The Vintage Caper

Five

Sam’s call found Cecilia Volpé in unusually good spirits, the result of her doting father’s latest gift, a pearl-gray Porsche. Her normally brusque phone manner had softened to a purr, and she sounded almost apologetic when she told Sam that Mr. Roth was unavailable right now; he was taking a meeting. (In Hollywood, meetings are not held; like sleeping pills, they are taken, often with similar effects.) When Sam explained who he was and why he was calling, there was even a note of sympathy in Cecilia’s reply.

“He’s, like, devastated. I mean, three million dollars’ worth of wine, plus he was betrayed by that little Mexican creep. Total, total bummer.” She might have gone on in a similar vein if Roth himself hadn’t emerged from his office with one of his younger clients, an actress who divided her time between filming and rehab. Cecilia put Sam on hold until Roth returned from escorting his youthful charge to the elevator.

“It’s a Mr. Levitt. He’s the investigator from the insurance company.”

Roth went into his office to take the call. “About time. What have you found?”

“We’ve only just started looking, Mr. Roth. It would be helpful if you and I could get together, and I need to see the cellar. Any time that suits you.”

“Right now suits me.”

Sam took a deep breath. This was not going to be fun. “Right now is fine, Mr. Roth. I have your address. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

Sam was waiting at the gatehouse when Roth arrived forty-five minutes later, with no apologies and the most perfunctory of handshakes. It was mutual dislike at first sight. By the time Roth had led the way to the cellar, any pity Sam might have felt for the robbery victim had disappeared.

During the next half hour, Sam’s attempts to gather information were continually thwarted by the demands of Roth’s BlackBerry, leaving Sam free to inspect the cellar and the wine-the California Chardonnays, Cabernets, and Pinots-that remained after the robbery. Then he took a long look at the massive, Spanish-style wooden door that separated the cellar from the rest of the house. Eventually, with nothing more left to inspect, he stopped directly in front of Roth, who had assumed a position of prayer-head bent, hands close together-as he worshipped his BlackBerry.

“I hate to interrupt you,” said Sam, “but I’m just about through.”

Roth interrupted his devotions, looking up with a frown of irritation from the tiny screen he was studying. “So? What do you think?”

“First, your security arrangements stink. I could pick the lock on that door with a nail file. Why didn’t you have the cellar on a separate alarm system? Big mistake. Anyway, all that’s a little late now. The police probably told you that the guys who did it were pros.”

Sam stopped talking. Roth was once again consulting his electronic brain. Sam aimed his next remark at the top of Roth’s shining skull.

“In a crime investigation, you should never dismiss the obvious conclusion until you’ve proved it wrong.” Roth still didn’t look up as Sam continued. “We know that this was an inside job. We know that Rafael Torres has disappeared, and we know that you were in Aspen when the robbery took place. Those are the facts, Mr. Roth, and a suspicious mind might jump to the obvious conclusion.”

Roth finally put his BlackBerry in his pocket. “Which is?”

“You could have used Aspen as your alibi and set up the whole deal-stolen your own wine, paid off your caretaker, claimed the insurance, and had a fine old time drinking the evidence.” Sam shrugged and smiled. “Ridiculous, I know. But it’s my job to look at every possibility.” He reached into his pocket. “Here’s my card. I’ll be in touch with any developments.” He stopped at the door. “Oh, by the way. If I were you, I’d drink those bottles of Cabernet Sauvignon pretty soon. The ’84 is beginning to show its age.”

Sam almost felt sorry for Roth as he made his exit. But not quite.

• • •

Soon after his arrival in Los Angeles, Sam had been called in to investigate the so-called Impressionist ring, a group of high-society art dealers trading in superlative fakes of Monets, Cézannes, and Renoirs. It was during this, one of his first totally legitimate jobs, that Sam found himself working with the L.A.P.D., in the impressive shape of Lieutenant Bob Bookman. Here was a man who loved his food, and it showed. But being tall, he wore his weight well, helped by a self-imposed dress code that never varied. A generously cut black suit, a black knitted silk tie, and a white shirt. He called it undertaker chic.

His relationship with Sam got off to a promising start when they discovered a mutual interest in wine, and once the art case had been dealt with they fell into the habit of meeting every few weeks for dinner, taking turns in choosing the restaurant and selecting the wine. These were in no way business meetings, but inevitably a certain amount of underworld gossip was exchanged. It had turned out to be a pleasant and fruitful arrangement for both men.

Bookman answered Sam’s call with his customary world-weary grunt.

“Booky,” said Sam, “I need to pick your brains, but I’ll make it pleasant for you. I’m taking the cork out of a bottle of Bâtard-Montrachet this evening, and I hate to drink alone. What do you say?”

“I could be interested. What year?”

“It’s the ’03. Six o’clock at the Chateau?”

“Don’t overchill it.”

A few minutes after six, Bookman arrived at the door of Sam’s suite. It had been a hard day of serious meetings at L.A.P.D. headquarters, and Bookman felt the need to let off a little steam. He rapped on the door and adopted his most official police officer’s voice. “I know you’re in there,” he said. “Come out with your hands up and your pants down.” A young woman passing along the corridor took a startled look at the large, black-clad figure and scuttled toward the elevator.

Sam opened the door and stood aside to let Bookman’s bulk into the hallway. They went through to the small kitchen, one entire wall of which was taken up with the temperature-controlled cabinets where Sam kept wines for immediate drinking. The open bottle of Bâtard-Montrachet was in an ice bucket on the counter, next to two glasses. Bookman picked up the cork and sniffed it while Sam poured the wine.

Without speaking, they held their glasses up to the evening light coming through the window. Gently swirling the wine, they applied their noses to the heady, luscious bouquet before taking their first sip.

Bookman gave a sigh of pleasure. “Let’s not send this one back.” He took another, longer sip. “Isn’t this the wine that Alexandre Dumas said should be drunk while kneeling, with the head bared?”

Sam grinned. “I’ve heard that people in Burgundy salute every time they go past the vineyard.” He took the ice bucket into the living room, and the two men settled into oversized armchairs, the wine on a low table between them.

“Now,” said Bookman, “let me guess why I’m here.” He took another sip of wine and contemplated his glass, as if in deep thought.

“I’ve taken on the Roth case.”

“So I heard. I had someone brief me on it before I came over. Getting anywhere?”

“My only discovery so far is that Mr. Roth is a pain in the ass. Also, he’s dishonest-or trying to be. The wine’s insured for 2.3 million, and he’s claiming it’s worth three. Which it probably is; but it wasn’t insured for three. Apart from that, all I know is that it was a pro job. I’m going to check with the auction houses tomorrow, but my bet is that the wine wasn’t stolen for resale. It was for a private cellar.”

Bookman nodded. “Makes sense. You don’t see bottles like that every day. They’d be too easily traced.” He held out his glass for a refill. “You don’t think Roth fixed it himself, for the insurance money?”

“No. You read that piece in the L.A. Times? Roth is the kind of guy who has to show off what he’s got. Having his cellar stripped makes him look like a loser.” Sam twirled the bottle in the icy water before filling his own glass. “So that’s where I am right now. How about you? What have your boys come up with? Any Mexican caretakers?”

Bookman’s laugh came out as more of a snort of derision. “Forget it. What do we have in this country-twelve million illegals? Probably more than half of them in California, and none of them on any computer. Believe me, that guy is either safely over the border or dead in a dumpster.” There was a pause while Bookman made sure his second glass tasted as delightful as the first. “Do you want to hear the good news? We found the ambulance.”

“And the bad news?”

“No plates, no prints. Wiped clean, totally clean. Those guys knew what they were doing. So far, it’s a dead end, and meanwhile we have a couple of other things on our plate.” He ticked them off one by one on his meaty fingers. “The governor’s having Tony Blair to tea in his tent. Red-alert security operation. We’ve just had a celebrity suicide that’s beginning to look more like a celebrity murder. Some moron with a rifle is using cars on the Santa Monica Freeway for target practice. This month’s homicides are up, so we have the mayor on our case. And so it goes; business as usual. A few bottles of wine disappearing doesn’t come anywhere near the top of the list.” Bookman heaved his great shoulders in an apologetic shrug. “We’ll do what we can to help, but you’re pretty much on your own with this one.”

As the level in the bottle went down, the conversation moved on to the more agreeable subjects of food, wine, and the Lakers, and the next hour passed enjoyably enough. But once Bookman had gone, Sam had to acknowledge that the investigation had hardly got off to a flying start. And, as his friend had said, he was on his own with this one.