Tokyo Heist Read online

  That leaves Skye. I sketch her, starting with her long neck and stooped shoulders, which mirror the shape of her bird tattoo. A cormorant. I’ll call her character the Cormorant. I give her beady eyes, a sharper nose.

  My thoughts drift to the real-life Skye. She worked for the Yamadas in some way. She got bumped from the Japan trip. She didn’t offer an alibi. She staged a choking fit to stop Kenji from speaking. Kenji was curt with her.

  I gnaw the end of my pencil and stare at her emerging portrait. Am I fascinated by her because she’d make the perfect thief for my story? Or because she is the perfect thief?

  4

  Leaving the reception an hour later, my dad and I find Julian by the front door.

  My dad claps him on the back. “Hey, Julian. You have fun tonight, man?”

  Julian flinches and pulls away. “Fun? I am working. I don’t have time to have fun.”

  “Jeez, what’s with him?” I ask my dad once we’re outside.

  “He’s Margo’s assistant. The guy started out as an art handler, a total nobody, schlepping boxes and hanging art for exhibits. Margo saw something in him and showed him the ropes. Promoted him to assistant a couple years ago. You’d think he could show a little gratitude.”

  “Does Julian know Mr. and Mrs. Yamada?”

  “Oh, sure. He does all Margo’s computer work, maintaining client records in the database. I don’t expect him to win any awards for customer service, though.”

  We come to my dad’s ancient Volvo wagon parked on a side street. I slide into the front seat, shoving aside CDs, fast-food bags, paint rags, and empty Venti Starbucks cups. “I guess you really like coffee,” I say, kicking aside five cups as my dad gets into the driver’s seat. There’s so much I don’t know about my dad—his friends, his girlfriend, his daily habits.

  Just as he starts up the car, Skye appears, backlit by the red neon sign from a bar behind her. She taps on the car window. “Hey. Can we talk?”

  My dad rubs his forehead. “Oh, boy. Here we go.” He gets out, and they walk a few feet away from the car.

  I just want to get out of here. Once we’re at my dad’s house in Fremont, my summer can finally begin. For weeks I’ve imagined this time with my dad. Maybe it would be like when I was little. Until I was nine, I used to visit him on Capitol Hill, in this big house he shared with other artists. He’d come up with projects for me, like potato-stamp prints or tissue-paper collages. He’d let me organize his brushes. He’d introduce me to all his roommates and friends.

  And often—my favorite—we’d play the Frame Game. We’d go outside, each holding an empty picture frame. Like miners panning for gold, we’d scour the scenery for images until we found one we liked. “Find a different perspective,” he’d sometimes tell me, coming to my frame to see. “The trick is to make someone view an ordinary thing in a new way.” Or, “That’s a great composition, kiddo. Now that picture tells a story.”

  I don’t know why my dad moved out of that house, or why we stopped playing the Frame Game. I don’t know why we mostly just meet at the Macaroni Grill now. I don’t know why he hid my existence from his art dealer, his girlfriend, and who knows how many others.

  I look at my dad and Skye, deep in conversation. I hurl imaginary ninja weapons.

  Skye crumples as if a weapon actually hit her. She buries her face in her hands.

  My dad shoves his hands in his pockets and stares at the ground.

  Uh-oh. Big Issues. I crack the window so I can hear.

  “We wouldn’t have had much time to hang out in Tokyo anyway,” my dad is saying. “Between the art show and my artist talks and the mural, my time just isn’t my own.”

  “I don’t care. I have unused vacation days. I’ll pay my own way.”

  “How are you going to afford that?”

  Skye lifts her pointy chin. “I’m getting a little cash windfall soon. I’ll put the trip on my credit cards and pay it off when my money comes through.”

  My skin prickles. Cash windfall? From the sale of some stolen art, perhaps?

  “Skye, it’s just not a good time to—”

  “Stop pushing me away!” Skye explodes. “When are you going to let me into your life? If I don’t go on this trip, it’ll damage our relationship. It’s too much time apart.”

  “Hey, I’m not the one who decided you can’t go to Japan! Don’t pin that on me!”

  “What, you think it’s my fault I’m not going? You know it’s crazy they’re even looking at me in the first place. You know that, don’t you?”

  My dad hesitates, then nods.

  “Of course it is,” Skye says fiercely, taking a step forward. “Think about the facts. Kenji discovered that portfolio in his office archives in February. I told him to keep it quiet, at least until he got the pictures insured. But he made this big deal of loaning the art to the museum. All those interviews. I mean, the Today show? Come on!”

  “His nephew encouraged him to do the interviews,” my dad says. “Both Hideki and Kenji thought it would be good press for their company.”

  “Still, Kenji could have said no or delayed the public relations stunt. So what happened? The news of his little treasure trove gets all over the Internet. As I predicted. I even told him to update his security system. Did he? Nope. I mean, the guy might as well tape a big sign on his back saying ‘I’m a clueless rich guy moving van Goghs around the world. Come and get ’em!’ I tried to help. Now they point a finger at me.”

  “It’s not fair,” my dad agrees. “But you’re going to look like a flight risk until your name is cleared. You shouldn’t go to Japan. That’s the reality. It’s not my fault.”

  “Yeah. You’re always blameless, aren’t you? Must be really nice. Listen, I’d start looking for a lawyer if I were you. Don’t assume you’re off the hook.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The detectives are going to look really closely at anyone who knows the Yamadas and their collection. Even if the Art Institute confirms you were teaching last Wednesday night, investigators are going to see if you played some kind of backstage role.”

  “Oh, Skye. I can’t take the drama right now. It’s late. And I’ve got a kid in the car.”

  “Right. A kid.” Skye smirks. “So you don’t like drama. But you decide to tell me about your kid by just having her show up here tonight. Oh, no, that’s not dramatic!”

  “I should have given you a heads-up about her. I’m sorry.”

  “A ‘heads-up’?” Skye takes another step toward him. “We’ve had how many conversations about kids? All you ever said was you didn’t want any!”

  He didn’t want any kids? Did that include me?

  Their voices rise and fall like waves. Ugly words crash down. I don’t want to listen anymore. I roll up the window and sink into the seat. I hold my hands up to my face to block out my dad and Skye. Then I turn my hands into Ls. Frame Game. I scan the surrounding area out the window, opposite my dad and Skye. Suddenly, I catch an image between my fingers.

  It’s that green Prius. It’s moved up a block. The two men with umbrellas are standing outside of it again.

  “Fine! Just walk away!” Skye shouts. “You’ll be sorry! I’m the best thing that ever happened to you, and you know it! There is not one other woman who’d put up with your crap!”

  My dad gets back in. He slams the door and starts the car. He grips the wheel hard. Through the passenger mirror I see her receding figure, waving her arms and shouting. Crazy.

  We drive by the two men, pausing at a stoplight right by them. Under the streetlight glare, I can now see both guys are Asian. One guy is short and thin, with spiky hair and a square jaw. The other is stockier and taller, with thick hair. They both wear sporty blue raincoats and carry oversize Seahawks umbrellas. Probably just tourists, in town for the ball game.


  The light turns green, and my dad drives on. I look at his grip on the steering wheel. What really scares me is that my dad is going to be questioned on Monday about the stolen van Gogh drawings. I catch my breath. If he’s been involved with that crazy lady Skye all these months, maybe he does have some connection to the crime. I sit up straighter. I have to find out more about this art heist and about Skye.

  “So, uh, Skye was supposed to go to Japan?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

  “Yeah, for professional reasons. She’s an art conservator.” His voice is clipped.

  “Cool. My art class went to the Seattle Art Museum last month and toured the conservation labs.” I loved that field trip. The people who worked there were like magicians, using tools and brushes to restore paintings to their original brilliance. Patching tiny rips and wormholes. We even got to see how shining an infrared light on a canvas could reveal a pentimento, a drawing or painting beneath the top painting, which showed where the artist changed his mind. Beneath an oil painting of flying cherubs, we could see four ghostly arms that the artist had tried out before settling on their final outstretched position.

  “So does Skye work at SAM?”

  “No. She’s at a small firm in Belltown. The Yamadas hired her to rehouse their print collection. She was also supposed to oversee the transportation of my paintings for the art show.”

  “And she’s a suspect because she worked with the Yamadas’ collection?”

  “She worked in their home. She had direct access to the stolen portfolio.” My dad sighs. “Violet, do you think we could just have some quiet? It’s all been . . . a lot.”

  “Sure.” I stare out the window, blinking back tears, and as he stops for gas, I let a few fall. We cross the Fremont Bridge over the ship canal, and I gaze at the statue of people waiting at a bus stop, at the funky cafés and vintage clothing shops. When I pictured arriving in this neighborhood for the summer, it was always a happy image. I thought I’d be talking art with my dad and going to museums and swanky parties with him. Skye dropped a bomb on all that. I almost hope she really is an art thief. Then they’ll just lock her up.

  My dad turns up a steep hill just past Fremont Center. He parks in front of a small house with peeling yellow paint. Sagging concrete steps lead up to it from the street, overgrown with tangles of blackberry bushes, like thousands of strands of dead Christmas lights. “Home sweet home,” he says.

  But then, as we climb the steps to the porch, he stops short and swears under his breath. The window to the right of the door is shattered. Jagged shards cling to the frame.

  5

  “Stay outside.” My dad picks up a stick of driftwood from the porch, unlocks the door, and goes in, brandishing the stick. He stomps around inside, opening doors, flicking on lights.

  I hug myself while I wait and try to picture where my mom is in Italy right now. Unpacking her suitcase in a dorm room. Throwing open shutters on a tall window. Biting into a fresh tomato while someone sings an aria in the market square below. I take out my cell phone, wanting to call and hear her voice. Then I slip it back in my pocket. I’m sure my mom never imagined a scene like this when she made my summer arrangements. I can’t worry her now.

  After a few minutes, my dad pokes his head out the broken window. “Coast is clear. Watch your step,” he adds as a coat tree heaped with plastic bags topples behind him.

  Inside, I step over art magazines, art books, blank canvases. I walk around boxes filled with driftwood, twigs, rocks, bird feathers, shells, and moss. My stomach lurches at the smell. It’s as if a stew of paint thinner, rotting fruit, and old socks has simmered on the stove all day. I’d give anything right now to walk into my own home, to smell my mom’s famous pasta sauce and to hear her sing out, “Hey, V, where’s my hug?”

  I can’t take my eyes off the mess. “Oh my God, your place got trashed.”

  “No, no. Except for the broken window, it always looks like this. I’m still unpacking. And the place needs work. Used to be a pretty nice old Craftsman bungalow. Drug dealers lived here, and let it go to pot. That’s a joke,” he adds. “Sorry. Maybe you’re too young to get it.”

  “I got it.” I join him in the dining room, where he kneels to pick up glass. Just beneath the broken window, surrounded by glistening shards, sits a big, ugly rock. It looks totally out of place, even in the crazy dining room with the leaning card table and mismatched folding chairs.

  “Aren’t you going to call the police?”

  “Naw.”

  “Why not? They could fingerprint that rock.”

  “Not granite. The surface is too uneven.”

  “They could send a cruiser to check things out. Look for footprints and stuff. What if the same people that broke into the Yamadas’ house did this to your window?”

  “No. There’s been a rash of petty vandalism in the neighborhood lately. Besides, no one’s going to steal my art. I’m no van Gogh. Look, the fact is, I hate to call the police with this investigation going on. I don’t want a bunch of police and reporters sniffing around here.”

  “Really? Why not?” I stare at him. He never mentioned his girlfriend to me. Does he have something else to hide?

  “Because I have to focus on my mural commission, now that Kenji’s nephew has moved the trip date up. This chitchat with detectives on Monday is enough of a disruption. I need to not think about things that don’t concern me. Like punks throwing rocks through my window.” He picks up the rock and hefts it to the entryway. “Hey, at least I got a fine doorstop. Don’t worry. I’ll board up this window. I know a glass guy who owes me a favor. He’ll come by tomorrow and replace it. And here’s the dead bolt. See? Solid. But if you’re uneasy, I’ll call the cops.”

  I am deeply uneasy. But if he wants to focus on his work and not report this, I guess there’s nothing I can do. Maybe it is just a coincidence anyway. “I’ll be okay.” I look past him, suddenly aware of the living room walls, which are covered, floor to ceiling, with elaborate murals. “Wow. Your walls are amazing.”

  “Thanks! My friends call them my frescoes. I like to work out ideas on the walls.”

  I walk into the living room, grateful for a distraction from the broken glass, from my whole shattered illusion of staying with my dad. The pictures seem alive. My eyes can’t fix on any one spot. One image leads me into another, and another, and suddenly I’m just rotating, trying to take everything in. So this is what it feels like to stand inside a painting.

  “I started out covering up some water damage I couldn’t afford to fix. Then I just kept going.” My dad points to a train disappearing into a mountain tunnel, above a bookcase. The tracks follow a crack in the plaster. His finger traces a cluster of glacial lakes, which I now see are painted around bubbling plaster and brown water stains. “And these cracks here were from the last earthquake.” He traces them over the fireplace mantel, showing how a web of cracks has been transformed into a tree. The tree sprouts vines, curling to the next wall, where green, orange, and yellow-and-brown birds perch: cockatoos, partridges, parrots, and doves. Owls with wide, staring eyes. “See? If you can’t repair something, you can turn it into art.”

  Lugging my bags, my dad leads me down a short hallway painted with explosions of rhododendrons and outlines of madrona trees. We come to a small room off the kitchen, furnished with an old drafting table and a sagging, plaid loveseat. The white walls are bare except for one tendril of ivy, drawn in pencil, that snakes in from the hall. “Sorry, there’s not much in the kitchen,” he says, and at first I think he’s talking about the wall art. “Mostly I eat takeout. But help yourself to anything you find.” He unfolds the loveseat, revealing a hide-a-bed. “The Ritz it is not. Apologies.”

  “It’s fine. I could use some sheets, though.” I try to sound casual, but inside, I’m smoldering. He hasn’t done one thing to prepare for me.

>   “Good idea. I’ll hunt some down. Then I’d better get cracking on some mural ideas.”

  “You know what? Forget it. I’ll sleep without them. I’m going to turn in. I have to take two buses to get to the comic shop tomorrow, and my shift starts at nine. I’d better get up early.”

  Then I notice something on the armrest of the hide-a-bed. A woman’s black sweater.

  We both stare at it for a while, as it if might hiss and attack us.

  There’s no sign of my existence in this house. No school photos, even though I’ve given him a picture every year. And yet. This sweater.

  My dad picks it up, opens the door to the basement, and flings it down the stairs.

  “Skye doesn’t live here, does she?” I ask.

  His laugh comes out like a bark. “Nope.”

  “Does she come over a lot?”

  “I don’t think you’ll be crossing paths here. As of tonight, she’s not in the picture.”

  “You guys broke up? Tonight?”

  “We were on a collision course. It’s getting late. Sit tight. I’ll rustle up those sheets.”

  I lie down. Springs creak beneath me. I’m relieved Skye’s out of the picture. But that also means finding out her connection to the art theft will be that much harder.

  After my dad fails to come back with sheets, I get ready for bed, then dial Edge again.

  No answer. I feel seriously sick.

  I’ve never had a real boyfriend. But I’ve read a ton of shojo manga, and listened to Reika’s ups and downs with her Boyfriends of the Month, older guys from other schools.

  I don’t have anyone else like Edge. He’s been there for me every day since we met in seventh-grade French class, on a day when I felt totally alone in the world. We had to write and perform a skit together, and he made me laugh so hard with his ideas I actually fell out of my chair. We’ve been best friends ever since. If I confessed I liked him as more than a friend, and he didn’t feel the same way, it could wreck the friendship.