The Vintage Caper Read Online Free PDF Page B

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 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