Free Tokyo Heist by Diana Renn

off to the Seattle Art Museum.
    He shakes his head. “The museum’s closed on Mondays,” he says as if I should have known that. “All the art museums are. Well, I’m off to my interrogation. Wish me luck.” His voice sounds cheerful, but his face is tight as he walks out the door.
    I feel powerless. I know his alibi is sound. But I hate how close he is to all this. I can’t forget about the broken window.
    I pick up the phone. Maybe I should call the police now and tell them about my DVD, about the Japanese guys following Skye. That would shine the spotlight on her, and the detectives, with a search warrant, could scour the art museum and interview employees. Then they’d focus on her, not my dad.
    I start to dial 911. Then I stop and set the phone down. That call could also cause trouble. Skye looked almost maniacal when we drove away from the art reception the other night. If she was desperate enough to break my dad’s window, who knows how she might react if I ratted her out? Also, all the video shows is a suspicious-sounding phone call, men tailing her, and a portfolio. Not the actual drawings. I need stronger evidence before I make that call.
    To calm myself, and to blot out the image of my dad sitting under a dangling bulb in an interrogation room, I focus on Kimono Girl . First, I research cormorants online, copying them into my sketchbook and morphing them into my villain. I learn that they are diving birds who swim deep underwater to fish. Asian cormorants love ayu, a little river fish. My research sparks a story idea, which I storyboard in a two-page spread.
    The Cormorant uses Sockeye to help sell stolen art. In thought bubbles, we see her plan gradually taking shape. In bird form, using her beak, she will place the stolen Sunrise Bridge painting in a kayak near the museum she stole it from. Pushing the kayak from beneath, Sockeye will deliver it to her client’s home, a houseboat in Portage Bay. The client will retrieve what looks like a lost kayak, drifting, and take the package into his home. No footprints, no fingerprints, no evidence to capture on security cameras.
    The doorbell chimes. My pencil skitters across the page, the strayed mark ruining the panel I was working on. Annoyed, I get up and answer the door.
    It’s Skye. Holding a flat box. She narrows her eyes. “Oh. Violet. Hello.”
    “Hey.” My mouth is dry.
    “Is your dad around?”
    I shake my head, then instantly regret it. Now she knows I’m alone.
    “I came by to drop off these re-matted prints for the Yamadas. I thought he could give them to Kenji or Mitsue. I’ll just run them up to his studio.”
    “I can take them.” Knowing he was going in for questioning today, she might plant incriminating evidence to connect my dad to the heist. As revenge! I position my body to block the doorway.
    She brushes right past me and heads upstairs.
    I stand at the foot of the stairs, listening as she slides things around in the studio. It sounds like she’s opening and closing drawers.
    Five minutes later, she comes downstairs.
    “I’ll tell him you were here,” I say, moving toward the door to lead her out.
    She folds her arms. She’s wearing a striped T-shirt today, and I can see her wiry muscles. “Tell me something. Why were you and your friend following me last Friday?”
    I freeze.
    “Let’s take a walk,” she says.
    “No, that’s okay. I’m busy, and my dad will be—”
    “We’re walking. Come on.”
    I follow her outside. “Where are we going?”
    “Away from the house. For all I know there are video cameras wired up somewhere. I don’t trust you. I don’t trust anyone.” She leads me up North 36th Street, all the way to the Aurora Bridge, and the famous Fremont Troll sculpture beneath the bridge. A massive concrete ogre with hubcap eyes, insane hair, and a maniacal smile, crushing a concrete VW bug.
    Often, tourists gather there to snap pictures, or kids climb on it, or homeless guys camp out beside it. Right