Tokyo Heist (7 page)

“Seriously, right? We have evidence on film that these guys were following Skye. Oh my God. Remember I said someone broke a window at my dad’s house yesterday?”

“Yeah. You think those guys did it?”

“No. I think Skye did.”

“How could she get to Fremont so fast and break a window?”

“We stopped to get gas. She might have had just enough time.”

“But why would she try to break into his house? Why not just walk in?”

“Because my dad never gave her a key. He has commitment issues. Edge.” I clutch his arm. “Listen. I think that Skye had hidden the stolen van Gogh drawings in my dad’s house. For safekeeping. Then, when they broke up, she hurried over there to retrieve them.”

“Wait, you really think your dad could have unknowingly had van Goghs in his house?”

“The place looks like an art supply store exploded. I bet he doesn’t know what he has. It’s the perfect hiding place for art.”

Edge nods. “So maybe these guys in the Prius are undercover policemen, trying to get enough evidence to arrest Skye.”

“They don’t look like policemen to me. Especially the guy with the missing finger.”

“What kind of villains wear REI gear and drive an eco-friendly hybrid car?”

“I don’t know. But I think they knew Skye had cleaned Kenji’s van Gogh drawings. I bet they knew or suspected that she stole the art, and now they want to steal it from her. That’s why they were hanging around outside the art reception last night: because they were tailing her.”

“If they had their suspicions, why wouldn’t they intercept her and grab the portfolio when she was walking around with it today?”

“Broad daylight. Too obvious.”

Edge nods. “Okay. But last night, if they followed Skye to your dad’s reception, why didn’t they just demand the drawings then? Or later, when she broke into your dad’s house?”

“Maybe she was never alone long enough. And that big fight with my dad could have thrown them. Maybe she went over there so fast they couldn’t catch up.”

Edge replays the final image of the two men on the screen as they turn toward
Hammering Man
, leaving the frame. “Why would they follow her all the way to the museum and then stop?”

“Because she left the portfolio there,” I say. “Maybe she met someone and handed it over, either in an exhibit somewhere or in an office.”

“We have to find out who Skye left them with.”

“How? Just knock on some office doors and ask for them? ‘Excuse me, did a woman with a cormorant tattoo give you anything to sell anything on the black market recently?’”

“You’re right. That’s ridiculous.” Edge sighs. “Museums have good security. It’d be much harder for those guys to break into SAM and steal the drawings from there. Besides, if Skye took the drawings to a museum, and everyone in the city knows about this art theft, she probably wanted the art to get returned.”

I sit up straighter. “Yeah, maybe her ‘cash windfall’ had something to do with getting that reward money! Maybe she pulled off this whole stunt as a scam, and she’s having someone else return the drawings for her. Maybe they’ll split the reward.”

Edge snaps his fingers. “An inside job. With someone working at SAM.”

I think for a moment. “But why are we assuming Skye’s going to turn in the art? What if her connection at the museum is really someone who will sell it to the black market and split the money with her?”

“That’s a great theory, Violet. You know what? I think you’re a natural sleuth.”

“Really?” Am I imagining it, or is he now leaning a millimeter closer to me?

My heart is beating so fast, I’m sure he can hear it. He has a funny, soft look on his face, like he might be about to zoom in. To me. His lips part. His breath feels warm.

I lean closer to Edge. The case of the missing art fades away. For a moment, there is only Edge’s face, tilting toward mine, and the cool green of his eyes.

Taps at the door. We jerk away from each other.

“Edge? I need a word with you.”

Chikuso!
When did Mrs. Downey get home from work?

“Okay, Mom. Just a sec.”

“Now. It’s important.”

Edge sighs and pushes his chair back. “Fine.”

I pop the DVD Edge burned for me into a jewel case while he and his mom talk in the hall.

“Edge, I don’t want you two in there with the door closed. It’s inappropriate.”

“But Mom—”

“And frankly, I don’t feel comfortable with you entertaining her here when nobody’s home. You and Mardi have been spending lots of time in there these past few days.”

“
Mom
. Give it a rest, okay? Mardi’s not here. It’s Violet.”

“Oh!” Mrs. Downey’s tone completely changes. I mean,
completely.
You’d think the sun had just burst through the clouds and unicorns were dancing over rainbows. “Hello, Violet!”

“Hi.” I can barely manage to croak that one word. Edge’s tone of voice said it all. I’m not the kind of girl his mom has to worry about. I’m not a temptation. I’m safe.

Worse, yesterday evening’s little tutorial session with Mardi was not the first. She and Edge have hung out before. At his house. In his room.

When Edge comes back in, I’m standing up, slinging my backpack over one shoulder.

“Whoa. Rewind. I missed something.”

The words fly out. “How long have you been hanging out with Mardi? It wasn’t just last night. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“See, you
are
mad. I knew it. Why did you tell me you were fine with it, if you’re not?”

“I didn’t think you guys would actually be friends.”

“She’s not that bad, Violet. You two just had some misunderstanding. You should talk.”

“
You’re
the one with the misunderstanding. She’s getting you to do all this stuff for her to make her look good at film camp. She’s using you. And then she’s going to ditch you.” I hear my next words as if I’m floating up by the ceiling, but I can’t stop myself. “Her friends think it’s this big joke, that she’s hanging with Spielberg. They’re all cracking up over it.”

Edge steps back as if I’ve slapped him. His face flushes.

This is the worst thing I’ve ever said to him. To anyone. But now my nasty, hideous words sit there between us, like an ugly rock hurled through a window.

He gives me a long look. “I get it. You just don’t want me to make new friends.”

“What?”

“It’s easier for you, isn’t it, if I’m always available. Good old reliable Edge. He’ll show up at a moment’s notice. He’ll be a sounding board for all your ideas. He’ll bring you coffee. He’ll film your suspect.”

“Look, if you don’t want to help me solve this mystery, then don’t. Nobody’s forcing you to do anything.”

“So you don’t want my help?”

“I don’t. I can do this on my own.”

“That’s what you want?”

“That’s what I want. Go to film camp with Mardi. Have a nice summer.”

“Fine. I will.”

“Fine.”

“Great.”

I run out the door, out of the house, past Mrs. Downey, whose mouth drops in astonishment. I run all the way to the bus stop, imagining I’m Kimono Girl, running so fast she becomes airborne, surrounded by radial speed lines and sparks.

9

S
unday morning, the brakes complain as my dad coaxes the Volvo down a steep private drive. I should be excited as my dad pulls up beside an iron gate. Soon I’ll be viewing a real crime scene. But mostly I feel nauseated. I can’t stop replaying my fight with Edge.

I haven’t even wanted to think about the van Gogh mystery since then. After I got back to my dad’s on Friday evening, I cried for a couple of hours, trying to figure out how a great day with Edge turned so ugly so fast. I don’t know how we’ll ever erase the mean things we both said and start over.

Eventually, I escaped into
Kimono Girl
, a story I could control. I picked up on page eleven. I managed to storyboard four more pages. In my story, a van Gogh painting called
Sunrise Bridge
is swiped off the wall of the Seattle Art Museum. The suspected thief is a notorious Seattle art criminal, the Cormorant, so called because she always leaves a sketch of a cormorant behind, the curved neck shaped like a question mark.

Kimono Girl resolves to catch her. She hides in the museum paintings, studying the people who work there, thinking this might be an inside job. She gradually begins to suspect a freelance conservator named Kara Mirant, who comes and goes at odd times, always lingering in the gallery of nineteenth-century European paintings. One day, KG follows Kara to her studio in Belltown to look for clues. She watches Kara work at a drafting table late into the night, then leave, walking briskly down to Alaskan Way and the piers. She follows the art conservator onto Pier 43, then gasps as she morphs into the Cormorant and flies out over Elliott Bay. Now KG
knows
she has to find that painting. And she’s dying to see what Kara was working on at that drafting table.

Well, KG wouldn’t sit in a car gaping at a fancy house. Neither would Kyo and Mika in
Vampire Sleuths
. They’d all get inside to view the crime scene and start asking questions. Just because Edge is off the case doesn’t mean I should quit, too. I don’t have much time left. My mom gave her permission for me to go to Japan, and we’re leaving in just four days.

Holding our bouquet of obviously-last-minute flowers, I get out of the car. As I follow my dad to the Yamadas’ front door, I frantically pick the red sticker off the plastic, wishing we had gotten something nicer than discount pink carnations from the nearby Mobil station.

The Yamadas’ house is flat and low, tucked into the hillside, with a wide deck facing the lake. Deep blue tiles shimmer on the roof. The yard resembles a real Japanese garden with pruned shrubs, red maples, winding white-stone pathways, and a miniature stone pagoda. A fountain bubbles up from a pond, where orange
koi
glide among lily pads.

Kenji greets us at the door. “Please, if you don’t mind.” He gestures to a basket of slippers by the door. “It is a Japanese custom.”

We exchange our shoes for beautiful silk slippers. I choose green ones with a pattern of white cranes. My dad chooses black with red dragons. Then we follow Kenji into a living room. One whole wall is windows, displaying the gray-blue lake. As Mitsue comes forward, it’s like she’s walking out of a painting.

Mitsue greets us warmly, then excuses herself to fix our tea.

Both Kenji and Mitsue act gracious, the perfect hosts. But they look exhausted. I can tell the investigation is taking its toll.

I sit on a long, white leather couch, at the far end from my dad and Kenji. I inspect a collection of framed photos on a table behind the couch: snapshots of Mitsue and Kenji on exotic vacations. One way to hide in the open is to look absorbed in something; my friends and I do this all the time at school. If I’m looking at pictures, I’ll vanish, and my dad and Kenji will talk.

I pick up an old black-and-white picture of two Japanese boys. It’s a formal picture, taken in a studio, with the boys dressed in identical outfits: crisp button-down shirts and pleated pants. The older, bespectacled boy, around twelve years old, smiles with his mouth closed. He faces the camera squarely, but his eyes rest on the younger boy. He looks protective. The little guy, with tousled hair, looks right at the camera with an impish, gap-toothed grin. I’m guessing this is young Kenji and his little brother Tomonori. I stare at Tomonori, trying to find hints of the sadness that would lead him to jump off a subway platform as an adult. I can’t see the shadows. He’s radiant.

“Yeah, so, tomorrow’s my summonsing,” my dad says to Kenji.

I clutch the photo frame
.

“Yes. I feel terrible, Glenn, putting you in this awkward position. It is but a formality. You know Mitsue and I have no suspicions about you. Clearly, you were teaching that night, and besides, you are an artist. Artists are not art thieves. The idea of it is absurd.”

“Well, thanks, I appreciate that. Have the detectives talked to anyone else yet?”

“Margo and Julian. They’ve been cleared. The gallery’s security tape proved they were at the gallery at the time, planning the show. And UPS documents proved that Julian signed for a delivery there that evening.”

I know Skye was questioned on Friday, too. It’s all I can do not to speak up and ask what came of that. But my dad beats me to it. “And Skye? They talked to her, I guess?”

“Yes. She is considered a person of interest.”

My dad frowns. “She didn’t do it.”

“This is a sensitive subject. I should not have mentioned it.”

“No, no. I want to know. What are they saying about her?”

“Apparently, there was an incident, three years ago. Skye was questioned about missing art. She was rehousing a client’s collection. A Matisse sketch vanished. It was never recovered.”

My dad chews his lip. “And now they think she’s taken the van Goghs? It’s pure coincidence, Kenji. Skye takes her job very seriously. Besides, she wasn’t anywhere near here on Wednesday evening. She runs at Green Lake every Wednesday, rain or shine.”

Kenji smiles sympathetically. “Yes. I’m sure. But a hazard of running alone is that there is no one to prove you were doing that.”

“She has nothing to do with this. Nothing at all!”

I’m surprised at how passionately my dad is defending Skye, a person he just broke up with.

Kenji strokes his chin. “Her conservation studio has an excellent legal team. I am sure she is well represented and her name will be cleared. And then we’ll be happy to work with her again. I am sorry. I am aware it must be difficult to hear such things about your fiancée.”

“What—what did you say?” my dad asks, echoing my own thought.
Fiancée?

“Skye told me your news. Last Monday, when she was here working.”

“But I’m not—we’re not—I never—oh, shoot.” My dad looks really unhappy now. “Look, Skye and I decided to part ways after my show on Thursday. And we weren’t engaged.”

“Oh. So the ring—it wasn’t from you?”

“Ring? What ring?”