Tokyo Heist by Diana Renn Page B

wallet. I don’t have any idea where it is.”
    “I saw it in your studio. On the little table by the window.”
    “Oh, yeah. Right next to my brain. Wow, you’re really good at finding stuff!”
    “Thanks!” Two compliments in two minutes? “I’ll just run up and get it.”
    The studio still shows signs of the fight: a sea of papers on the floor, an overturned chair, a puddle of spilled paints, bleeding together. Just as I grab the wallet, something catches my eye.
    Near the tabouret of art supplies lies a brown portfolio.
    Time stops. Even the dust motes stop dancing. What if that portfolio holds the van Gogh sketches? What if Julian stole them from the Yamadas’ house and then planted the stolen drawings today to frame my dad, not Skye? He seemed upset about my dad “stealing” Skye. He can call the police, say he saw something suspicious in my dad’s studio, and the police will be all over it. If they can nab my dad and recover the drawings, Julian’s one hundred thousand dollars richer from the Yamadas’ reward money.
    I pick up the portfolio and shake some papers onto the table. Drawings. They’re beautiful, but they’re not van Goghs.
    They’re charcoal sketches of Skye. In one, she’s in a canoe, trailing her hands in the water and staring into the distance with a dreamy expression. In another, she’s picking flowers. In another, she’s sitting on a porch swing, holding a cup in two hands. In the next three, she’s nude, and I quickly shuffle those to the bottom of the pile.
    In all of these pictures, she looks softer than she does in real life. And happy.
    A photograph falls out of the pile. It’s a picture of her and my dad at a holiday party at some funky warehouse-style art gallery. They stand arm in arm by an aluminum Christmas tree decorated with old car parts, gazing into each other’s eyes.
    There’s more to their story than the fight they had. My dad looks really happy, too.
    Not like now. I look outside. My dad’s talking on his cell phone and pacing.
    He’s been through a lot today, with Julian. He’s nervous about the trip, too; whenever he’s not locked in his studio, he’s on the phone with Margo or his friends, muttering about trying to please Hideki Yamada. I put the sketches back and head downstairs.
    Outside, my dad’s just hung up the phone. He looks shaken as I hand him the wallet. “I can’t go out to dinner,” he says, his voice cracking. “Julian’s been attacked.”

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    “W hat? When? Who attacked him?” My breath comes fast.
    “Margo called. A couple of guys jumped him. Messed him up pretty bad. Lacerations. Concussion. He’s in the hospital. And my paintings.” He grimaces. “Slashed.”
    “No way!”
    “Margo’s on her way over to Virginia Mason Hospital right now. She wants me to come. Guess I’ll have to talk to the police again since Julian had come from my house.” He hands me a twenty from his wallet. “I’m sorry about dinner. Get yourself some takeout. I’ll have leftovers later.”
    I have the uneasy suspicion that the two yakuza had their hands in all this, minus one missing pinky. If I’d come forward with my information sooner, maybe this assault wouldn’t have happened. “I’m coming with you. I need to tell you something. Wait one second.” I dash into the house and throw the jewel case with the DVD and my laptop into my backpack.
    On the way to the hospital, I tell my dad everything.
    He’s quiet. Then he explodes. “Jesus, Violet. Why did you keep this to yourself? The police could have been looking for these creeps.”
    “I tried! You were really, really busy! I can’t talk to you!”
    “And what on earth possessed you and your friend to stalk Skye? You really crossed a line, Violet. Not to mention, you’re acting on pure speculation.”
    “I just wanted to help. Besides, if I hadn’t heard Skye was a suspect, I never would have followed her, and then I never would have caught those guys on film. Plus, you said