Tokyo Heist (15 page)

Room after room, the museum unfolds like a fan, until finally we end up in a brightly lit modern gallery space that reminds me of Margo’s gallery. A sign in Japanese, French, and English reads
SPECIAL EXHIBIT: THE INFLUENCE OF JAPANESE PRINTS ON CONTEMPORARY ARTISTS.
Velvet ropes mark off the area, which is bustling with art handlers unpacking crates, hanging pictures, drilling holes in walls. The crate with my dad’s four paintings takes up much of the middle of the room. Near it, Mitsue is talking to some handlers. She immediately comes over to greet me.

“Violet-chan!
Ohayou gozaimasu.
Good morning.”

“
Ohayou gozaimasu
,” I repeat. I’ve been listening carefully to the hotel staff at breakfast every morning, trying to copy their pronunciation. “Your museum is amazing,” I add. “I didn’t expect it to take up a whole floor of an office building. Wow.”

“Yes, many private galleries and museums in Japan are inside office buildings,” Mitsue explains. “We do not have districts dedicated to art galleries, like your Pioneer Square in Seattle. I am glad to hear you enjoyed your tour. The museum has been open for only a few months, since the renovation, so it is still a work in progress. The storeroom and archives, where you will work, are just down this hall.” She gestures to a doorway. “Yoshi will take some time off while you work, and he’ll return to take you to lunch. Are you ready to begin?”

“Sure. Any news from Agent Chang?” I can’t resist asking as I follow her down the hall.

“Not yet. The sting takes place in two hours.”

“Are you worried about it?”

“There is no reason to be. The FBI is quite confident these men will walk into the trap. Once they do, the drawings will be returned, and these bad men will be in police custody.”

But now I notice a slight tremor in her voice. Her appearance betrays her state of mind, too. I notice shadows under her eyes that makeup fails to conceal. She’s dressed in a smart, blue sheath dress, but the belt at her waist has missed two loops, and her scarf is tied sloppily.

Just outside the storeroom door, I notice a row of six framed
ukiyo-e
prints. I pause to look at them while Mitsue searches her purse for a key. “Fish,” I whisper.

They all seem to show carp, but the print closest to the door shows two slender, gray fish that seem different. “What kind of fish are these?” I ask Mitsue.

“These are
ayu
,” she replies.

I think back to the last “note” Tomonori had left his family, the drawing in his briefcase. “Are they the ones Tomonori drew?”

“Oh, no,” says Mitsue. “This is a print by Hiroshige Ando, who did the original
Moon Crossing Bridge
. These are all prints from his Small Fish series.”

I can’t stop looking at it. It seems significant, because of the fish and the Hiroshige connection. “How long has it been on this wall?” I ask.

“At least as long as I’ve known Kenji. And far too long. See the fading from the overhead lights? We usually rotate woodblock prints monthly, but these are so light-damaged that we don’t bother. Ah, here is my key.”

The storeroom feels like a fortress, which calms my nerves a little. Like the Yamadas’ basement in Seattle, long metal tables march down the center. The walls are lined with flat-file cabinets. I can see two doors in the back that lead to adjacent halls, and more rooms with storage cabinets and shelves.

It’s hard to believe that in this same building, on the thirty-third floor, Kenji and Hideki are working at desks, and down in the lobby, my dad is putting his pencil to the wall and beginning to outline his mural. I imagine every window of this building as a manga panel, showing a scene. Except the panels don’t seem to belong to the same story.

Kind of like what I know about the van Gogh mystery so far. Skye. Julian. The destroyed paintings. The
yakuza
. A ransom-note writer who feels the van Goghs are rightfully his. A businessman-slash-art lover who died soon after he hid the van Goghs. A construction company plagued with problems. A soon-to-be CEO who is clueless about art, determined to have a painting of a bridge in his lobby. Shuffle all these elements any way you like. They make interesting shapes and patterns, but they do not tell a story.

Mitsue leads me to a table with portfolios and solander cases neatly stacked. She hands me a pair of white cotton gloves, then slides on an identical pair. She opens a flat box on the table and takes out a portfolio with a green cover. “The prints are very sensitive to oils, so you must take care,” she says. “The slightest drop of water, even saliva, can cause ink to bleed.”

The portfolio contains about ten unbound papers. Mitsue slides off a thin sheet of cloudy white paper. “Glassine,” she explains. “We place it between prints to protect the images. When you look through a portfolio, turn back the glassine first. Then pick up the print
by opposite corners of the paper. Like so.” She demonstrates. If you didn’t see the paper, you might look at her hands and arms and think she was dancing. The glassine slides away with a whisper.

This print is in excellent condition, the colors so vibrant the ink almost looks wet. It shows a woman in a green kimono, holding a parasol that hides most of her face. She walks through snow toward an orange temple. Pine tree branches laden with snow seem to bow before her. I imagine I’m Kimono Girl, diving in, hearing the crunch of snow underfoot.

“These are more prints by Hiroshige, as well as some of his contemporaries,” Mitsue explains. She turns over page after page.

Temples, tea gardens, and country roads flash before my eyes. Some landscapes have people in them, but the faces are never clear; they are dwarfed by the landscapes. Some prints show houses or restaurants with colorful hanging lanterns and warm yellow lights in the windows. Some show boating parties on rivers, with courtesans lounging on pillows.

“No wonder van Gogh loved this stuff,” I say.

“Yes. When I look at
ukiyo-e,
I like to imagine escaping to a happier, simpler place,” Mitsue says. She gazes at a boat on a river, a lady in a kimono who trails her fingers in the water. “In fact,
ukiyo-e
means ‘pictures of the floating world’ because the prints show scenes of transient pleasures. Beautiful things to enjoy in the moment because they cannot last.”

“Maybe van Gogh thought the same thing,” I suggest. “He was mentally ill, right? Maybe this is how he escaped his problems.” Maybe he escaped into prints like I escape into manga. I go on my biggest manga-reading binges when I’m frustrated by my personal life. I like going into a world where stories are laid out in neat panels.

Mitsue opens a second box, and this time she lets me move the pages. I imitate her movements, slow and deliberate, as if I’m moving underwater. She clasps her hands together and looks genuinely happy for the first time all morning. “Very good! You have steady and gentle hands. You are ready to measure. We need dimensions of the images printed on every page. We will enter these measurements into a database.”

Measuring takes all my concentration. Mitsue teaches me how to use a cloth tape measure to determine the exact height and width of each image. I have to measure through the glassine, to protect the print. Sometimes the glassine slips, so I have to start over. Each piece of paper is the same—9½ by 14½ inches. But every image has slightly different dimensions. Every millimeter matters for describing and valuing the prints.

But I make my way through six portfolios. Close to noon, I have a crick in my neck and my stomach is rumbling. A phone extension on the wall jangles, startling me.

Mitsue speaks in hushed tones, in Japanese. Her voice rises in pitch. When she hangs up, she stands still, one hand on the receiver, one hand at her throat, head bowed.

“Everything okay?” I ask. My stomach is an elevator, dropping down fast.

“That was Kenji. He has heard from Agent Chang. The sting was not a success.”

I stare at her. “Oh my God. What went wrong?”

“The two men, Nishio and Uchida, approached the meeting area. However, at the University Street Hillclimb, they turned and fled. Federal agents pursued them, but the men escaped in a car parked on Alaskan Way. They must have become suspicious of a setup.”

“You think someone told them about it?”

“That is possible. They could have received a last-minute tip from some informant.”

“Does Agent Chang think those guys are still in Seattle?”

“That is uncertain. Forgive me, but I must attend this conference call. I will send Yoshi.”

The door clicks closed. I shiver, despite the stifling air. The
yakuza
are still on the loose. Fujikawa must be furious about being set up and not getting his painting. It’s only a matter of time before he seeks revenge or sends his henchmen to harass the Yamadas.

I wish I really were Kimono Girl. I’d wrap the Yamadas in my magic robe and whisk them away, into the print. And my dad, too. If that rock through his window was an attempted break-in, and if his paintings were destroyed because someone expected to find something among them, he must be on their radar.

Somewhere along the way, the
yakuza
got bad information. Why else would they think my dad or Skye or Julian had any idea where the lost van Gogh painting would be? Now the Japanese mob is barreling down the wrong path. Full throttle. And we can’t get out of the road.

1

9

A
s soon as Mitsue leaves the room, I take out my dad’s rental cell phone, which I purposely forgot to return yesterday after I discovered I could get my email on it. I fire off a text message to Reika:
OMG STING FAILED!!! WAITING FOR MORE INFO!!!

I circle the storeroom, feeling caged and helpless. Reika was right. Finding the painting would put an end to all of this. I no longer have thoughts of glory, of changing the face of the art world by handing over a previously unknown van Gogh. So what if a van Gogh painting would remain lost to the art world? It’s already been lost for decades. I just want it to resurface so it can immediately sink into the underworld of organized crime. Then Fujikawa will call off his henchmen, and we will all be safe.

His henchman. The
yakuza
in Seattle. Who tipped them off to the sting? Where are they now? I wonder if they noticed Edge and me filming Skye that day. Maybe that’s why they suddenly vanished at the Seattle Art Museum. If they thought we were deliberately filming them, they might think our video footage of them had something to do with the sting. They might come looking for Edge and me, demanding the camera—or seeking revenge.

Could they find us? They might have followed us back to the bus stop that day, back to North Seattle. They might know where Edge lives. They might ask the neighbors questions and track him down in Port Townsend.

Now my heart is pounding. I have no proof they know who Edge and I are, but I also have no proof that they don’t. Edge could be in serious danger. I have to warn him, even though it means breaking our silence.

I open up my ongoing draft email to Edge and delete it, sentence by sentence. He’s not going to be interested in Japanese toilets. (
Japanese toilets!
What was I thinking?) I’m still mad at him, but that doesn’t matter now. He’s in danger. His life is more important. I type a simple warning note and avoid any emotional language. All I want to do is help save his life. It’s just business.

FBI CALLED. THE YAKUZA WE FILMED ARE STILL ON THE LOOSE IN WASHINGTON STATE. IF THERE’S ANY CHANCE THEY CAUGHT US FILMING AND FIGURED OUT WHERE WE LIVE, YOU COULD BE IN DANGER. THOUGHT YOU SHOULD KNOW. BE EXTRA CAREFUL. —V.

As soon as I hit
SEND
, my phone rings. Margo Wise shows up on caller ID. I stare at her name. Why would Margo call me? Then I remember this is my dad’s phone.

I let the phone ring, then listen to the voice mail. Margo sounds breathy, agitated. “Glenn. How are you? How’s Japan? Call me as soon as you can. Julian got out of the hospital yesterday. And he left me a message. He’s quitting! How could he leave me scrambling like this before the regional show? If you know anyone,
anyone
who might be a candidate for the job, call me. . . .”

This news seems really big. Maybe Julian got scared, thinking the
yakuza
might come back for more. I remember when I heard him talking to his mother on the phone, the night of my dad’s reception. He sounded so proud about his art gallery job. And my dad said Margo had done a lot for Julian. Quitting so abruptly and leaving Margo in the lurch for a show seems drastic. It has to mean something. Maybe the FBI should be keeping their eye on Julian, too.

I have to tell my dad about the sting failing. And about Julian quitting. I know he warned me not to get involved, but this news is too important to hold back. Maybe Julian found out about the sting and tipped somebody off! I dash to the elevator. In the lobby, I run to the big wall and slip between the screens.

Using a Japanese
sumi
brush, my dad is painting the outline of a bridge in black ink. He’s concentrating so hard he looks as a fierce as a
samurai
warrior.

“Hey, can I talk to you for a sec?”

My dad jerks his arm. Black ink splatters on the wall, on the floor, à la Jackson Pollack.

“Oh, sorry!” I exclaim. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I just have to tell you about—”

“Can it not wait?” he growls. Seeing the ink splatters, he flings down his palette and grabs a drop cloth. He rubs at the black spots on the wall but they only get larger. “Oh, Violet.”

I back away. “Sorry,” I whisper, fighting tears. “I’m sorry.” I run back to the elevators.

The conference call. I have to get in on that and tell Agent Chang about Julian.

I get off the elevator on the thirty-third floor. I run down one corridor after another, past startled receptionists who call out,
“Sumimasen?”

Near the end of a corridor, I come to a closed door with Kenji’s name on it in both Japanese and English. I tap softly. Then I push it open. No one is there. The room is still. I enter the office and softly close the door behind me.