Tokyo Heist (28 page)

The room falls silent for a moment as everyone lets the words sink in.

All I can think about is the
gaijin
artist being erased, and the “source.” Someone told Fujikawa that all of us were here. I don’t know how Yoshi would know this, but I can’t think of who else could tip him off.

“That guy has some nerve,” my dad says. “How can he think these paintings are his?”

“Actually,” says Agent Chang, “some documents have turned up at an appraisal firm in France. In March 1987, an appraiser in Tokyo did in fact authenticate the drawings and the painting as van Goghs. However, the appraiser indicated in his personal notes that the client, Tomonori Yamada, paid the equivalent of twenty-five thousand dollars to devalue the art, and to destroy any documents related to the appraisal. The appraiser took the fee and kept quiet all these years, mostly out of fear of retribution. But he also kept the documents. I came to Japan to confirm this information.”

“So I guess that means Fujikawa really is entitled to the painting,” I say slowly.
And Tomonori Yamada was kind of a criminal himself,
I add in my mind. I think of the impish, gap-toothed boy in the photo. That boy did not look like a future art thief. But what else could he be? Yes, Fujikawa is a gangster, but he paid for that art. It doesn’t seem right for Tomonori to have hidden it away.

“That remains to be seen,” says Agent Change. “We’re looking into sales records from this Paris dealer. Some of his art has turned out to have falsified documents attached, indicating that thieves have tried to leak looted art back on the open market through him. Since these van Goghs were unsigned and not known to the world, it’s very possible the dealer did not know what he had. But Fujikawa might have had his suspicions. And Tomonori certainly had more than an inkling that the paintings were valuable.”

There’s one thing I still can’t wrap my mind around. “Why didn’t Tomonori deliver that art?” I wonder out loud.

“Perhaps when he realized its value, Tomonori thought he could hide the art, and tell Fujikawa it was stolen from him in transit,” says Inspector Mimura. “After Fujikawa eventually died, Tomonori could sell the works for a much higher fee than the commission he would have received.”

Kenji shakes his head. “No. That does not sound like my brother at all.”

The
okami-san
slowly stands up. She says something to Reika, and Reika nods. The
okami-san
speaks, and Reika translates.

“I knew Tomonori. He was . . . a personal friend of mine. I know he purchased art for other people who valued his keen eye. I know he purchased art for a man with
yakuza
connections, who I presume is Fujikawa. One night, the second-to-last time I saw him, I went to the
ukai
show with Tomonori. On the boat, he confessed something to me. He said some art he purchased in Paris had more value than his client thought. He knew Fujikawa was going to arrange for false documents to go with the papers and pass them off as works by a significant artist. He also knew Fujikawa would use the art as currency with other gangsters. When Tomonori discovered the drawings and painting were valuable, he didn’t want them used for this gangster’s purposes. He couldn’t bear the thought of a crime boss using van Goghs to secure loans for illegal activities. He did not know how to save the art.

“I told him to hide the art and pretend it had been stolen from him. It was not a serious remark. I was young. I occasionally said reckless things. I never assumed he would do such a thing. He would be risking his life, angering a dangerous client. But after he died, I gradually came to suspect this is what he had done. When I think of how passionately he used to speak about art, and how carefully he listened to my wild suggestion that night at the
ukai
show, it now makes sense to me.”

The
okami-san
takes a deep breath and continues, with a faraway look in her eyes as Reika translates for us. “I suppose that for most people, lives are more important than art. But to Tomonori, art, great art, was something worth dying for. If he could not stand up to his father and become an artist himself, at least he could save art from getting into the hands of real criminals who didn’t appreciate it.”

I wish the
okami-san
had told us all of this in the storeroom the other night. It might have been helpful to know the extent to which Tomonori was tangled up with Fujikawa. But I guess she wanted to try to protect her lover as much as she could, as long as she could.

I glance at Hideki to see how he’s taking this disturbing information about his dad. All this time he has sat with arms folded and legs crossed, his foot tapping in an agitated way. Now he is glaring at Inspector Mimura.

“Regardless of my father’s motives, the evening is getting on,” says Hideki. “We are wasting valuable time. If there is no painting beneath this one, we have only twenty-four hours to locate and deliver the painting. May we now see Kikuchi-san’s results?”

His harsh words jolt me, but I can kind of understand why he sounds upset. The investigators and the
okami-san
have just revealed a new perspective on Tomonori. His taking the van Gogh out of Tokyo and hiding it in a remote inn was a kind of heist in itself. Tomonori might have had high values about art, but technically, he bought the van Goghs on behalf of Fujikawa and never delivered them. That’s stealing.

“Yes, let us now see what Kikuchi-san has found,” says Inspector Mimura.

Natsuko goes to the easel and flips on a powerful light directed at the canvas. It connects to a computer screen, which shows shapes and shadows beneath Tomonori’s painting.

“Usually, this technology would reveal an underpainting or drawing quite clearly,” Natsuko explains. “Now, on this canvas, we can see some shapes here, and some faint impressions of what may be hills, a bridge, and a river. However, they are not clear ‘ghost images’ in the way that typical underpaintings appear. This leads me to believe that there is something else beneath this canvas. To find out, with Ogawa-san’s kind permission, I must remove the back of the frame.”

She looks at the
okami-san
, who nods.

Natsuko lifts the painting off the easel and moves it over to a table. She removes the screws and pries off the staples that hold the back of the frame together. Finally, she removes the canvas on its wood stretcher and sets the frame aside. She looks startled. “I must do more,” she murmurs. “I am going to separate the canvas from the wooden stretcher.” She brings out more precise tools and removes staples from the stretcher and canvas.

When all staples and tacks are out, she slips on a pair of white gloves and peels the canvas edges off the stretcher, working her way all around it. She pulls apart . . .

Two canvases
.

“I thought so!” Natsuko exclaims. “This is a double-stretched canvas. Yamada-san put another canvas beneath his. Then he fitted the double-stretched canvas into the exterior frame. That way he did not need to apply paint directly. I am relieved to see this. I feared we would find an impossible situation here.”

“You mean there’s no special solvent that would just take off an over-painting?” I ask.

Natsuko shakes her head. “Some solvents can remove some kinds of paint, yes. But applying paint, and later a solvent, to a canvas and oil painting from the 1800s would certainly damage the original art.”

There goes my whole theory about the over-painting. I guess Tomonori’s picture of the man with the big paintbrush must have been a symbol of his own painting, and the scene with the easel and two canvases must have meant exactly what it looked like. A painting slipped behind another painting. I’m a little disappointed. It was a good theory, and it worked out well in
Kimono Girl.
But I guess life isn’t always like manga. Still, I’m glad I came up with the over-painting theory because it did make me look more closely at all the canvases in the inn. I might otherwise have missed Tomonori’s
ukai
painting, both in the
onsen
corridor and in the storeroom.

Natsuko has finished laying out the two canvases on a table, side by side. Now she ushers all of us over to look. Next to Tomonori’s canvas is another one. Van Gogh’s
Moon Crossing Bridge
.

I can’t even describe the feeling of seeing the van Gogh painting in real life. The colors—blues, browns, greens—are vibrant and thickly applied. The brushstrokes are vigorous, with the artist’s characteristic swirls and chops; the river actually looks like it’s moving, as do the clouds in the sky. This painting is alive. It’s hard not to reach out and touch it.

“Is it in good shape?” my dad asks.

“Much better than I expected,” says Natsuko. “The top canvas concealed the painting from exposure to elements that might have caused damage. Though it is never advisable for one painting to nestle against another, with canvases touching, and I detect some cracking in the paint. I will need to conduct further studies to determine the extent of restoration work that is needed and the—”

“There’s no time for restoration work,” Hideki says, cutting her off. “And for our purposes, it does not matter what shape the painting is in, only that we have it. I need you to package this canvas for transportation. Make sure it’s in something that keeps it safe from the water. And while you’re at it, I could use some kind of waterproof tube for the van Gogh drawings Fujikawa-san will bring.”

“Waterproof? I’m afraid I don’t understand,” says Natsuko.

Hideki sighs. “In case the art falls into the river or gets splashed during the exchange.”

“Oh, we’ll nab Fujikawa just before the exchange takes place,” Agent Chang assures him. “I don’t think there will be time for the works to be damaged in any way.”

Hideki gives her a hard look. “Thank you. But that will not be necessary,” he says. “We will exchange the painting for the drawings, as he demands, and then he will leave.”

“You can’t obstruct justice!” says Agent Chang. “This guy is behind the Seattle van Gogh heist, and he’s a suspect in several other international art crime cases. Not to mention an enormous public safety threat. I learned from one of my associates here that his gang is behind some of the turf wars that have been erupting lately. I think all the boats need to be filled with undercover agents, and we need to take this guy down tomorrow night.”

Inspector Mimura looks embarrassed. “Actually, Agent Chang, I have looked into the possibility of a covert operation, given Fujikawa’s history with drug and weapon sales, but there is not enough of a link to this art heist to justify mounting a sting operation. Setting him up on the river tomorrow, well . . . it is kind of impossible. It violates Japanese law. I am sorry.”

Agent Chang paces, clearly annoyed. “This is so frustrating. He’s right within our reach.”

Hideki shakes his head. “Do you really want to put a foreigner at risk here?” He looks at my dad. “Fujikawa has clearly been threatening Glenn-san in his recent letters. Even if you take Fujikawa into custody tomorrow evening, he’ll have someone else carry out orders.”

I swallow hard and look tearfully at my dad, who is picking a hangnail and frowning. He’s not looking so Zen right now.

“I have a better solution,” Hideki says. “Keep your agents far from the river. I will go with my uncle and my aunt to deliver the painting and collect the drawings at the
ukai
show.”

“Not your aunt,” Kenji says. “There is no need for Mitsue to be anywhere near this scene.”

“I’m not leaving your side,” Mitsue insists, and she says a few words to him in Japanese.

“After Glenn leaves Japan, we can work together to make another arrangement,” Hideki continues to Agent Chang. “I will help the FBI, Interpol, any agency, in any way possible. I will lure Fujikawa to the United States, where you could then bring him into custody. Please, let me settle this business between Fujikawa and my father.”

Agent Chang looks disappointed, but she shrugs. “If that’s what you wish, I’ll get out of your way. I’ve done all I’m authorized to do here.”

Natsuko clears her throat. “Excuse me. I am ready to package the van Gogh for transport. But what about the other painting?” Natsuko gestures to Tomonori’s
ukai
picture.

Hideki looks at the
okami-san
. “Ogawa-san shall have it,” he says. “It was a gift to her from my father. It is rightfully hers.”

Natsuko picks up the van Gogh and heads for another room. I catch a strange expression on her face, an expression I can’t quite read. An odd look of determination.

“Where are you taking that?” Hideki demands.

“My wrapping supplies are in another room. It will be ready for you in twenty minutes.”

As the door closes behind her, the
okami-san
picks up Tomonori’s
ukai
canvas and replaces it in the frame, with a grateful glance at Hideki.

3

5

J
uly 18, the day of the painting handover, arrives with a van Gogh–worthy sunrise. I stretch luxuriously in my futon, in the warm yellow light, feeling well-rested for the first time in days. The painting’s been found. Fujikawa will be satisfied. The Yamadas will get the van Gogh drawings back. And my dad will be safe.

The mood is lighter at breakfast, too, when we gather with the Yamadas in the private dining room. My dad shares some quotes from his Zen phone app, and I’m actually not annoyed. The wrapped-up canvas rests against a wall near the head of the table, like a guest of honor; Kenji swears he won’t let it out of his sight until the art exchange on the river this evening.

Hideki, though, is strangely quiet. He retreats to his room soon after breakfast, with apologies. “I have ignored some important work for the office for too long.”

Kenji and Mitsue leave soon after, taking the canvas back to their room. They each pick up a corner of it and ease it out the door, as if carrying a napping baby.

My dad, Reika, and I take the train to Kyoto and watch the
Gion Matsuri
parade. We spend the day touring the Gion district, visiting some famous temples and shrines, and walking
Tetsugaku no michi
, the Philosopher’s Path. We visit a crafts museum and watch a demonstration on how to make woodblock prints. I watch one man carve a waterfall scene into a cherry block. He uses his delicate knives and chisels so expertly, it looks like he’s drawing in a hunk of cheese or butter.