Tokyo Heist Read Online Free PDF Page A

window and sink into the seat. I hold my hands up to my face to block out my dad and Skye. Then I turn my hands into Ls. Frame Game . I scan the surrounding area out the window, opposite my dad and Skye. Suddenly, I catch an image between my fingers.
    It’s that green Prius. It’s moved up a block. The two men with umbrellas are standing outside of it again.
    “Fine! Just walk away!” Skye shouts. “You’ll be sorry! I’m the best thing that ever happened to you, and you know it! There is not one other woman who’d put up with your crap!”
    My dad gets back in. He slams the door and starts the car. He grips the wheel hard. Through the passenger mirror I see her receding figure, waving her arms and shouting. Crazy.
    We drive by the two men, pausing at a stoplight right by them. Under the streetlight glare, I can now see both guys are Asian. One guy is short and thin, with spiky hair and a square jaw. The other is stockier and taller, with thick hair. They both wear sporty blue raincoats and carry oversize Seahawks umbrellas. Probably just tourists, in town for the ball game.
    The light turns green, and my dad drives on. I look at his grip on the steering wheel. What really scares me is that my dad is going to be questioned on Monday about the stolen van Gogh drawings. I catch my breath. If he’s been involved with that crazy lady Skye all these months, maybe he does have some connection to the crime. I sit up straighter. I have to find out more about this art heist and about Skye.
    “So, uh, Skye was supposed to go to Japan?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
    “Yeah, for professional reasons. She’s an art conservator.” His voice is clipped.
    “Cool. My art class went to the Seattle Art Museum last month and toured the conservation labs.” I loved that field trip. The people who worked there were like magicians, using tools and brushes to restore paintings to their original brilliance. Patching tiny rips and wormholes. We even got to see how shining an infrared light on a canvas could reveal a pentimento, a drawing or painting beneath the top painting, which showed where the artist changed his mind. Beneath an oil painting of flying cherubs, we could see four ghostly arms that the artist had tried out before settling on their final outstretched position.
    “So does Skye work at SAM?”
    “No. She’s at a small firm in Belltown. The Yamadas hired her to rehouse their print collection. She was also supposed to oversee the transportation of my paintings for the art show.”
    “And she’s a suspect because she worked with the Yamadas’ collection?”
    “She worked in their home. She had direct access to the stolen portfolio.” My dad sighs. “Violet, do you think we could just have some quiet? It’s all been . . . a lot.”
    “Sure.” I stare out the window, blinking back tears, and as he stops for gas, I let a few fall. We cross the Fremont Bridge over the ship canal, and I gaze at the statue of people waiting at a bus stop, at the funky cafés and vintage clothing shops. When I pictured arriving in this neighborhood for the summer, it was always a happy image. I thought I’d be talking art with my dad and going to museums and swanky parties with him. Skye dropped a bomb on all that. I almost hope she really is an art thief. Then they’ll just lock her up.
    My dad turns up a steep hill just past Fremont Center. He parks in front of a small house with peeling yellow paint. Sagging concrete steps lead up to it from the street, overgrown with tangles of blackberry bushes, like thousands of strands of dead Christmas lights. “Home sweet home,” he says.
    But then, as we climb the steps to the porch, he stops short and swears under his breath. The window to the right of the door is shattered. Jagged shards cling to the frame.

5
    “S tay outside.” My dad picks up a stick of driftwood from the porch, unlocks the door, and goes in, brandishing the stick. He stomps around inside, opening doors,