The Vintage Caper

Four

Elena sat at her desk and considered the options. If her recent conversation with the police was anything to go by, the L.A.P.D. was unlikely to pursue the investigation with any great zeal. The trail was already cold and there were no immediate clues. She could see the case gathering dust for years.

To help with other cases in the past, she had called in freelance claims agents, investigators who specialized in different aspects of crime and catastrophe, everything from jewelry theft to collapsing apartment buildings. But wine? She’d never had to deal with stolen wine before-and so much of it. Five hundred bottles spirited away with the efficiency of a military operation. One thing was sure: those stolen bottles weren’t going to turn up on eBay. It had to be a robbery-to-order, a commission job planned and funded by God knows whom, probably another collector. If that was so, all she had to do was find a wine connoisseur with criminal tendencies. Simple. There couldn’t be more than a few thousand of them scattered around the world.

A bloodhound was what Frank had said they needed. But it had to be a bloodhound with a difference; a bloodhound with imagination and unconventional contacts, ideally with firsthand experience of crooks at work.

While Elena thought, she had been flipping through her Rolodex. She stopped at the letter L. She looked at the name on the card and sighed. No doubt about it, he’d be the man for the job. But did she really want to get involved with him again? This time, keep it at arm’s length and keep it businesslike, she said to herself as she buzzed her secretary.

“See if you can get me Sam Levitt, would you? He’s at the Chateau Marmont.”

Sam Levitt’s C.V., if he had ever been foolish enough to produce one, would have made unusual reading.

As a law student at college, wondering how he was going to pay back his student loan, he developed an interest in the use of crime as a means of obtaining large amounts of money. But, not being a violent man, he was not attracted to the idea of violent crime. Too crude, too heavy-handed, and, not least of all, too damned dangerous. What appealed to him was the use of intelligence as a criminal weapon. The brain, and not the gun.

Naturally enough for a young man with nonviolent crime as a career choice, he entered the world of corporate law. He worked brutally long hours and he made money. And, thanks to the obligatory duty of entertaining clients, he acquired a taste for good food and fine wine. But there was a problem, which became worse every year. It was tedium, provoked by those very same clients: dull men who, by dint of greed and ability, had made fortunes and were determined to make more. Asset-strippers, leveraged-buyout merchants, takeover tycoons-all worshipping at the shrine of the share price. Levitt found them increasingly boring, and found his distaste for their world increasingly hard to conceal.

The final straw came during a corporate retreat weekend, an orgy of executive bonding that left him hungover and severely depressed. On impulse, he resigned and started to look around for crime of a more straightforward and, in a way, more honest sort. “Anything considered” was his new motto, providing it didn’t involve guns, bombs, or drugs.

This is where the imaginary Levitt C.V. becomes short on detail and a little murky. He spent some time in Russia, and came to know parts of South America and Africa quite well. He later referred to this as his import/export period, a hectic few years of great risk and great reward. It ended with a short but memorably unpleasant stay in a Congolese jail, which cost him three cracked ribs, a broken nose, and a substantial bribe to get out. The experience prompted him to think that perhaps the moment had come to make another career adjustment. Like many Americans before him seeking time and space to ponder life’s important decisions, he went to Paris.

The first few weeks were spent catching up on girls and gastronomy after the deprivations of Africa. It wasn’t long before Paris made him realize how little he knew about something he enjoyed so much: wine. Like most amateurs with a receptive palate, he could tell good from ordinary, and exceptional from good. But often there were times when the seductive whisperings of sommeliers were beyond him. Parisian wine lists, too, were filled with unfamiliar châteaus. It was frustrating. He wanted to know, not guess. And so, having both time and money on his hands, he decided to treat himself to a six-month course at the Université du Vin at Suze-la-Rousse, an establishment of higher learning conveniently situated in Côtes-du-Rhône country.

He found that it was a distinct improvement on law school. The subject itself, of course, was much more agreeable. His cosmopolitan fellow students-French, English, Chinese, some Indian pioneers, and the inevitable Scot-were much more interesting. The field trips to Hermitage (home of the “manliest” wines on earth), Côte-Rôtie, Cornas, and Châteauneuf-du-Pape were delicious and instructive. He began to pick up some French, and he even briefly thought of buying a vineyard. The time passed quickly.

But he wasn’t ready to bury himself in the French countryside, and after years of traveling he was feeling the tug of America. How had it changed while he’d been away? How had he changed?

In one respect, not at all. His fascination for the ingenious, bloodless crime remained, and as the end of his course drew near his thoughts turned more and more frequently to the idea of going back to work-but with a difference. Memories of the Congolese jail were still vivid. This time, he thought, he would operate on the legitimate side of the fence, as an investigator and a consultant on criminal matters. Or, as he liked to think of it, a poacher turned gamekeeper.

For a man who liked the sunshine life, the choice of Los Angeles as a base was almost inevitable. L.A. had everything: delightful climate, money and extravagance, a high incidence of multimillionaires involved in dubious deals, the wretched excesses of the movie business, an abundance of pretty girls and celebrities-all the ingredients for mischief and amusement were there. And it took only a short reconnaissance before he found the ideal place to live.

The Chateau Marmont, tucked away off Sunset Boulevard in West Hollywood, was intended to be L.A. ’s first earthquake-proof apartment building. Alas, it opened in 1929, when the financial tremors from Wall Street and the Depression made selling apartments impossible. Rooms were an easier sale, and so the Chateau became a hotel with apartment-sized suites.

This, for Sam, was one of its great attractions, but there were many more: the absence of domestic responsibilities, the charm and efficiency of the staff, the discreet entrance, the convenient location, the relaxed atmosphere. Unlike most modern formula hotels, the Chateau had character, a distinct personality. And there were suites available for permanent guests, the lifers. After a trial stay, Sam became one of them. He moved into a suite on the sixth floor and started looking for clients, which wasn’t too difficult in L.A. Somebody rich was always in trouble.

The fact that money wasn’t a problem allowed him to choose only those cases that interested him: the more unusual swindles and scams, the more mysterious disappearances and hoaxes, the more daring high-end robberies. He had found his niche, and it wasn’t long before he had gained a reputation in certain circles as a man who got results and kept his mouth shut.

Elena’s call came through as he was recovering from a vigorous half hour in the hotel’s attic gym.

“Sam, it’s Elena.” She hesitated. “Sam, am I interrupting something? You’re out of breath.”

“It’s the sound of your voice, Elena. Always does it to me. How are you?”

“Busy. That’s why I’m calling. I need to talk to you. Can you do lunch tomorrow?”

“Sure. Do you want to come up to the apartment? Just like old times?”

“No, Sam. I’m not coming up to the apartment, and it’s not going to be just like old times. It’s work. Remember, work.”

“You’re a hard-hearted woman. I’ll make a reservation downstairs for 12:30. Hey, Elena?”

“What?”

“It will be good to see you again. It’s been a long time.”

They were both smiling as they put down their phones.

Sam had reserved his usual table, which was set apart and partially screened from general view by the exuberant plant growth that made the courtyard such a green and pleasant place. He watched as Elena was shown to the table, and saw heads turn as everybody else took a long look at her. Was she famous? Who was she meeting? You never knew at the Chateau. Celebrity sightings were part of the décor.

Sam kissed her on both cheeks and stepped back, inhaling deeply. “Mmm. Still wearing Chanel No. 19.”

Elena looked at him, her head tilted to one side. “Still haven’t had your nose fixed.”

As they ate (Caesar salad and Evian for Elena; salmon and Meursault for Sam), Elena went through everything she knew about the robbery. Over coffee, she gave Sam photocopies of the L.A. Times article and the detailed list of stolen wines that Roth had supplied. Watching Sam as he skimmed through them, she had to admit that the broken nose should probably stay broken. It saved him from being handsome.

Sam looked up from the list. “These are some serious wines. Interesting that they didn’t steal anything from California. Anyway, I take my hat off to whoever organized it. Well timed, well planned, nice and clean-my kind of job.”

Elena looked at him over the top of her sunglasses. “Sam?”

He laughed and shook his head. “Nothing to do with me, I promise. I never even saw the article. Besides, you know me. I work for the good guys now.”

“Does that mean you’ll take it on?”

“Anything for you, Elena. Oh, plus expenses, and five percent of the value of anything recovered.”

“Two and a half.”

“Three.”

• • •

After seeing Elena out, Sam went back to his table and sat over another espresso. It had been six months since he’d seen her; six months since the evening that had ended in a verbal slugging match. Now he couldn’t even remember what they’d been arguing about. His reluctance to commit? Her refusal to compromise? Anyway, it had ended badly. And it was made worse when he found out that she’d taken up with one of those pretty young actors, so numerous in Hollywood, who make a career of being not quite famous.

As it happened, Elena was thinking about that same young actor as she drove back to her office. Not one of her best decisions, she had to admit. A rebound that hadn’t bounced. Not quite soon enough, she had realized that her new friend was already conducting a passionate love affair with himself, and if ever the conversation showed signs of turning away from that all-consuming subject, his eyes would either glaze over or seek reassurance in the nearest mirror. How long had that lasted? Three weeks? A month? Too long.

Elena shrugged, trying to clear her head. She was saved from her thoughts by the sound of the first few bars of “ La Vie en rose.” It was the ringtone Sam had put on her cell phone after a trip they’d made to Paris, and she somehow hadn’t found the time to change it.

“So? Any progress?”

Elena recognized the modified snarl that Danny Roth used when talking to underlings. She braced herself before replying. “I think so, Mr. Roth. We’ve just retained a specialist investigator who will be working exclusively on your case.”

“OK. Tell him to call me.”