Peter Mayle: The Vintage Caper

It wasn’t until the following morning that Roth went down to the cellar.

“Jesus Christ!” The bellow of anguish almost caused Michelle to fall off her StairMaster. She hurried down to the cellar, where she found Roth staring, as if hypnotized, at a wall of completely empty wine racks.

“My Bordeaux! Every goddamn bottle! All gone.” Roth began to pace back and forth, fists clenching and unclenching in fury. A hirsute man would have been tearing his hair out. “If I catch that little son of a bitch, I’ll kill him. I’ll tear his heart out.” Muttering ever more grisly death threats, he went upstairs in search of his BlackBerry.

In quick succession, he called the security guard at the gatehouse, the L.A.P.D., and his insurance company.

The guard was the first to arrive, clutching his logbook. By now, Roth had more or less regained the power of coherent speech. “OK. I want to know who got into my house and when, and why the fuck they weren’t stopped at the gate.” His finger jabbed the guard’s chest. “And I want to know the name of the asshole who was supposed to be on duty.”

“I’m on it, Mr. Roth.” The guard, with a silent prayer that he hadn’t been on duty at the time, consulted his log, finally looking up, triumph mixed with relief. “I got it. Christmas Eve, some kind of medical emergency. An ambulance came through at 8:20, left at 10:50. Tom was on duty. Your caretaker gave him the OK.”

“I’ll bet he did, the little shit.” Roth took the logbook from the guard and peered at it as if hoping for further revelations. “That’s it? No hospital name? No medical I.D.? Jesus.”

“We got the license number. And I guess they said it was an emergency.”

“Yeah, right. Couldn’t wait to get their hands on my wine.” Roth shook his head and handed the logbook back to the guard, who made a deferential exit. He got back to the gatehouse just as the police arrived: two bored-looking detectives out on an errand that they already sensed would be a waste of their time.

“OK,” said Roth when they arrived at the house. “I’m a generous contributor to the P.B.A., so it would be nice for once to get something for my money. Follow me.” The detectives nodded in unison, the same thought going through their minds. Here was another big shot who sent the Police Benevolent Association a check each Christmas for $100 and expected special treatment.

They were hardly through the cellar door before Roth started. “See that?” he said, pointing at the empty racks. “Three million bucks’ worth of wine, took me ten years to collect, impossible to replace. Impossible. And those bastards knew what they were doing. They only took the Bordeaux.”

“Mr. Roth.” The older of the detectives had his notebook out while his partner started to look around the cellar. “Let me get some details. Now, when-”

“You want details? Christmas Eve, we were away, and this ambulance comes to the gate with some dumb story about an emergency. The security guy calls the house and the caretaker gives him the OK.”

“Caretaker’s name?”

“Torres. Rafael Torres.”

“Mexican?”

“Does he sound Jewish?”

The detective sighed. A smart-ass. “Mr. Roth, I have to ask you. Did your caretaker have a green card? Social Security? In other words, was he legal?”

Roth hesitated. “Well, not exactly. But what difference does that make? He let them in, and they must have taken him with them. Because when we got back from Aspen last night, he wasn’t here. We checked the house. There was nothing missing. And then I looked in the cellar this morning.” Roth turned to the empty racks and spread his hands. “Three million bucks.”

The detective looked up from his notes, shaking his head. “Trouble is, Mr. Roth, we’re now December 31. That’s six clear days since the robbery. They knew what they wanted, and they worked out how to get in and take it. We’ll check for prints, but…” He shook his head again. “This is a professional job. They won’t have left their address.”

It was Roth’s turn to sigh. A smart-ass cop. That’s all he needed.

The detective finished writing and put his notebook away. “We’ll get the forensics people round here later today, and we’ll check things out with the security guard. He may have noticed something about the ambulance that could give us a lead. We’ll get back to you as soon as we have something. Meanwhile, I suggest you don’t touch anything in the cellar.”

Roth spent the rest of the morning on the phone. His first call, to Cecilia Volpé, was fielded by the receptionist. She reminded him that he had given Cecilia compassionate leave to go for hair extensions and a total body tanning spray in preparation for her New Year’s Eve festivities. And so he was obliged to reschedule the day’s appointments himself. Michelle was spending the day in and out of her closets, choosing a suitable outfit for the party they were going to that night in Beverly Hills. Roth was left to stomp around the house, the phone stuck to his ear. Every time he thought about his cellar, the gaping void seemed to get bigger. Even the view from the terrace was shrouded in a thick coating of smog. By early afternoon, when he was due to meet the insurance company’s representative, he was convinced that fate had it in for him. Self-pity was mixed with anger, and anger was winning.

Elena Morales, the vice president in charge of private, or noncorporate, claims at Knox Worldwide, arrived punctually at three p.m. Under normal circumstances, Roth would have made an effort to charm; Elena was-as her many admirers told her-far too good-looking for the insurance business. She had eyes the color of dark chocolate, jet-black hair, and a body that was well up to Hollywood ’s high standards. Today, however, all this was wasted on Roth.

Elena just had time to give Roth her business card before he set the tone of the meeting. “I hope you’re not going to give me all that usual insurance crap.”

Elena was used to such reactions, and the occasional tantrums, of her wealthy clients. The rich, insulated by money and protected by privilege, were not temperamentally equipped to deal with the harsher realities of life. When faced with loss of any kind, they tended to behave like spoiled children-selfish, unreasonable, often hysterical. She’d seen it all before.

“What kind of usual insurance crap would that be, Mr. Roth?”

“You know what I mean. All that fine-print bullshit about extenuating circumstances, terms and conditions, limited liability, gaps in the coverage, acts of God, loopholes in the policy, escape clauses…” Roth paused for breath while he searched for more examples of the iniquitous habits of insurance companies.

Elena remained silent. Experience had taught her to let nature take its course. Clients all ran out of breath and invective sooner or later.

“Well?” said Roth. “We’re not talking about peanuts here. We’re talking about three million dollars.”

Elena glanced at the copy she had brought with her of Roth’s insurance policy. The Bordeaux, according to Roth’s instructions, had been insured separately, but not quite for three million. Elena sighed. “Actually, Mr. Roth, it’s down here in the 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.”