“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.
Six
Despite what one reads in detective novels, very few crimes are solved by guesswork or hunch. Unspectacular though it might be, a patient, methodical gathering of information has caught and convicted many more crooks than the blinding flash of revelation. With that in mind, Sam settled down to the essential business of due diligence.
He started by checking with the well-known names: Sotheby’s and Christie’s, The Henry Wine Group, Sokolin, Acker Merrall & Condit, and the others. None of them had recently bought or been offered anything on the list of stolen wines.
He tried the smaller auction houses. He tried Robert Chadderdon and other specialty importers. He consulted Wine-Searcher, hoping to come across (among the twenty million searches made every year) someone who was seeking the particular wines and vintages in Roth’s collection. But whomever he called and wherever he looked, the result was the same: a blank.
As the days turned into weeks, his research was interrupted more and more frequently by calls from an irate Danny Roth, demanding progress reports. News of the robbery had leaked out to the Los Angeles wine community, and Roth’s ego was bruised and suffering. Instead of deference and admiration, he was receiving sympathy-some of it actually genuine. Even more irritating were the cold calls from cellar security specialists offering their services. Schadenfreude, the revenge of the envious, was rife. It seemed to Roth that hardly a day went by without someone he knew mentioning the robbery with thinly disguised satisfaction. Bastards.
After enduring one especially venomous morning tirade from Roth, Sam decided to go for a swim to clear his head. As he was coming back through the garden from the hotel pool, his attention was caught by a most fetching pair of legs, and, having a connoisseur’s eye for such things, he stopped to admire them. And when the owner of the legs turned around, Sam saw that it was Kate Simmons, lovelier than ever and now, to the dismay of many Los Angeles bachelors, happily married to a banker.
Smiling, she looked him up and down: wet, tousled hair and an old Ritz Hotel bathrobe dating from his days in Paris. “Well, Sam. As dapper as ever, I see. How are you?”
Looking at her, he felt like an uncle meeting up with a favorite niece. He was having avuncular moments quite often these days. He put it down to getting older. “Kate, what are you doing here? Got time for a cup of coffee? Glass of champagne? It’s great to see you.”
Still smiling, she brushed a thick strand of dark-brown hair away from her brow with the back of her hand, a gesture Sam remembered she always made when she was considering what to say. But before she had a chance to speak, Sam took her arm and steered her toward a table in the shade. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “I was just thinking about you, wondering how you were.” He pulled back a chair for her.
“Sam, you haven’t changed at all. Still full of it.” But she laughed and sat down anyway.
Over coffee, she told him about her work in movie P.R., which had brought her to the Chateau for a meeting with an implausibly well-preserved female star who was preparing to promote her latest film. This involved flying by private jet to premieres in New York, London, and Paris with her hairdresser, her nutritionist, her bodyguard, eight suitcases of clothes, and her husband of the moment. As Kate put it: traveling light, Hollywood style (“without even a psychiatrist in attendance”). Sam was happy to see that she seemed to regard this nonsense with a healthy lack of respect.
When it was Sam’s turn to report on the state of his life, he told Kate about the Roth job, and was surprised to find that she was already familiar with some of the details. Her husband Richard, who was himself a wine collector in a small way, had been following the case.
“Most of the wine nuts in America will have seen the piece in the L.A. Times,” said Kate. “One of them might have set it up. Or maybe Roth did it himself. Why not? Stranger things have happened in L.A. ”
This seemed to be the prevailing theory. “Well, it’s possible,” said Sam, “although he’s putting on a pretty convincing act of being the victim. But that could be all it is, just an act. At any rate, I guess I can’t leave him off the suspect list.” He shrugged. “Come to think of it, he is the suspect list.”
“Have you looked anyplace else?”
“Such as where?”
“I don’t know. Europe? Hong Kong? Russia? America ’s not the only country that has crooks who like a good bottle of wine.” Kate finished her coffee and looked at her watch. “I’d better go.” She leaned over and kissed Sam on the cheek. “Come over and have dinner with us soon. You’ve never met Richard. You’d like him.”
“Too painful. I’d spend the whole evening wondering why you didn’t marry me.”
Despite herself, Kate had to smile. Shaking her head, she looked at him for a long moment before putting on her sunglasses. “You big dope. You never asked me.”
Then she was gone, turning as she left the garden to wave good-bye.
Back in his suite, Sam thought how fortunate he was to remain on good terms with nearly all of the women in his life. Apart from one or two dramatic exceptions-the six-foot Ukrainian model in Moscow, the homicidal rancher’s daughter in Buenos Aires, and, of course, Elena-there had been no recriminations in any of his relationships. Probably, he concluded, because they had the good sense never to take him too seriously.
As he sat at his desk and looked once again at the list of stolen wines, his mind went back to Kate’s comment. Of course, she was right: America wasn’t the only country that produced wine-loving criminals. But where to start looking?
He got up and went across the room to his library, a long run of floor-to-ceiling bookcases, stopping in front of the section where he kept his wine books. There, in various stages of wear and tear, were Penning-Rowsell’s The Wines of Bordeaux, Lichine’s Encyclopedia of Wines and Spirits, Forest ’s Monseigneur Le Vin, the current year’s Guide Hachette des Vins, Broadbent’s Wine Tasting, Johnson’s Wine, Olney’s Yquem, Lynch’s Adventures on the Wine Route, Healy’s Stay Me with Flagons, and a score of others collected over the years. Trailing his fingers along the spines of the books, he came to a battered copy of Duijker’s The Great Wine Chateaux of Bordeaux and took it back to his desk, making a detour on the way to pour himself a pre-lunch glass of Chablis.