The Vintage Caper

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.

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