Tokyo Heist Read Online Free Page A

art crimes that are plaguing Seattle galleries and museums.
    I’ve been stuck there in my story, trying to figure out who would steal art. Now I recall how I hit the villain jackpot tonight. “Bad guys coming,” I whisper to my heroine.
    First, I do a rough sketch of Margo—the Scarf—exaggerating details to make her look sinister. Pointy angles, arched eyebrows, elongated legs. Art dealer by day, evil magician by night. She knows people willing to buy black-market art. She can use her scarf to whisk away stolen goods and deliver them to clients.
    Could the real-life Margo be a suspect? She might know where the Yamadas kept the van Goghs. But she was here at the gallery at the time of the crime.
    I turn to a new page and do a rough sketch of Julian—Sockeye—exaggerating his fishy features. I then show him shape-shifting: leaping out the window, turning into a salmon midair.
    Could the real-life Julian be the thief? He works closely with Margo, so he probably knows something about the Yamadas’ collection, too. But he has the same alibi as Margo. Plus, he seemed anxious about the crime, playing security guard around the gallery.
    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
    L eaving 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