clothes were still hanging in the closet and his bed was neatly made. There was no sign of a sudden departure. The Roths went to bed early, puzzled, irritated, but not unduly worried.
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
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