The Vintage Caper (3 page)

“Well, that’s going to take some time to drink. Maybe that’s what we should be looking for: not the crooks, but the wine. Getting rid of five hundred bottles won’t be easy, unless they did the job on commission.” He stood up, and smiled at Elena. “We need a bloodhound. Got any ideas?”

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.”

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.