Collector of Secrets by Richard Goodfellow Page A

him. Having his school expansion ideas repeatedly agreed to, then ignored, had shown her objective wasn’t to create a viable business. And as if to add salt to the wound she had insisted he run her errands. The expensive purchases of clothing, along with the growing pile of Tiffany’s boxes, were a constant reminder of her true objective. Their once close friendship dissolved into silence, and as the quiet tension escalated, he grew confident that Yoko’s true agenda remained hidden behind a well-crafted layer of deception. She’d manipulated him, treating him like her blond poster boy, just so she could gather more investors. He was merely someone to distract the students’ mothers while Yoko reached her greedy hand into their purses and robbed them of their life savings.
    In a country where he could barely manage the language, Max felt powerless to stop the wheels in motion. But his resignation was one thing he could still control. Tonight would be the last night he would play the part of Yoko’s Exotic Pet.
    Walking a jagged line through the sea of strolling shoppers, he adjusted his blazer, which was beginning to show its age. Reaching into an inside pocket, he glanced at his grandpa’s pocket watch and saw that it read 7:10 p.m.
    Damn. Ten minutes late already.
    He had seriously considered backing out of this choreographed event. But he’d agreed to the outing a month ago and costly tickets had been purchased. His students’ mothers would be waiting. Expectations would be high, and he could not bring himself to disappoint them.
    From the opposite side of Ginza’s Harumi-dori Avenue, Max could see the white Kabuki-za building a block away. Dramatically bathed from below in brilliant light, the recessed center of the historical façade created the impression of a sixteenth-century Asian castle with matching east and west wings. The vision was striking, and he wondered what it would have been like to attend the original opening in 1889.
    Crossing at the busy intersection, he stared up at the overhanging clay-tiled roof. Dual blood-red banners flapped in the evening breeze. Adorned with thick black kanji lettering, they hung past the matching third-floor balconies and framed the downward-sweeping lines of the black and gold second-story marquee. As he drew closer to the building, he could see Yoko’s unmistakable bobbed haircut near the entrance. She was attending to her entourage of ladies. Gathered near the front pillars, they stood chatting beneath a string of glowing red lanterns.
    He tried hard to ignore the nervous sweat soaking into his undershirt.
    As if she heard his quickened heartbeat approaching, Yoko turned toward him and dipped her head in a slight nod. “Thank you for showing up.” Her lips, which normally arched downward, lifted at the corners into a forced smile that didn’t match the dark tone of her eyes. “You’re late.”
    “Yeah . . . well,” he muttered, looking away.
    She raised a single pencil-thin eyebrow. “I assumed you’d be early, since you left the office in such a hurry.” Not allowing him time to respond, she turned back to address the dozen women clustered together, holding her hands outward like a maestro conducting an orchestra.
    He watched the ladies nodding heads while they drank in her animated narration—lies, he was sure—punctuated at the end with a noisy laugh. Why don’t they see through her? It was clear she was hard at work, since the only two terms he’d been able to understand were his own name and the word for “corporation.”
    Max took a step backward as Yoko finally broke away from the group and moved toward him.
    “We’re just waiting for Mrs. Hirano before we go in,” she said.
    “Fine.” He made a point to avoid eye contact. She certainly can’t overlook her wealthiest contributor.
    Reaching into her Prada handbag, Yoko drew out the resignation letter and thrust her manicured hand toward him. “You forgot this.”
    It was clear the