The Vintage Caper

had led the way to the cellar, any pity Sam might have felt for the robbery victim had disappeared.
    During the next half hour, Sam’s attempts to gather information were continually thwarted by the demands of Roth’s BlackBerry, leaving Sam free to inspect the cellar and the wine—the California Chardonnays, Cabernets, and Pinots—that remained after the robbery. Then he took a long look at the massive, Spanish-style wooden door that separated the cellar from the rest of the house. Eventually, with nothing more left to inspect, he stopped directly in front of Roth, who had assumed a position of prayer—head bent, hands close together—as he worshipped his BlackBerry.
    “I hate to interrupt you,” said Sam, “but I’m just about through.”
    Roth interrupted his devotions, looking up with a frown of irritation from the tiny screen he was studying. “So? What do you think?”
    “First, your security arrangements stink. I could pick the lock on that door with a nail file. Why didn’t you have the cellar on a separate alarm system? Big mistake. Anyway, all that’s a little late now. The police probably told you that the guys who did it were pros.”
    Sam stopped talking. Roth was once again consulting his electronic brain. Sam aimed his next remark at the top of Roth’s shining skull.
    “In a crime investigation, you should never dismiss the obvious conclusion until you’ve proved it wrong.” Roth still didn’t look up as Sam continued. “We know that this was an inside job. We know that Rafael Torres has disappeared, and we know that you were in Aspen when the robbery took place. Those are the facts, Mr. Roth, and a suspicious mind might jump to the obvious conclusion.”
    Roth finally put his BlackBerry in his pocket. “Which is?”
    “You could have used Aspen as your alibi and set up the whole deal—stolen your own wine, paid off your caretaker, claimed the insurance, and had a fine old time drinking the evidence.” Sam shrugged and smiled. “Ridiculous, I know. But it’s my job to look at every possibility.” He reached into his pocket. “Here’s my card. I’ll be in touch with any developments.” He stopped at the door. “Oh, by the way. If I were you, I’d drink those bottles of Cabernet Sauvignon pretty soon. The ’84 is beginning to show its age.”
    Sam almost felt sorry for Roth as he made his exit. But not quite.
    • • •
    Soon after his arrival in Los Angeles, Sam had been called in to investigate the so-called Impressionist ring, a group of high-society art dealers trading in superlative fakes of Monets, Cézannes, and Renoirs. It was during this, one of his first totally legitimate jobs, that Sam found himself working with the L.A.P.D., in the impressive shape of Lieutenant Bob Bookman. Here was a man who loved his food, and it showed. But being tall, he wore his weight well, helped by a self-imposed dress code that never varied. A generously cut black suit, a black knitted silk tie, and a white shirt. He called it undertaker chic.
    His relationship with Sam got off to a promising start when they discovered a mutual interest in wine, and once the art case had been dealt with they fell into the habit of meeting every few weeks for dinner, taking turns in choosing the restaurant and selecting the wine. These were in no way business meetings, but inevitably a certain amount of underworld gossip was exchanged. It had turned out to be a pleasant and fruitful arrangement for both men.
    Bookman answered Sam’s call with his customary world-weary grunt.
    “Booky,” said Sam, “I need to pick your brains, but I’ll make it pleasant for you. I’m taking the cork out of a bottle of Bâtard-Montrachet this evening, and I hate to drink alone. What do you say?”
    “I could be interested. What year?”
    “It’s the ’03. Six o’clock at the Chateau?”
    “Don’t overchill it.”
    A few minutes after six, Bookman arrived at the door of Sam’s suite. It had been a hard day of serious meetings at L.A.P.D. headquarters, and Bookman felt the need to let off a little steam. He rapped on the door and adopted his most official police officer’s voice. “I know you’re in there,” he said. “Come out with your hands up and your pants down.” A young woman passing along the corridor took a startled look at the large, black-clad figure and scuttled toward the elevator.
    Sam opened the door and stood aside to let Bookman’s bulk into the hallway. They went through to the