"The chairman thinks you do, and the chairman is wise." The receptionist paused, as if embarrassed, then added, "The chairman knows it is a difficult task. But he believes you will be especially diligent and expend extra effort because success will go a long way toward restoring your brother's honor."

    Hideo hung his head. Yoshio, what happened to you? Who killed you? He looked up and nodded to the receptionist.

    "I will go. I will find the chairman's katana."

    "It is not the chairman's, but he wishes it to be. However, it may not be the katana he wants. It must meet certain criteria, all of which will be explained on the drive." The receptionist glanced at his watch. "Your flight leaves in two hours. You had better hurry."

    Hideo made a quick bow and started toward the door.

    "Oh, and one more thing," the receptionist said, "you will not be traveling alone."

    Hideo eyed him. "Oh? Who—?"

    "Your three travel companions will meet you at the airport. They will be along to aid you should you need their sort of help. The chairman doesn't want you to end up like your brother."

    Hideo shuddered. Neither did he.

    "Well, what do you think?" Gia said.

    Jack stared at the little wooden sculpture—although why it wasn't called a carving, he had no idea. But nomenclature aside, he liked it. A lot.

    "It's beautiful."

    He looked at Gia. For a while she'd let her blond hair grow out, but last week she'd shown up with it cut short again. He liked it short, with its little unruly wings curving into the air.

    She'd dragged him down to this SoHo art gallery, saying he just had to see the latest Sylvia. Jack had no idea what a Sylvia was, but he'd come along. And was glad he had.

    According to the brochure, some artist who signed her work simply as "Sylvia" was famous for her faux bonsai trees, laser sculpted from a model of the real thing. And Jack could see why. Her latest was a mix of bonsai and topiary—a boxwood with a curved trunk, its roots snaking over a rock and into the soil of its pot. But the rock wasn't a rock, the soil wasn't soil, and the tray wasn't clay. The whole thing was a solid block of laminated oak. Interesting enough, but the tiny boxwood leaves had been teased and coaxed and trimmed into the shape of a skyscraper. Jack knew that shape: the tapering spire, the scalloped crown, the eagle heads jutting from the uppermost setback. Of course their size didn't allow the details of a bird's head, but Jack knew what those tiny protruding branches represented.

    Gia fixed him with her clear blue eyes. Her smile was dazzling. "Knowing how you love the Chrysler building, I figured this should be added to your must-see list."

    Jack walked around its pedestal, leaning over the velvet ropes that kept him from getting too close. Someone—Sylvia?—had hand-painted it, mimicking its natural colors. The leaves and moss were green, the tray and clasped stone different shades of gray, the trunk left the natural shade of the original oak.

    Jack stepped back. "From a distance it looks alive."

    "Isn't it just fabulous?" said a soft male voice behind him.

    Jack turned and saw a slim, middle-aged guy wearing a sailor shirt and white duck pants. His little name tag said GARY and his black hair was perfect.

    "Fleet Week's not quite here yet," Jack said.

    Gary grinned. "I know. I can't wait. But as I said"—he gestured to the tree—"isn't it fabulous?"

    "Yeah. Fabulous." A word misused and overused, but here it fit.

    "And it doesn't just look alive, it's so very much alive in the way all true art lives. And best of all, it requires no pruning, no wiring, no watering, and yet it remains perfect. Forever."

    "I like the low-maintenance idea. Always wanted a bonsai, but I have a brown thumb."

    "Maintenance is not an issue. This is a work of art, and so much more than a bonsai. This is a subtle melding of the man-made and the natural, a brilliant use of the latest in modern technology to preserve an ancient art form."

    Seemed like Gary had memorized the brochure.

    "How much do you want for it?"

    "It's not a matter of how much I want," he said, reaching into a pocket. "If I had my way it would stay on display here forever." He pulled out a card and pen and scribbled. "But alas, that won't pay the rent."

    Alas?

    He handed Jack the card. He'd written a number on it.

    Jack couldn't help laughing. "Twenty thousand dollars?"

    Gary cooled. "Each of Sylvia's trees are fashioned in strictly limited editions of one hundred, signed and numbered by the artist herself."

    "And people actually pay twenty K apiece?"

    "Each edition sells out almost immediately. Our gallery was consigned only one. We put it out this morning. It will be sold by closing."

    What a crazy world.

    Just then a jewel-dripping thirty-something blonde strolled up, clutching the arm of her Armani'd, sixty-something sugar daddy.

    "Oh, look, honey. Isn't that a Sylvia? Alana has a Sylvia and I want one too. Can we get it?"

    The words leaped from Jack's mouth before he could stop them.

    "I'll take it."

    "Jack!" Gia said, giving him a wide-eyed stare.

    "It's only money."

    "Are you serious?"

    He shrugged. "I've got all this moolah socked away—you know that. For what? You won't let me spend it on you and Vicky." Spend it? He'd tried to give it all to her back in December when he thought he'd be leaving on a forever trip. "So I might as well blow it on something like this."

    "I can assure you it will only appreciate in value," Gary said. "Some of Sylvia's early trees are selling for triple what you're paying."

    "See?" he said to Gia. "It's an investment." He turned to Gary. "You accept gold?"

    "The AmEx Gold Card? Of course."

    That wasn't what Jack had meant, but…

    "Okay. Wrap her up to travel."

    "I suggest you let us deliver it. It's very valuable and you don't want to risk someone stealing it."

    Jack smiled, aware of the weight of the Glock 19 nestled in the small of his back. But it was Gia who spoke through a wry smile.

    "Oh, I don't think we'll have to worry about that."

    "Nobody likes to hear of an artist hitting a big payday more than I," Gia said. "But—"

    "Speaking of art, what about yours?"

    They were walking up Greene Street toward Houston, passing the grave of the Soho Kitchen & Bar. Whenever Jack had been in the neighborhood, he'd made a point of stopping in for a draft pint of Pilsner Urqell. Another goddamn boutique occupied the space now.

    "I'm back to work—three dust jacket assignments and some paperbacks on the way."

    "Yeah, but that's work done to order. That's not you. What about the stuff you're doing for yourself?"

    She shook her head. "Told you: not happy with it."

    "Still?"

    "Still."

    "When are you going to let me see it?"

    A shrug. "Maybe never. I may just take them somewhere and burn them."

    Jack stopped and gripped her arm. "Don't even joke about that. Anything by you is valuable to me."

    "Not these. Trust me, not these."

    "They can't be that bad."

    "Oh, yes, they can. I don't like them and I don't want to show work I don't like."

    "Even to me?"

    "Especially to you." She tapped the box under his arm. "Frugalman Jack, spending twenty thousand on a sculpted tree… I don't know what to say."