Tokyo Heist (25 page)

“Did you believe Tomonori killed himself then?” I ask through Reika.

The
okami-san
, through Reika, replies, “For years, I flattered myself thinking he had killed himself because of his impossible situation. He couldn’t be a professional artist. He and I could not be together. He lived his life in a box, one that was getting smaller all the time. But as time went on, I became less certain that he killed himself because of his love for me. Maybe that was my own selfish thinking. He had mentioned, on occasion, some work he did on the side to make extra money. Something about buying art for a wealthy collector, someone he’d met through a project his company was doing for a fish processing company in Kyoto.”

Fine Ayu Food Products. Maybe Fujikawa was involved in that somehow—either in the company or as an investor who pulled out last minute and caused the whole thing to fall through.

Reika resumes her translation. “That collector was someone with
yakuza
associations, but he learned this only after he started buying for him. Then he did not wish to work for this man. But the man threatened him and said he would harm his family if Tomonori were to leave his employ.”

Reika and I exchange an alarmed glance. So Tomonori did buy the painting on behalf of someone else. She has to be talking about Mr. Fujikawa! “Maybe the painting really is Fujikawa’s,” I whisper.

“And that makes Tomonori really the thief!” Reika whispers back.

“But it’s so hard to believe. He cared about art so much!”

The
okami-san
continues her story, so Reika does, too. “I did wonder if he had angered this man for whom he bought art. That was the only reason I could think of why someone might have killed him. Especially so soon after his trip to Paris. But I did not dare to voice these thoughts. I was supposed to be invisible. And I also worried if I spoke up, the man he worked for would come after me. This is why I was so frightened tonight. I thought Kenji Yamada was that man, and I thought this was the time. It took me a long time—an entire fifteen-course dinner, in fact—to determine that Kenji was not this man. He did not show any signs of
yakuza
affiliation.”

I nudge Reika. “But there is a
yakuza
here at the inn. Ask her if she got rid of him yet.”

The
okami-san
looks startled when Reika tells her this.

“She wasn’t aware the man in room nine was a
yakuza
,” she says. “And he’s still staying here.”

“So Hideki didn’t tell her yet. What is he waiting for?”

The
okami-san
looks hard at us. “Now tell me,” she asks through Reika. “What leads you to believe Tomonori painted over a van Gogh and hid it with me?”

Just then I hear floorboards creaking. Footsteps pause before the door. The handle shakes. We hear a painting being lifted off the wall outside the door. A scrape as the painting is replaced. The footsteps continue on, fainter now.

I let out a long breath. “Ask her if she’d be willing to take the painting to the Kyoto National Museum first thing tomorrow to be analyzed. Tell her what Skye’s friend can do. Make sure she knows it won’t hurt the painting just to look at through it with special equipment.”

Reika conveys all this, and the
okami-san
thinks. She shakes her head no.

“Please,” I say. “People are in danger because of this. My dad’s in danger. If Fujikawa doesn’t get the painting in three days, I could lose my dad. If there’s a van Gogh under here, it will save him. Aren’t lives more important than art?”

As I wait for the translation and response, I blink back tears. My dad thinks art is more important than life. He’s not even too concerned about his own right now. I wanted to think art was more important than life, too. I wanted to solve this mystery and recover the art even when I knew I was in over my head. But now, the thought of losing my dad—flawed as he is—makes me dizzy. I get that pulsing ache in my chest. I want to reveal this van Gogh and hand it over to the
yakuza
. I want my dad to live.

“There has been too much loss and sadness around this painting. I do not wish to be the cause of more,” Reika translates for the
okami-san
. “I will do as you suggest.”

3

1

T
here is nothing like a traditional Japanese
ryokan
in the middle of the day for finding monk-like solitude and silence. Or for driving you out of your freaking mind.

It’s our fifth day at the inn. Fujikawa expects the painting in two days. And we’re still waiting for the results of our lab analysis. It turns out Skye’s conservator friend, Natsuko Kikuchi, has been honeymooning in Hokkaido. When Skye finally reached her at a remote
onsen
and told her how urgent the situation was, she came rushing back. The
okami-san
left an hour ago to deliver the painting to the museum lab in Kyoto, accompanied by all three Yamadas.

It’s been tense, meanwhile, even though the bathing yahoo from room nine was dismissed by the
okami-san
the morning after we found that painting. The deadline for the painting handover looms. And Hideki is acting strange.

Hideki was definitely glad we found the painting as soon as we told him about it. But he hasn’t taken the delay in the analysis well. With every passing hour, he sounds more skeptical that the painting is the real deal. He continues to search the inn, in case the one sent to the museum turns out to be hiding nothing. He’s looked at every piece of art, including the art in two storerooms. Now he’s checking loose floorboards and feeling the wall panels. He’s almost given up any pretense of a normal vacation. His hair is unkempt, his face unshaven, his
yukata
stained with food and sweat. There’s a wild look in his eyes. He looks like my dad when he’s on an art-making binge. Guests are beginning to whisper.

Meanwhile my dad, strangely, looks more and more normal. He’s started spending less time in his room sketching, and now brings a portable
easel and palette outside. His skin is getting ruddy from the sun, and it glows from the daily dips in the
onsen
. His eyes shine a brighter blue. At breakfast this morning—which he actually showed up for on time, sitting across from me at the low table—he smiled at me.
“Ohayou gozaimasu.”

“How can you be so calm? We just have two days left!” I said. “How long do you think we can hide out here before Fujikawa finds us? Finds
you
?”

“I don’t know, Violet. I guess I tend to trust that this situation will work out. We probably have the painting now, so he’ll have no reason to hurt me. Anyway, you don’t hear of foreigners, especially emerging artists from Seattle, being killed by
yakuza
, do you?”

“Yeah, but, that doesn’t mean it can’t happen. An art gallery assistant in Seattle was assaulted by
yakuza
. I’m sure nobody saw that coming.”

“We have time. The painting will be delivered. Kenji and Hideki have convinced me. Meanwhile, have you tried this
miso
? It’s been cooked on a magnolia leaf, over this little pot with a flame. Magnificent!” He scoops some up with his chopsticks, which he proudly mastered last night.

While I’m glad to see my dad becoming more relaxed, a coal inside me smolders. If my dad’s not worried about his own safety, I guess he’s not that worried about me, either.

While Hideki’s unraveling, and my dad’s having some kind of spiritual conversion, Kenji is still searching for the painting, too, just in case. But the strain is taking its toll. I worry about his health. Mitsue does, too, bringing him water, wiping his brow with cool washcloths.

I’ve finished reading all the manga I’ve brought and all of Reika’s. Other than the electric thrum of cicadas and the scrabbling of Hideki’s hands feeling the walls outside my room, all is quiet at the Akatsuki Ryokan.

While Reika writes poetry, I flip through my sketchbook, which I’ve neglected since the train ride from Tokyo. Kimono Girl looks beseechingly at me, one hand outstretched as she reaches out of the covered-up
Sunrise Bridge
painting.
Finish my story
, she whispers.
I want to enter the teen manga contest.

But I can’t. Not now anyway. Because another story is taking up space in my head.

I draw the
okami-san
’s story in twelve panels, imagining youthful versions of her and Tomonori. It’s the first time I’ve ever attempted to write or draw a love story. And it’s a perfect explanation for how the painting could have been hidden all these years. If no one but Tomonori’s wife knew of his secret love, and if this secret love would hold on to anything he gave her, with all her heart, what better place to hide it?

Then I turn to a fresh sheet and think about the real van Gogh mystery. Julian’s been on my mind ever since Skye told me he tried to buy his own gallery. Talk about a cash windfall. If he were a middleman, like Sockeye in my story, he might get some money, but probably not that much. Not as much as if he sold it himself. An idea, a possible real-life story, starts to take shape, and I sketch it out in panels.

Shinobu Nishio and Kazuo Uchida, under Fujikawa’s orders to get the van Gogh drawings, arrive in Seattle. They know that the Yamadas are buying Glenn Marklund’s works, so they track down Margo since she represents my dad. They show up at Margo’s gallery, seeking information on the Japanese collectors. They find Julian, find him willing to talk, and pay him for information about where the Yamadas keep the drawings. Then Nishio and Uchida break into the Yamadas’ house one evening and make off with the drawings.

Next panel. Julian counts his cash. Then he visits a real estate office in Tacoma to inquire about buying a gallery space in Tacoma. He’s dying to branch out and do his own thing, away from Margo, who doesn’t appreciate him.

I stare at a blank panel. There’s still a missing piece. What made the
yakuza
think the van Gogh painting was in Seattle? I draw a question mark. Could Julian have given them mis-information? Would he say anything for the right price?

After a while, I give up on the real-life mystery and turn back to the made-up one. Unlike the real-life mystery, I suddenly know how this one will end.

* * *

THE CORMORANT RETURNS to her studio, catching Kimono Girl just as she’s emerging from the covered-up van Gogh. KG confronts the Cormorant. “I’m here to return the painting to its rightful owner. Now tell me where I can find the solvent that will remove this acrylic layer.”

The Cormorant holds up a small vial. “Heh heh heh. This is my special formula—I invented it, and this is all I have. The oils beneath would surely be damaged if an ordinary solvent is used. Use anything but this, and you’ll lose the van Gogh.”

KG draws her sword and demands the Cormorant apply it to the canvas.

The Cormorant laughs and transforms into her bird form, then lunges at KG, trying to peck her with her beak. The two fight, causing chaos in the studio. Paints and solvents topple off shelves. Bottles break. Frames and canvases are crashed into and broken. KG dives for the van Gogh and grabs the canvas. The Cormorant spears her hand with her beak. Blood spurts everywhere, but KG holds on to that canvas with all her strength. Then she lunges for the vial of special solvent, which is now rolling toward the door.

As the Cormorant comes at her one last time, wings raised, KG slashes at her with the sword. She nearly cuts the canvas, missing it by a millimeter, and clips one of the Cormorant’s wings instead. While the Cormorant recoils and cries out in pain, KG escapes from the studio with the canvas. And the solvent.

* * *

BY ONE, MY fingers are cramped and I have a crick in my neck. Reika’s snoring softly; she’s fallen asleep in one of the wicker chairs, and her poetry notebook has slid to the floor.

I look out the window and see my dad on the bank of the Katsura-gawa. He’s set up his tripod and easel and is painting on a small canvas. With his wide
yukata
sleeves fluttering and his expansive arm movements, he resembles a wizard. A strange wizard with a messy ponytail and sneakers peaking out the bottom of his robe instead of the ridged wooden flip-flops—
geta
—that all the other guests borrow to wear outside.

There are no women’s
geta
at the inn to fit my size-nine feet, so I find my Converse high-tops among the other guests’ outdoor shoes by the front desk. I feel vaguely ridiculous, walking around the tea garden in my
yukata
and high-tops. I follow the winding gravel path.

I stand behind my dad for a while, watching him paint, careful not to startle him.

“Everything okay?” my dad asks after a few minutes.

“Yeah, sure. I just thought we could, I don’t know, hang out or something.”

“And do what?” His hand does not stop moving. His watercolors are light and delicate—different from his usual, splashier work—but his lines are sure.

“No, when you hang out, you don’t really
do
anything. You just . . . never mind.”

I turn to go. Then a shiver passes through me. I remember what it felt like to talk to the
okami-san
, to demand that she reveal what she knows. I had been full of
chikara
that night. I turn back to my dad now and stare at him hard, feeling that power surge through me again.

Feeling the force of my stare, I assume, my dad sets down his brush and turns to me. “What’s on your mind, kiddo? Is it this gangster business?”

I nod, but surprisingly, what comes out of my mouth has nothing to do with that. “Why did you hide me?”

“Sorry?”

“You didn’t tell Skye about me. Or Margo. I was so embarrassed at your reception. Nobody had a clue who I was.”

“Oh.” My dad sits down on the riverbank. “Yeah.”

I sit, too, leaving a good three feet between us.

“I’m sorry. I hadn’t told Margo because, well, that’s a business relationship, and it simply never came up. And as for Skye, well, it’s complicated. See, she wants children someday. We haven’t sorted that out yet. I know I’m not a great parent. I haven’t been there for you over the years. So I kind of froze up about the issue with Skye. I didn’t know how to tell her about you. The longer I waited, the harder it got. I’m sorry it ended up embarrassing you.”