“This is outrageous.” Roth got up, walked over to where Elena was sitting, and glowered down at her. “Are you insinuating that I had something to do with this? Are you?”
Elena stood up and slipped the Roth policy into her briefcase. “I’m not insinuating anything, Mr. Roth.” She snapped the case shut. “I don’t think we’re going to get much accomplished today. Perhaps when you’re less upset you’ll have a chance to consider-”
“I’ll tell you what I’ve had a chance to consider. I’ve had three million dollars’ worth of wine stolen, and you and your goddamn procedures and cockamamie standard practices are doing your level best to duck your legal responsibilities. I want my wine back, or I want a certified check for three million dollars. Is that clear?”
Elena made for the door. “Quite clear, Mr. Roth. Our investigator will be getting in touch with you. Happy New Year.”
I shouldn’t have said that, Elena thought, as she was driving back to her office. Right now, he’s probably having a heart attack. Not for the first time, she wondered whether the money she was paid made up for the arrogance and dishonesty she had to tolerate. The nerve of the guy, trying to bump up the insured value of his wine by seven hundred grand. Her cell phone rang. It was her boss.
“Roth’s been on the phone. It sounds like it wasn’t a great meeting. Let’s talk when you get back to the office.”
The president of Knox Worldwide, an elderly man whose benign appearance concealed a keen mind and a professional reluctance to pay out money, stood up when Elena came into his office. It was one of the things she liked about Frank Knox, a touch of courtesy in an increasingly ill-mannered world. He came around his desk and they settled into two battered leather club chairs next to the window. It was a minor source of pride to Knox that he hadn’t changed the décor of his office for thirty-five years. The massive partner’s desk, the heavy walnut bookcases, the fine old oriental rugs (now wearing a little thin on top), and the cracked oil paintings of stags and other noble creatures-they were all part of a previous century. Like Knox himself, they were elegant, well-worn, and comfortable.
He grinned at her. “Another fun-filled day in Hollywood. Tell me about it.”
Elena went over what she had learned from the detective handling the case, and gave Frank a brief account of Roth’s behavior, including his attempt to inflate the insured value of his wine. “Frank, believe me. He was practically foaming at the mouth. He wasn’t making sense. There was no point in my staying.”
The old man nodded. “I got some of that when he called me.” He gazed out of the window, his fingers tapping the arm of his chair. “Now let’s see. The robbery took place six days ago, plenty of time for everyone to get away. The police reckon they were pros. It was an inside job, made possible by an illegal immigrant. I’d say there’s no chance of tracing him. And there’s our friend Mr. Roth, jumping up and down for a certified check.”
“For three million,” Elena said.
“He wishes. Unfortunately for him, he only paid the premium for 2.3 million. Even so, an amount like that has considerable sentimental value, and I’d hate to part with it.” The old man leaned forward. “How many bottles did you say were stolen?”
“Between five and six hundred-that’s if you believe Roth.”
“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.