Gold Coast Blues (7 page)

“Novices get you killed. You want to be treated like a professional, Landau? Start acting like one and quit taking stupid risks. Amateurs panic, yeah? Be happy you’re only out a grand with a bash on the head.”

“I still got my money.”

“Sometimes jobs are meant to look amateurish.”

“If the job had something to do with the missing girl, I’m thinking it was Margot’s money.”

“So, you think rich wife had something stolen and instead of calling the cops, she hatched her own plot, and at the last minute included you?”

“The punk. He was like nineteen. He said the
dumb bitch
worried about him.”

“Assuming that’s Margot, she made you the punk’s bodyguard.”

“So instead of swapping the package, punk steals the five grand?”

“A one-inch stack of hundreds, Landau. How much money is that? Take a guess.”

“One inch is at least twenty grand. There was a quarter inch at most in that envelope.”

“Well, then, maybe you’re right. It was an amateur trying out his wings.”

I flashed back to the punk’s face just before I went down. There was a premeditation about the way he told me to stop and turn around.

“Trying out his wings by double-crossing Margot.”

“Whatever they stole must’ve been worth a lot more than what you brought. Go visit the rich broad again and get some answers.” Kalijero hung up.

It figured that Kalijero would leave me with
Go visit the rich broad
—as if sitting alone in my shadowed apartment didn’t evoke enough noir corn. Had a bottle of scotch been at my side instead of a can of ginger ale, the cliché would have been complete.

—

It was already nine
A.M.
when I got out of bed and checked the towel on my pillow. No blood. In the shower, I wondered if Amy had been a ghost. Then I remembered my comment about how attractive she was and felt like a jackass. Two bagels and sixteen ounces of cold pomegranate yerba mate later, I drove to my office. Visiting my office at least once a day was important, an “intuitive career consultant” told me. Something to do with the universe responding to my intention. Having the newspaper delivered to my office helped with my intention to go there.

There was still a morning chill in the air, but the sun was out. Miraculously, I found a parking place in front of my building and walked up the three flights to see Amy sitting in one of the club chairs, reading my newspaper. At her feet lay a three-foot-long two-by-four. I didn’t have a secretary and I thought having the chair on the landing created a de facto reception area—to help with my intention of attracting clients.

“You appear and disappear just like a ghost,” I said.

Amy folded the paper and handed it to me. She wore a brown leather jacket with quilted shoulders and snug-fitting blue jeans. “I’m sorry I walked away but you seemed quite absorbed in your phone conversation—and then something came to mind.”

I unlocked the door and held it open. She left the wood on the landing, then passed me, trailing a faint smell of lavender. “How long have you been waiting?”

“I don’t know. Forty minutes or so. I was going to leave when I finished the paper.”

“I assume you would’ve slipped a buck under the door. I charge the newsstand price, you know.”

She smiled and sat in the matching club chair in front of my desk. Her smile didn’t fade as smiles usually did. I no longer felt like a jackass and even entertained the thought that I had a chance. She said, “Have you figured out who sent the package and what it was worth?”

I looked at my watch. “You mean between five o’clock yesterday and right now? Well, I got a hunch on the first part. And I think you’re dying to tell me about the second part.”

“After I walked away yesterday, I got this feeling I should go back to the alley. So that’s what I did. And when I got there, I saw this guy looking around like he’d lost something.”

“Mortal or spirit?”

“I didn’t want to startle him so I approached slowly. As I got closer, I could tell he was really angry. He kept calling someone under his breath a ‘stupid motherfucker’ and a whole lot of other nasty words. When I finally asked him what he was looking for, he just stared at me. Then he said, ‘Screw it,’ and walked away.”

“A pissed-off ghost.”

“So I started looking around. First I found that piece of wood, probably used to bonk you on the head, and then I found this.”

From her pocket she pulled out a cork and put it on the desk. I picked it up, tried to make sense of a faded image and ornate lettering. “The package was a bottle of wine?” I said.

“I think so. But not just any wine. It had to be special.”

“Do you know much about wine?”

“I know bottles can go for thousands of dollars.”

“But the cork was probably a memento. There’s a hole in the bottom that might have held a key ring.”

“I think that guy was part of the setup.”

“And he realized he was missing his prized cork and came back to find it because it was potentially a clue that could point to him as the scumbag who mugged me.”

Amy didn’t appreciate my sarcasm. “For an investigator, you’re pretty narrow minded.”

I wasn’t sure what her comment suggested, but I got the point. “You’re right. Every potential clue could lead to a big break. I guess I’m annoyed I didn’t think of it first.”

“You didn’t go back to the alley, did you?”

“I should have. So the person was prepared to pay five grand in an alley for a bottle of wine. That would mean the wine would really have been worth much more, like what? Ten grand? How many people drink bottles of crushed grapes worth that much?”

“Rich folks.”

I leaned back in my chair. Amy stared at me. Her knowing smile seemed peculiar. I hadn’t mentioned Margot to her. “I’m investigating a missing girl, not missing wine.”

“Does the package being a bottle of wine make sense to your case?”

“I don’t know. Even if the cork belonged to a pricey bottle, what’s the meaning of it? They drank the bottle but still got the five grand? I can’t even speculate what it has to do with the missing girl.”

“Tell me about her. Who hired you?”

Yesterday she sounded childlike in her enthusiasm. Today she resembled a captivated child. “Look, I appreciate your help but I’m not looking for a partner. And I couldn’t pay you. How about I buy you dinner instead?”

“I don’t want money. I like the challenge of figuring out puzzles. I’m an
investigator,
remember?”

“I don’t deal with ghosts. These are real people who can be real dangerous.”

The wondrous face became an angry adult. “I’m clairvoyant. Sensitive. I can communicate with energies most people have no idea exist. I want to help figure out who mugged you and why. And there’s the missing girl. This desire brought me back to the alley, where I found the cork. Is that curiosity so difficult for you to understand?”

It really wasn’t that difficult, assuming one believed in her psychic ability. “Let me find out a few more facts, okay?” I turned over one of my business cards and asked for the best way to reach her. She took it, quickly scribbled her number, and walked to the door.

“And if you’re thinking about calling me for any reason other than the investigation—forget about it.”

I guessed dinner was out of the question.

Chapter 11

What could be learned about a bottle of wine from its former cork? A quick Internet search found a family-owned wine shop only a few blocks from my office. For years, I had routinely passed Der Weingott, taking no notice of the place. I pulled open the heavy door. An atmosphere of reverence and veneration covered me. Once my eyes adjusted to the low lighting, I was struck by the beautiful walnut woodwork, finely detailed stained glass, oak wine casks, and a variety of arcane-looking wine paraphernalia.

“How can I help you?” asked a thin, gray-haired man in a fine charcoal suit.

“I’m trying to match a cork with its former bottle.”

“Excellent!” the man said with a smile. “I love a good mystery.”

The man introduced himself as Paul Price, then handed me one of his cards. I reciprocated, then handed him the cork. He took glasses from his jacket’s breast pocket and began studying it. A few times he looked up, as if wanting to say something, then returned to the examination. Finally, he said, “Come here for a minute.”

I followed Paul through a large room resembling a millionaire’s private library with shelves of corked bottles lying on their sides. Paul’s office was through a door masquerading as wall paneling. Once inside, he placed the cork under a large magnifying glass with a bright light. He studied it a few more minutes and said, “Where did you get this cork?”

“I found it.”

“Really? Where?”

“In an alley. So what can you tell me?”

“I can tell you that this cork belonged to a very expensive bottle of wine. See this?”

Through the glass I saw the faint image of the letter “R” intersected by several arrows. “That’s a logo, I assume?”

“Yes. Now above the ‘R,’ there’s a word written across. It’s very small and faded, but what does the first letter look like to you?”

I focused again on the tiny image. “I would say it looks like an ‘L.’ ”

“Exactly. That’s the five-arrow logo of Lafite Rothschild.”

“So it was a pricey bottle of grape juice?”

Paul gave me a courtesy chuckle. “One of the most expensive. And here’s something else to consider.” He adjusted the cork so I could make out the imprint of the year 1947. “That year is one of the most sought-after vintages of Lafite Rothschild.”

“What would a bottle cost?”

“Four to five thousand. You said you found this in an alley?”

I explained that I had been hired to exchange money for a package that I thought was a bottle of wine but was robbed of five grand instead. Paul nodded as if I had told him I ate French toast for breakfast. “You don’t seem surprised by this.”

“Was this a stolen bottle of wine?”

“I’m not sure, why?”

“Unfortunately, since the value of fine wine has soared in recent years, so have theft and counterfeiting. Restaurants, wine shops, wine collectors are all targets. So if your client was robbed of a bottle of Lafite Rothschild, I’m not at all surprised.”

“Counterfeiting wine? How is that done?”

“Pretty crudely—but with a lot of success. Printing techniques are increasingly sophisticated. Vintage labels are reproduced and put on different bottles. Old-style fonts are burned into wooden crates, creating the illusion of antiquity.”

“But how can you get away with it? I mean once they taste the wine, isn’t the game over?”

“An absurdly small number of people have any idea what an old wine tastes like. Even many Gold Coast collectors can’t tell the difference between a rare wine and some cheap filler. And on the occasion someone realizes they’ve purchased a fake, many won’t alert the authorities. Instead, they sell it to try to get their money back. Complicity is a huge problem.”

I thought about the money involved in my caper. “But there are bottles of wine worth more than five grand, right?”

Paul laughed. “Oh, yes. Much more.” He opened a desk drawer and took out a magazine. “To get an idea of the kind of money we’re talking about, take a look at this when you have time.” He handed me a magazine called
Wine Kibitzer
. “This edition is dedicated to the largest fraud cases of the last ten years or so.”

“If the wine had already been stolen and this was a ransom, why pay face value for a bottle you already paid for? You might as well buy another bottle from a reputable dealer, rather than give your money to the crooks. And why would a crook expect his victim to pay twice for the same bottle? They’d be better off selling to someone else.”

Paul took a moment. “You make an excellent point.”

I said, “See that gouge in the bottom of the cork? I think it was attached to someone’s key ring.”

Paul played around with it under the magnifier. “The cork structure probably weakened from being taken out of someone’s pocket over and over. They should have drilled a hole right in the center instead of in the bottom third. From your observations, you seem to be suggesting that the cork had nothing to do with the robbery.”

“Well, even if the cork was just a keepsake, the guy probably knew something about wine. Maybe it was just a bunch of punks who already drank the bottle but wanted to get some easy cash. Maybe the package wasn’t a bottle of wine.”

Paul frowned. “People wealthy enough to buy Lafite Rothschild will purchase it by the case.”

“Which means they might have stolen the case. A hundred thousand dollars’ worth of wine.”

A woman dressed in a black skirt and matching jacket knocked on the door. “Dad, your investment appointment is here,” she said and hurried away.

“Getting ready to retire?”

“Hardly. They’re here for wine investment advice.”

“Investing in something they’re going to drink?”

“No. In uncertain economic times, people park their cash in commodities that traditionally have always appreciated or at least held their value. Some people buy art, some buy diamonds. I knew a guy who put all his money in vintage guitars. And then there are those who buy vintage wine.” Paul opened a drawer and handed me an old paperback. “Here, take this. It’s out of date but it will give you the basic information on the wine world.”

Before I could thank him, Paul began walking quickly to the foyer. He greeted a well-groomed forty-something couple before leading them to a private tasting room. The taste of money would be rather dry, I thought.

Chapter 12

“Come in, Jules,” Margot said as I reached the top step. The door was ajar.

Once again, she had buzzed me in without using the intercom. Once again, Margot lay on the chaise longue looking out the window while I took the love seat. A glass on the end table held vestiges of pinot noir. She swung her legs off the chaise and looked at me. “Are you okay?” she said.

“You spoke to your errand boy, I assume. He told you he blew your cover?”

She searched my face. Tears brimmed forth. She started to say something but stopped short as the waterworks began. When she regained her composure she said, “I thought it would be simple. If I had any idea you could be hurt—”