The Vintage Caper

wine, but I need proof. Do you have a guy free who could get over to his office today?”
    “For Danny Roth? Are you kidding? They won’t exactly be lining up to volunteer, but I’ll see what I can do. Next?”
    “Not quite so easy. I need to know if a private jet belonging to the Groupe Reboul left the Los Angeles area between Christmas Eve and New Year’s Eve of last year.”
    “And? Type of jet? Registration? Point of departure?”
    “Well, here’s the problem. I don’t have the registration, and I don’t know which airport it could have left from. But my guess is that it won’t be far from L.A.”
    “Great. That’s a real help. Last time I looked, there were nine hundred and seventy-four airports of various sizes in California. And you want me to tell you if a private aircraft with no known registration left one of these nine hundred and seventy-four airports during a seven-day period? You want the pilot’s golf handicap and next of kin while we’re at it? How about his blood type?”
    “Booky, you love a challenge. You know you do. And I’m prepared to offer an inducement. When I get back, we’ll go up to Yountville and have dinner at the French Laundry. Foie gras au torchon , my friend. Venison chops. The works—and any wine on the list. Your choice, my treat.”
    There was a silent, thoughtful moment during which Sam could almost hear, very faintly, the sound of Bookman’s taste buds quivering to attention. “Let me get this straight,” said the lieutenant. “Are you attempting to bribe a member of the Los Angeles Police Department?”
    “Guess so.”
    “That’s what I thought. OK, give me whatever details you can about the plane, and the address where you’re staying. I’ll FedEx the prints and anything else I can find. Do I assume it’s urgent? Dumb question. Everything’s urgent.”
    Walking back to rejoin the others in the bar, his mind racing, Sam felt the familiar tingle of excitement and impatience that he always felt when jobs started to get interesting. The next step would depend on Philippe, and there was no doubt he was keen to help. But did he have the contacts? And would he be able to twist the necessary arms?
    Sam gave them a thumbs-up as he got back to the table. “With a bit of luck, we should have Roth’s prints by tomorrow morning, and maybe something on Reboul’s plane.” He sat down and reached for his glass. “This is where you come in, Philippe. This is where you earn your scoop.” Philippe made an effort to look suitably stern and determined. Sam took a long sip of wine before continuing. “What we have to do next is to check the magnums of Pétrus for prints. It won’t take long, no more than an hour or so, but I can’t do it. If it’s going to be used as evidence, it needs to be done by a pro. Which means the police.” He looked at Philippe, his eyebrows raised. “And we need to get the print expert in and out of the cellar without causing any suspicion. In other words, without Vial knowing. If he smells a rat, we might as well pack up and go home.”
    Philippe had been fidgeting in his chair, waiting for his turn to speak. “We might be lucky with the police,” he said. “I have a contact, going back a few years now.” He squinted into the distance, pushing a hand through his hair. “It was when I was taking a look at some of the rackets operated by the Union Corse. They’re the boys from Corsica, a local version of the Mafia. The paper likes to keep an eye on them from time to time. Anyway, they weren’t doing anything out of the ordinary, just the usual stuff: drugs, illegal immigrants from North Africa, extortion down at the docks, protection in the city, that kind of thing.
    “In those days there was a club where a lot of them used to go to throw their money around and impress the girls. And it wasn’t just money they threw around. There was plenty of coke and heroin, too.” He stopped to take a copious swig of wine.
    “One of the girls—very sweet, very innocent—fell for the wrong guy. He got her on heroin. I often used to see her in the club, and she was a mess. And what made it worse was the way he treated her.” He made a face and shook his head. “I was all set to get the police in and do a big story, and then I found out something that made me think again. It turned out that the girl’s father was a cop—an inspector in the Marseille police department. You can imagine what a story that would have made.
    “Well, I