN 978-1-101-57241-2

  [1. Art thefts—Fiction. 2. Gogh, Vincent van, 1853-1890—Fiction. 3. Fathers and daughters—Fiction. 4. Seattle (Wash.)—Fiction. 5. Tokyo (Japan)—Fiction. 6. Mystery and detective stories.] I. Title.

  PZ7.R2895Tok 2012 [Fic]—dc23 2011043364

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  In memory of my grandmother, Esther Bruketta, who never went anywhere without an intriguing mystery tucked away in her purse

  1

  The wind, the rain, my soaked Converse sneakers: I blame it all on my dad. It’s his fault I waited in front of Jet City Comics for over an hour before hopping a bus to Seattle’s Pioneer Square. Now I’m slogging downtown through a rainstorm, dragging my suitcase through puddles.

  Most of the art galleries are already closed for the day, but the Margo Wise Gallery glows with cool light. I duck under the awning and wipe my steamed-up glasses. Through the gallery window, I scan the crowd. Well-dressed men and women gather around paintings, eating off tiny plates, but I don’t see anybody whom I know. A jazz trio plays in a corner. Everyone will stare when I go in. I don’t look like an artist’s daughter. I look like a runaway trying to score food.

  But I was invited! I take the damp, creased postcard from the pocket of my leather jacket. GLENN MARKLUND, MADRONA GROVE: PAINTINGS FROM ORCAS ISLAND. ARTIST RECEPTION THURSDAY, JUNE 26, 6:00–8:00 PM. My name, Violet Rossi, appears on a label above my mom’s address. The other side shows one of my dad’s paintings: a lone madrona tree on a bluff, its bark a collage of mottled browns, its leaves dark green and waxy. Its trunk sways to the left, like a woman sticking out her hip. The tree radiates chikara, my favorite Japanese word. It means “confidence” or “power.”

  I could use some chikara right now. I suddenly don’t know if my dad mailed the card himself, or if a computer just randomly spit out my name. “Ganbatte!” I whisper to my blurry reflection. That’s Japanese for “hang in there.” Characters are always saying that in manga and anime. My friends and I say it to each other at school. It will take a whole lot of chikara to walk into that gallery and put myself on display.

  I twist my frizzed curls into a bun, which I secure with two lacquered chopsticks. I straighten my yellow kimono scarf, pick up my luggage, and step into the light and the laughter.

  People surround my dad. A photographer snaps pictures of him. No wonder I didn’t see him at first. His normal uniform is a plaid shirt slung over a T-shirt. Paint-splattered jeans. Crooked glasses. His shoulder-length hair, pulled back in a ponytail, always looks oily. If you didn’t know he was an artist, you might think he’d spent a week living under the Aurora Bridge. In a cardboard box. Which, for all I
know, he does. It’s not like I’ve actually seen his new house in Fremont, even though he’s been living there for almost three months.

  But this evening, he wears crisp, black jeans and a black V-neck sweater. His blow-dried hair hangs loose. Maybe he didn’t pick me up after work because he was too busy styling his hair.

  The gallery turns into a surrealist painting. Everything stretches and blurs. What if my dad doesn’t want me spending the next six weeks at his house? My mom flew to Rome this morning for her summer research fellowship. Two grad students are subletting our North Seattle condo. I have no doting relatives to take me in. As for friends, in a week, Edge will be at film camp. Reika is in Tokyo with her aunt and uncle. And I already told everyone that I’m spending my summer in the city, in the artsy Fremont district. How can I say my dad blew me off?

  Breathe. Maybe when my dad sees me, he’ll slap his forehead and apologize, like he does when he’s late to meet me at Romano’s Macaroni Grill for our roughly-every-other-month-dinner thing.

  My sneakers squelch on the floor as I shove through the crowd.

  But before I can get to my dad, a tall woman strides toward me, blocking my path.

  Thunder rumbles outside. Maybe this June storm colors my view, but this woman would make the perfect villain for a Kimono Girl episode. My hand twitches with the urge to sketch her. Her silver, bobbed hair is cut razor sharp, her thin lips stained deep maroon. Draped over her black pantsuit is a purple scarf with intricate geometric patterns. I could call her the Scarf. Her scarf might possess magic powers. It could make things disappear.

  “Can I help you?” the unsmiling woman asks me.

  “Uh, that’s okay.”

  “We don’t allow bags larger than a purse in the gallery.”

  “Sorry. Do you have a coatroom?”

  “We do not.” She nods at a guy standing by the door.

  The short, scrawny man in a gray suit walks rapidly toward us, head tipped to one side. His thinning hair is combed back and stiff with gel, a scraggly goatee looks like the site of a botched hair transplant, and his mouth hangs open. He makes me think of the sockeye salmon we studied in biology this year. And I suddenly get a vision of how I could use him as a character, too. As a shape-shifter named Sockeye, who can transform from man to salmon. Yes! He travels Elliott Bay as a fish, then springs from the water as a man to commit heinous crimes!

  “What’s going on, Margo?” Sockeye asks.

  “Julian, would you kindly escort this young lady and her wet bags to the door?”

  Reality hits. The Scarf is Margo Wise, my dad’s new art dealer, the gallery owner.

  “Wait,” I say as Julian steps toward me. “I’m here to see my dad. I’m Violet Rossi.” As they both look doubtfully at me, I add, “Glenn Marklund’s daughter.”

  Margo glances at the door. “Really? Are there more of you?”

  “No. Just me.”

  “Well.” She looks me up and down, like I’m a sculpture that didn’t turn out right.

  I shouldn’t be shocked I’m breaking news. My parents never married. I’m the offspring of two college students who dated briefly, then called it quits. My mom didn’t see a future with my dad, so she raised me on her own, even though it meant taking twice as long to get through college and an art history PhD program.

  I’m proud of her. If anyone has chikara, it’s my mom. But I think her determination to do it all on her own wiped out any trace of my dad in me. I have her height—five foot nine—and her Italian features: a round face, dark curly hair, and curves that I prefer to hide with oversize T-shirts and hoodies. I didn’t get my dad’s angular, Scandinavian features or his Nordic blue eyes. I can see why Margo and Julian are struggling to connect the dots. Still, it seems like my dad failed to mention my mere existence. My thoughts curl up in a fist.

  “I’ll get Glenn,” Margo says. “Julian. Move the child’s luggage behind your desk.”

  Sniffing loudly, Julian picks up my bags. My duffel bag leaves a wet splotch on his leg.

  I look around the gallery, trying to act like I belong. I pretend I’m Kimono Girl slipping into a painting. In The Adventures of Kimono Girl, the manga-style graphic novel I’m working on, Kimono Girl (KG for short) has an enchanted vintage kimono. It allows her to slip into works of art. Inside the art, she can hide and observe people on the outside, or she can explore the worlds in the paintings. At work this week, I’ve storyboarded the whole sequence of how she first finds the robe in a shop. The shopkeeper tells her that it once belonged to a Japanese artist. KG gradually discovers its powers. I’m already up to page ten.

  I’m sure KG would love to zoom into my dad’s enormous canvases. Fuchsia flowers dot the bluffs, and teal waves glimmer in the distance. Trees in every shade of green pose like models, more like tree portraits than landscapes. I walk up to the tree from the postcard. That tree has serious attitude. A stay-out-of-my-way tree, alone on a bluff.

  Imagining I’m Kimono Girl hidden in those branches, I steal a look at the crowd. Most people are just here to see and be seen. But a Japanese man in a dark gray suit commands my attention. Silver hair. Gold watch. Black shoes. Wire-rimmed glasses. Everything about him seems to catch the light and gleam. Edge and Reika would say I only notice him because I’m a total Japan freak. But I don’t think that’s why. I’m drawn to his look of intense concentration. He stands in front of a canvas, swaying slightly, as if the painting is playing music only he can hear.

  What would it be like to have someone look at my graphic novel that way?

  “Violet? What brings you here?”

  I spin around to face my dad. “Seriously? You were supposed to get me after work.”

  “No, I’m getting you tomorrow at three thirty. Friday.”

  “Mom left for Italy today. I waited for two hours. I left you four phone messages.”

  He slaps his forehead. “Gosh. I’m sorry, kiddo. There’s been some stuff going on lately on top of this show that’s sort of distracted me. And I’ve misplaced my cell phone again, can you believe it? So I didn’t get your messages.” He glances at a photographer hovering nearby and puts up one hand. “Um. So. You’re here. That’s terrific! You hungry?”

  I shrug and follow him to a banquet table.

  “Margo had this catered by Wild Ginger, and—oh, excuse me a moment? There’s someone I promised I’d touch base with. Just real quick. Then we’ll catch up. Okay?”

  I load up a plastic plate with vegetable spring rolls and steamed gyoza. As I dig in, I notice I’m being stared at by a pale, thin woman with close-cropped auburn hair. She watches me through narrowed eyes. I turn my attention to my plate.

  My dad returns. “Great turnout, huh?” He points out some big-time art collectors: media people, high-tech tycoons, investment bankers, venture capitalists. I recognize only the weatherman from Channel Four. “And over there? My two newest collectors.” He points to the silver-haired Japanese man a few yards away. He’s now standing by a Japanese woman. They are discussing a painting.

  The woman—his wife, I assume—looks at least a decade younger than him and has the air of a former model. She wears a white cocktail pantsuit with gold, strappy sandals and carries a gleaming, gold clutch. Her hair—jet black with one artful gray streak off her forehead—is smoothed back in a twist and secured with a pearl comb. When she smiles, I notice her teeth are crooked, which startles me at first. But the rest of her beauty overpowers this flaw.

  “Kenji and Mitsue Yamada,” my dad whispers. “They’re serious collectors. They live mostly in Japan, but they own a house here in Seattle and come a few times a year for business. Kenji’s with the Yamada Corporation. Heard of it?”

  I shake my head.

  “It’s one of the biggest construction companies in Japan. They have offices in cities all over the world. Kenji’s the CEO.”


  “I thought you hated business. When did you start worshipping the corporate gods?”

  My dad pours a cup of seltzer. “Kenji’s not your typical businessman. He’s retiring this year. Wants to be a dedicated patron of the arts. And his wife curates an art museum in his Tokyo office building.”

  “Looks like they’re big fans.” I watch the couple exclaim over details in my dad’s painting. In Studio Art, no one looks at my class work with awe. I “show promise” and have “great ideas,” but there are always a hundred things to fix.

  “Guess so,” my dad agrees. “Not only are they taking four of my paintings for a show at their museum next month, they commissioned a mural from me for their lobby.”

  “In their Seattle office? Cool.”

  “No, no. Company headquarters. In Tokyo. I’m flying there in August, after you go back to your mother’s.”

  I stare at him. Awesome. Now I’ve got one parent jetting off to Italy, and the other zooming away to Japan, while I get to spend my entire summer working at a second-rate strip-mall comic shop, taking money from snotty kids and forty-year-old men who need showers. Plus, it’s my life dream to go to Japan. One of my best friends is there all summer, and I would kill to be there with her. And now my dad—who won’t even touch sushi with a ten-foot chopstick—is the one who gets to go. This is so not fair.

  The auburn-haired woman comes over and snakes an arm around my dad. She fixes her cool, gray eyes on me. “Hello,” she says, then looks at my dad. “Who’s your friend?”

  My dad’s neck is turning red. “So, uh, Skye, actually this is Violet, my, um, daughter. Violet, this is Skye Connolly. My, uh, girlfriend.”

  Um Daughter and Uh Girlfriend shake hands. “Nice to meet you,” we lie in unison.

  Okay, somebody has to say something to break the stare-down contest.

  Skye wears a black sheath dress, and her right arm sports a tattoo of a black bird with a long neck shaped like a question mark. “I like your tattoo,” I tell her. “Black swan?”