by Diana Renn
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 you didn’t want to talk to the police.”
“When did I say such a ridiculous thing?”
“When we came back from the party the other night. The broken window?”
“Oh. Right.” My dad sighs. “Look. I probably gave you the wrong idea about not reporting stuff. If you noticed someone casing a place of business or a house, or following a person—even though you shouldn’t have gotten involved in the first place—you should have brought it to my attention. What happened to my house was just petty vandalism, remember?”
I look at him. “You see no possible connection to the Yamadas’ break-in?”
“None whatsoever.”
I don’t understand the connection yet. I’m just certain these two events are linked.
* * *
AT VIRGINIA MASON, we rush down cold, white corridors and find Julian’s room. Margo is pacing outside the door. She throws her arms around my dad. “Glenn! The nurse is checking his vitals, but then we should be able to go in and see Julian—oh my, what happened to you?”
“I ran into a wall.” My dad extracts himself from Margo’s claws. “Where are my paintings?” He looks around as if they might have been given hospital beds.
“I’m afraid there’s no hope for the paintings, Glenn.” She notices me. “Oh. You. Hello.”
“Violet has some information that might be helpful. Turns out there may be a connection between this incident, the Yamadas’ case, and some things she’s noticed recently.”
“Is that so? I’m intrigued.” She looks down her long nose at me.
But now a nurse is ushering us into the room, pushing an equipment cart aside so we can all squeeze in. “Mr. Fleury is groggy from the painkillers, but he can talk,” the nurse says.
With his two black eyes, cut lip, scratched face, and splinted arm, Julian looks like a wreck. Not at all like a prime suspect in an art heist.
Margo pats Julian’s foot through the sheet. “You poor, poor thing. How are you feeling?”
“Unnnnghhh.”
“Can you tell us what happened?”
“Arggngush.” He motions to a pitcher. Margo pours him water and brings the glass to his lips. At last he speaks in a raspy voice. We all lean close to hear.
“After I left Glenn’s house, I ran a few errands, then drove to the gallery. I parked in the alley by the service door. I unlocked the door and went back for the paintings in the van. That’s when two Asian guys jumped me. One guy pulled out a knife. He was holding it funny. I noticed he was missing part of his little finger. They shouted at me, ‘Where is it?’ I didn’t know what they were talking about. One guy held the knife to my neck while the other guy ransacked the back of the van. Then they both started screaming at me in some other language. Japanese, I think. They threw some punches, kicked me around. Then I passed out.”
He pauses to sip his water. “When I came to,” he goes on, his voice fainter, “the police were there, EMTs, and I was being loaded onto a stretcher. Guess some wino found me and got someone to call 911. I told the EMTs to close the van, protect the paintings. They looked at me like I was crazy. Said the van was empty. But just as they wheeled me into the ambulance, a policeman said four paintings were found in a Dumpster. Canvases slashed. Then I passed out again. Woke up here. Sorry about the paintings,” he mutters to my dad after he drinks again. “And sorry, Margo. Looks like I won’t make it to Tokyo after all. I’m in no shape to travel.”
“That’s okay, dear. Your job right now is to recover.” Margo turns to me. “Well, Violet, I’m on pins and needles.”
I tell them what I know about the two Japanese men with the Prius lurking outside her gallery and following Skye.
“But the yakuza are in Japan, not Seattle,” Margo says.
Julian shakes his head. “Not true,” he croaks. “The yakuza have penetrated the art world. Internationally.”
“Whatever for?” Margo asks.
“They’re selling art on the black market to buy weapons, drugs, things like that. Or they use it for collateral to secure loans from other gangsters.”
“Do you guys want to see them? I have a video.” I reach into my pack for the DVD.
Margo gives me a withering smile. “Oh, sweetie. Your video is not valid evidence. It was not shot under controlled circumstances. It would never hold up in a court of law.”
For a moment, I feel deflated. But I’ve worked too hard to let this all be for nothing. I pop the DVD into my laptop and point out the two men.
“Julian, are those the men who attacked you?” Margo asks him when I’m done.
“Yeah, yeah. Without a doubt. I got a good look at their faces.”
Margo taps her lacquered nails on the bed frame. “Maybe these hoodlums were after your paintings, Glenn. But why would they destroy them? Now they have no resale value.”
“Maybe to send some kind of message?” I offer. “Yakuza sometimes mess people up like this in the manga I read. To threaten them and stuff.”
My dad frowns. “This isn’t a comic book, Violet. Get a grip.”
“Could these men have mistaken Julian for somebody else?” Margo asks. “Doing something else?”
“I’m sure that’s it,” my dad says, though his eyebrows are knitting together.
“Of course that’s it,” Margo snaps. “Julian would never get mixed up in illicit business.”
We all look at Julian. His eyelids flutter, then close.
I watch the rise and fall of his skinny chest under the white sheets. He looks almost peaceful now, like an innocent victim. I no longer think he stole the drawings himself. But I can’t shake the feeling that he’s not as innocent as he looks.
1
4
Later that evening, my dad and I follow Margo to her gallery, where a policewoman stops us at the door to check our IDs. “You can go into the gallery, but you can’t access the alley,” a policewoman says. “The investigator is still taking pictures.”
“And the damaged paintings?” my dad asks in a small voice. “Where are they?”
“No one is permitted to view the evidence, sir.”
“But I’m the artist.”
“No one is permitted to view the evidence,” she repeats.
My dad lets out a long breath. He looks like somebody died. I try to imagine how I’d feel if I lost my Kimono Girl storyboards, all those hours of work down the drain. I reach out a hand to pat his arm, but Margo opens the door and he brushes past me and walks inside.
Inside the gallery, Margo immediately lowers the blinds, shutting out the gathering crowd of curious onlookers. Surrounded by the tree paintings, it feels like we’re in a safer place, an enchanted grove. But moments later, the outside world leaks in. Flashing red and blue lights from police cruisers slice through the blinds and stain the walls.
Margo and my dad lift the lone madro
na painting off the wall and set it on the floor. They’re about to choose three others to use as substitutes in the Tokyo show when the front door buzzes.
Margo answers it. In walk Kenji and Mitsue, followed by two people I’ve never seen. One is an Asian American woman, maybe in her late thirties, wearing a black pantsuit. The other is an African American man, a bit younger, in khaki slacks and a striped polo shirt.
“FBI,” says the woman, flashing a badge. “I’m Special Agent Jessica Chang. This is Special Agent Thomas Denny, my assistant. We’re with the FBI Art Crime Team.”
“The FBI!” Margo exclaims.
“We have some reason to believe there’s a connection between the assault on Mr. Fleury tonight and the missing van Gogh drawings,” Agent Chang goes on. “We also suspect the involvement of an international organized crime group.”
“Which one of you is Violet Marklund?” asks the man, Agent Denny.
“Me.” My voice comes out like a squeak. I clear my throat. “Violet Rossi, actually. Not Marklund.” Then it hits. This is no game. Serious law enforcement officials—more intimidating than the policeman who took my statement at the hospital—want to talk to me.
“We spoke with the Seattle police. We understand you have a video,” says Agent Chang. My hand shakes as I give her the DVD, which she pops into a tiny laptop. I point out the gangsters. When it’s over, Agent Chang rewinds to a scene and writes down some numbers. “Nice shot of the license plate. Now Violet, tell us where you first noticed these men.”
I tell my story for the third time, starting with the night of the art reception.
“Do you think these men ever saw you and Edge?” Agent Denny asks. “Think carefully.”
“I’m sure they didn’t see us filming. Even if they did, I was in disguise. Plus, we got them on video accidentally. It’s not like we were trying to film them. They were just in the frames.”
“That’s good,” says Agent Denny. “You don’t want to be on the yakuza’s radar.”
“So why would these gangsters lurk around my gallery, follow Glenn’s girlfriend, and attack my employee?” Margo demands. “Do you have a theory? Because frankly, I’m stumped.”
“Actually, we do have a theory,” says Agent Chang. “Violet’s information has led us to suspect that members of a yakuza gang stole the drawings. We think these two men, perhaps acting on orders of their boss, broke into the Yamadas’ home and made off with the van Goghs.”
I wrap my feet around the legs of my chair. I’m so dizzy I feel like I might fall off. I knew those guys in the Prius were creepy. I’m glad I gave the FBI useful information, like their car license plate, even if it was accidental. But I can’t believe I went so far down the wrong track with my thoughts. First, I thought Skye stole the drawings. Then I suspected Julian. But I never imagined these Japanese guys could have stolen the drawings themselves. I guess it makes sense. But if those men had already stolen the drawings, why were they following Skye?
An idea comes to me. “Could these guys be looking for the van Gogh painting? The one that goes with the Moon Crossing Bridge drawings?”
Agent Chang nods. “That’s a possibility we’re exploring now.”
Agent Denny turns to Kenji. “Mr. Yamada, would you please share your news?”
Kenji looks sober as he opens his briefcase. “A letter arrived today from Japan. It is in Japanese. I will translate.” He unfolds it, clears his throat, and reads from the kanji characters typed on thick white paper. “‘The drawings of the Moon Crossing Bridge are now in my possession. My sources tell me that you possess the corresponding painting. I am also told that you removed the painting from Japan some time ago and transported it to Seattle. As I have indicated in previous correspondence, both the drawings and paintings are rightfully mine. Your brother, Tomonori Yamada, purchased them on my behalf. My associates will expect a personal delivery of the Moon Crossing Bridge painting on Monday, July 7, at 7:00 P.M. They will meet you in front of the Hammering Man sculpture outside the Seattle Art Museum. As an added incentive for your cooperation, I will return the drawings in exchange for the painting. They are less valuable to me financially, due to their condition, and I understand from my source that they hold sentimental value for you. I am a family man myself, and I can sympathize. You see, Yamada-san, you will find I am quite a reasonable man to do business with. However, if you do not deliver the painting, I will be forced to employ drastic measures. Hiroshi Fujikawa.’”
Kenji takes a photo out of the envelope and passes it around. It’s the three van Gogh drawings, spread out on a table. “He enclosed this picture of the drawings as proof that his associates have them.”
“Monday? That’s six days from now!” my dad explodes. “You’re going to find a painting that’s been lost for decades and what, hand it over in six days?”
“And who is this fellow?” Margo asks.
Kenji folds the letter and replaces it in the red-and-yellow international courier envelope. “Hiroshi Fujikawa is chairman of the Fujikawa-gumi.”
“One of the yakuza’s most notorious gangs,” Agent Chang elaborates for us. “And we believe the two men who assaulted Julian Fleury—and who presumably took the van Gogh drawings—are working for Fujikawa himself.”
“You mean your brother bought art for a mob boss?” my dad asks.
Kenji emphatically shakes his head. “My brother loved to attend art auctions, and he occasionally bought art for me, or for friends, on his travels. He had a great talent for finding treasures. But I believe Fujikawa is lying. He just wants the painting for himself.”
“What does he mean by ‘drastic measures’?” I ask.
Kenji pauses a moment before he speaks. “I can guess. Fujikawa has extorted money from our business from time to time over the years. He left us alone for a while. But after I found the drawings in my Tokyo office four months ago, he began contacting me about the drawings. When I ignored his requests for them, we began to experience some difficulties at our construction sites. Accidents. We suspect sabotage. So it is possible he is planning a more drastic action at a site or a building if I do not come up with the painting.”
I have serious chills. I think back to the articles I read last week—the explosions, the broken scaffolding, the collapsed bridge. If those accidents weren’t really accidents, who knows what this guy is capable of? Maybe Tomonori’s suicide in 1987 wasn’t really a suicide. Maybe someone pushed him off that subway platform! I wonder if this Fujikawa guy knew that the drawings and painting were real van Goghs long before they were authenticated.
“And you really don’t know where that painting is?” Agent Chang persists.
“I wish I did,” Kenji says. “As I have already explained to you, my brother died before he could tell me where he put it. Over the years, I have searched our office building and my brother’s house. I interrogated his late wife, his friends, and his connections at various museums. Eventually, I had to give up.”
“He didn’t leave a single clue?” Margo asked. “Not even a note or something?”
“No note. Not even a suicide note,” Kenji says. “Well, not a proper note. On the subway platform were his shoes and socks, which is why we knew it was suicide.”
“No autopsy?” Agent Denny asks, pausing from taking notes.
“They were seldom performed in Japan back in the 1980s,” Kenji says. “Especially when all signs pointed to suicide. Well, beside his shoes was his briefcase. And inside the briefcase was a drawing of two ayu. No business papers. Just this pen-and-ink drawing.”
“Ayu?” my dad asks. “What’s that?”
Ayu. It sounds familiar, but I’m not sure why.
“It’s a kind of fish. A river trout. It’s very popular in Japan,” Mitsue explains.
Maybe I saw ayu on a sushi menu or something. “Who did the drawing?” I ask him.
Mitsue pats his arm. “Tomo was a talented artist, but the Yamada family was unsupportive of his dream. They pressured him to go into the family business. It is why he consoled himself with collecting art. We interpreted the ayu as a symbolic message, his way of explaining his decision. It was all we had to comprehend his mind-set. Such a happy person, with everything going for him—a thriving business, a healthy young son. I suppose there are disturbances in some people, beneath the surface, that are too deep to create even a ripple. Things you never know until it is too late.”
“So he was basically a misunderstood artist,” my dad says.
Kenji nods. “And since he left no message about the whereabouts of his most recent art purchases, we were looking for needles in haystacks. Which is why finding the painting and handing it over six days from now is, well, problematic.”
“Wait, why would your brother have hidden the painting separately from the drawings?” I ask Kenji. “Especially if an appraiser said these weren’t even van Goghs?”
“He planned to seek a second opinion on the appraisal at some point,” Kenji explains. “He had an instinctive feeling that the drawings and the paintings were authentic. He wished to keep the art safe until it could be proven. And since the painting was potentially so much more valuable than the drawings, he thought it best to hide them in separate locations.”
“He wanted to keep the art safe from whom?” Agent Denny demands.
“Fumiko. His wife. He feared she would dispose of it. He was having marital problems. He had recently altered his will to leave his collection to Mitsue and me.”
“He didn’t want his wife to inherit his art? That’s harsh,” I remark.
“Violet,” my dad murmurs. “Please.”
“I’m just saying.”
