The Vintage Caper

Nassau, Hong Kong, the Caymans—he could have gone through any of them. There are thousands of funny little companies around the world that can provide any documentation you want, for a fee. Then they disappear. Tracing them can take years. Ask the IRS.” Sam stopped to taste his wine.
    Philippe seemed to visibly deflate. “So that’s the end of it,” he said, with a sigh. “No story.”
    “It’s not over yet,” said Sam, and now he was smiling. “Something’s been bugging me all day, and I just remembered what it is.” He sorted through the papers in front of him and pulled out a photocopy. “This is the article in the L.A. Times about Roth’s wine collection. It was picked up by the Herald Tribune , which has an international circulation. So wine buffs all over the world—including our friend Reboul—could have seen it.” He pointed to the main photograph, a little blurred but reasonably distinct. “Now, there’s Roth. See what he’s holding?”
    Philippe peered at the picture. “Pétrus. Looks like a magnum.”
    “That’s right. Can you make out the date on the label?”
    Philippe picked up the photocopy for a closer look. “Nineteen seventy?”
    “Right again. It’s one of the bottles that were stolen, and Roth is holding on to it for dear life with both hands. His prints will be all over it. Now here’s the thing about fingerprints: they keep best in a humid environment, and the humidity level in a professional cellar like Reboul’s will be around eighty percent. Perfect. In those conditions, prints on glass can last for years. Let’s assume we’re going to be lucky, and that nobody’s thought to wipe every bottle. If Roth’s prints are on some of the magnums in Reboul’s cellar, I would argue that’s evidence of theft.”
    There was silence around the table while this had time to sink in.
    “Sam, there’s something else.” Sophie was searching through Reboul’s dossier. She pulled out a picture that showed him posing in front of his private jet. “I thought of it while I was looking at all those bottles with Vial. If you wanted to move a lot of wine from California to Marseille without using shippers, wouldn’t it be, well, convenient, to have your own plane?”
    Sam shook his head, irritated with himself at missing something obvious. “Of course. Private jets tend to get V.I.P. treatment. Limited formalities going out of the States, and probably none for the local hero coming back into Marseille.” He grinned at Sophie. “You’re getting good at this. Can you see the registration number?”
    The three of them took a closer look at the photograph. Reboul was in the foreground, his arms folded, looking serious and businesslike in a dark suit, an industrial titan ready to girdle the earth. Behind him was his jet, sleek and white, with GROUPE REBOUL in large black letters running along the fuselage, and what looked like a streamlined version of the French flag painted on the tail. The shot had been composed, either by design or by accident, so that any sign of the plane’s registration was hidden by Reboul’s body.
    “I guess that doesn’t matter too much,” said Sam. “The company name is probably enough.”
    “Enough for what?” Philippe had recovered his spirits, and was perched on the edge of his chair, leaning forward, his combat boots performing a soft tap-dance on the floor.
    “Any jet using U.S. airspace has to file a flight plan—departure time, destination, estimated time of arrival. The details will be on a computer. I’m pretty sure the company name will be on there too.” He looked at his watch: just after six p.m. in Marseille, nine a.m. in California. “There’s someone in L.A. who might be able to help us. I’ll see if he’s there.” Sam got up, looking for a quiet corner to make the call. “Philippe, while I’m gone, will you think about all the cops you know in Marseille? Friendly cops? We’re going to need one.”
    Lieutenant Bookman picked up his phone and grunted into it—an ill-humored, dyspeptic grunt, prompted by too much coffee, too much work, and not enough sleep. “Sounding good, Booky. How are you?”
    “I’m feeling like I sound. Where the hell are you?”
    “Marseille. Listen, Booky, I need a big favor. Well, two big favors.”
    A resigned sigh. “And I thought you were going to ask me to come over for lunch. OK, what do you want?”
    “First, a complete set of Danny Roth’s fingerprints. I may have found his