The Vintage Caper

contract as 2.3 million dollars. But we can discuss that later. Now, I’ve already been in touch with the L.A.P.D., so I know most of the details, although obviously we’ll have to conduct our own full investigation.”
    “How many years is that going to take? The wine’s gone. It was insured. What else do you need?”
    Elena looked at the vein pulsing on Roth’s temple, a throbbing, furious worm. “I’m afraid it’s a necessary part of our claims procedure, Mr. Roth. We can’t pay out substantial checks until we’re satisfied with the circumstances surrounding the robbery. I’m sorry, but that’s standard practice. This case is a little more complicated because the robbery was clearly made possible by a member of your household. We just need to do our due diligence, that’s all.”
    “This is outrageous.” Roth got up, walked over to where Elena was sitting, and glowered down at her. “Are you insinuating that I had something to do with this? Are you?”
    Elena stood up and slipped the Roth policy into her briefcase. “I’m not insinuating anything, Mr. Roth.” She snapped the case shut. “I don’t think we’re going to get much accomplished today. Perhaps when you’re less upset you’ll have a chance to consider—”
    “I’ll tell you what I’ve had a chance to consider. I’ve had three million dollars’ worth of wine stolen, and you and your goddamn procedures and cockamamie standard practices are doing your level best to duck your legal responsibilities. I want my wine back, or I want a certified check for three million dollars. Is that clear?”
    Elena made for the door. “Quite clear, Mr. Roth. Our investigator will be getting in touch with you. Happy New Year.”
    I shouldn’t have said that, Elena thought, as she was driving back to her office. Right now, he’s probably having a heart attack. Not for the first time, she wondered whether the money she was paid made up for the arrogance and dishonesty she had to tolerate. The nerve of the guy, trying to bump up the insured value of his wine by seven hundred grand. Her cell phone rang. It was her boss.
    “Roth’s been on the phone. It sounds like it wasn’t a great meeting. Let’s talk when you get back to the office.”
    The president of Knox Worldwide, an elderly man whose benign appearance concealed a keen mind and a professional reluctance to pay out money, stood up when Elena came into his office. It was one of the things she liked about Frank Knox, a touch of courtesy in an increasingly ill-mannered world. He came around his desk and they settled into two battered leather club chairs next to the window. It was a minor source of pride to Knox that he hadn’t changed the décor of his office for thirty-five years. The massive partner’s desk, the heavy walnut bookcases, the fine old oriental rugs (now wearing a little thin on top), and the cracked oil paintings of stags and other noble creatures—they were all part of a previous century. Like Knox himself, they were elegant, well-worn, and comfortable.
    He grinned at her. “Another fun-filled day in Hollywood. Tell me about it.”
    Elena went over what she had learned from the detective handling the case, and gave Frank a brief account of Roth’s behavior, including his attempt to inflate the insured value of his wine. “Frank, believe me. He was practically foaming at the mouth. He wasn’t making sense. There was no point in my staying.”
    The old man nodded. “I got some of that when he called me.” He gazed out of the window, his fingers tapping the arm of his chair. “Now let’s see. The robbery took place six days ago, plenty of time for everyone to get away. The police reckon they were pros. It was an inside job, made possible by an illegal immigrant. I’d say there’s no chance of tracing him. And there’s our friend Mr. Roth, jumping up and down for a certified check.”
    “For three million,” Elena said.
    “He wishes. Unfortunately for him, he only paid the premium for 2.3 million. Even so, an amount like that has considerable sentimental value, and I’d hate to part with it.” The old man leaned forward. “How many bottles did you say were stolen?”
    “Between five and six hundred—that’s if you believe Roth.”
    “Well, that’s going to take some time to drink. Maybe that’s what we should be looking for: not the crooks, but the wine. Getting rid of five hundred bottles won’t be easy, unless they did the job on commission.” He