The Vintage Caper

and stepped back, inhaling deeply. “Mmm. Still wearing Chanel No. 19.”
    Elena looked at him, her head tilted to one side. “Still haven’t had your nose fixed.”
    As they ate (Caesar salad and Evian for Elena; salmon and Meursault for Sam), Elena went through everything she knew about the robbery. Over coffee, she gave Sam photocopies of the L.A. Times article and the detailed list of stolen wines that Roth had supplied. Watching Sam as he skimmed through them, she had to admit that the broken nose should probably stay broken. It saved him from being handsome.
    Sam looked up from the list. “These are some serious wines. Interesting that they didn’t steal anything from California. Anyway, I take my hat off to whoever organized it. Well timed, well planned, nice and clean—my kind of job.”
    Elena looked at him over the top of her sunglasses. “Sam?”
    He laughed and shook his head. “Nothing to do with me, I promise. I never even saw the article. Besides, you know me. I work for the good guys now.”
    “Does that mean you’ll take it on?”
    “Anything for you, Elena. Oh, plus expenses, and five percent of the value of anything recovered.”
    “Two and a half.”
    “Three.”
    • • •
    After seeing Elena out, Sam went back to his table and sat over another espresso. It had been six months since he’d seen her; six months since the evening that had ended in a verbal slugging match. Now he couldn’t even remember what they’d been arguing about. His reluctance to commit? Her refusal to compromise? Anyway, it had ended badly. And it was made worse when he found out that she’d taken up with one of those pretty young actors, so numerous in Hollywood, who make a career of being not quite famous.
    As it happened, Elena was thinking about that same young actor as she drove back to her office. Not one of her best decisions, she had to admit. A rebound that hadn’t bounced. Not quite soon enough, she had realized that her new friend was already conducting a passionate love affair with himself, and if ever the conversation showed signs of turning away from that all-consuming subject, his eyes would either glaze over or seek reassurance in the nearest mirror. How long had that lasted? Three weeks? A month? Too long.
    Elena shrugged, trying to clear her head. She was saved from her thoughts by the sound of the first few bars of “La Vie en rose.” It was the ringtone Sam had put on her cell phone after a trip they’d made to Paris, and she somehow hadn’t found the time to change it.
    “So? Any progress?”
    Elena recognized the modified snarl that Danny Roth used when talking to underlings. She braced herself before replying. “I think so, Mr. Roth. We’ve just retained a specialist investigator who will be working exclusively on your case.”
    “OK. Tell him to call me.”

Five

    Sam’s call found Cecilia Volpé in unusually good spirits, the result of her doting father’s latest gift, a pearl-gray Porsche. Her normally brusque phone manner had softened to a purr, and she sounded almost apologetic when she told Sam that Mr. Roth was unavailable right now; he was taking a meeting. (In Hollywood, meetings are not held; like sleeping pills, they are taken, often with similar effects.) When Sam explained who he was and why he was calling, there was even a note of sympathy in Cecilia’s reply.
    “He’s, like, devastated . I mean, three million dollars’ worth of wine, plus he was betrayed by that little Mexican creep. Total, total bummer.” She might have gone on in a similar vein if Roth himself hadn’t emerged from his office with one of his younger clients, an actress who divided her time between filming and rehab. Cecilia put Sam on hold until Roth returned from escorting his youthful charge to the elevator.
    “It’s a Mr. Levitt. He’s the investigator from the insurance company.”
    Roth went into his office to take the call. “About time. What have you found?”
    “We’ve only just started looking, Mr. Roth. It would be helpful if you and I could get together, and I need to see the cellar. Any time that suits you.”
    “Right now suits me.”
    Sam took a deep breath. This was not going to be fun. “Right now is fine, Mr. Roth. I have your address. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
    Sam was waiting at the gatehouse when Roth arrived forty-five minutes later, with no apologies and the most perfunctory of handshakes. It was mutual dislike at first sight. By the time Roth