The Vintage Caper Read Free

soil conditions, and tannin content. And, sprinkled throughout the text like truffles in foie gras , there were the prices. These were usually expressed by the case or by the bottle, but sometimes by smaller, more affordable measures, as in $250 a glass or even (for the Yquem) $75 a sip.
    Roth, after reading and rereading the article, was more than satisfied. He thought that he came across as an informed and serious man. Nothing flashy or nouveau riche, as long as the reader disregarded the passing references to the lodge in Aspen and Roth’s fondness for private jets. But even these were perfectly acceptable, indeed quite normal, in the upper reaches of twenty-first-century California society. So, all in all, Roth was confident that the piece had achieved its purpose. The world—or at least the world that counted, his world—had been made aware of the fact that he was not only a wealthy and successful businessman, but also an aficionado of vintages, a veritable patron of the grape.
    This was confirmed many times in the days following the appearance of the article. The maître d’s and sommeliers of Roth’s favorite restaurants treated him with an extra touch of deference, and nodded approvingly at his choices from the wine list. Business acquaintances called him seeking advice about their own, less distinguished, cellars. Magazines requested interviews. The piece had also run in the International Herald Tribune , with a worldwide circulation. Overnight, it seemed, Danny Roth had become the wine guy.

Two

    It was Christmas Eve in Los Angeles, and all the traditional sights of that most joyous of seasons were on display. Santas in sunglasses—some wearing red shorts as a concession to the heat—rang their bells and wagged their false beards as they set up camp in the prosperous parts of town. In Beverly Hills, a few of the more festive lawns had been dusted with artificial snow imported from China. Rodeo Drive was a-twinkle with the glint of platinum American Express cards. A bar on Wilshire was offering an extended happy hour, from eleven a.m. to midnight, with the added inducement of organic martinis. And members of the L.A. Police Department, brimming with goodwill to all men, were dispensing parking tickets and D.U.I. citations with unusual generosity.
    As the dusk of evening deepened into night, an ambulance made its way through the holiday traffic on Sunset and headed into the hills before stopping at the security barrier that marked the entrance to Hollywood Heights. The guard, yawning with boredom after an uneventful few hours, emerged from his air-conditioned sentry box and peered at the two men inside the ambulance.
    “What’s up?”
    The ambulance driver, spruce in his hospital whites, leaned out of his window. “Sounds serious, but we can’t be sure until we get there. Call from the Roth residence.”
    The guard nodded, and went back into his miniature fortress to call the house. The driver saw him nod again before he put the phone down and the barrier went up. Recording the visit in his log, the guard checked his watch and saw that there were only ten minutes left until the end of his shift. Tough luck on his replacement, who would be spending the rest of Christmas Eve in the gatehouse, watching reruns on TV.
    Arriving at Château Roth, the ambulance was met in the driveway by the man who had given the green light to the security guard, a visibly agitated Rafael. He had been left in charge of the property while the owners spent Christmas in Aspen, and only the thought of vanishing across the Mexican border with $50,000 in cash had persuaded him to abandon his comfortable, if undeclared, employment. He took the two ambulance men down to the cellar and let them in.
    Unhurried and methodical, they pulled on rubber gloves before unloading empty cardboard cartons bearing the name of a winery in the Napa Valley. A preliminary tour of the cellar showed that the bottles of Bordeaux occupied a separate section,