Gold Coast Blues (11 page)

“Would Spike have had access to your wine storage facility?”

“He knew about it. But nobody but me would’ve had access. Spike didn’t steal the wine, Jules.”

“Oh, yeah, he just steals your cash when trying to buy the wine back. I forgot.”

Margot sighed loudly. “Doug ran off with Tanya before the wine went missing.”

“But Doug could’ve told him the access code. Could Spike have been in touch with Doug
after
he left town and before he died?”

“Really, Jules. You’re starting to sound unhinged.” She hung up.

Calling Margot an arrogant, manipulative bitch would’ve been unprofessional, but proclaiming my feelings to an audience of one cat seemed appropriate. And Punim was a good listener. Just as Spike’s pompous, shit-eating grin gave him away, so did Margot’s passive-aggressiveness. One could only act a part for so long before offering a tell. Yesterday, Margot was the guilt-ridden victim radiating gratitude. Today, instead, a distracted, impatient, innocent bystander.

—

To understand what a thief would be up against trying to burglarize a modern wine storage facility, Paul from Der Weingott recommended that I visit the Vintner’s Treasure, a ground floor business of exposed brick, marble, steel, and glass, indistinguishable from the ten stories of luxury lofts overhead. Wearing a lavender polo shirt, close-fitting jeans, and a little hair gel, I entered the Vintner’s Treasure to find myself in a combination tasting lounge and kitchen that would be agreeable to the most discerning of urban professionals. I sat only a moment before a smiling, fiftyish man in a gray linen sport coat walked over, introduced himself as Peter, then led me to an open office in the corner of the room where we sat opposite each other on matching black leather and chrome chairs.

“So, Mr. Landau, how may I help you?”

“Well, I’m really just on a fact-finding tour. The wine—it’s stored
underground,
I assume? That’s why it’s so safe?”

Peter looked a bit crestfallen. “Yes, everything is belowground, of course.” He pointed to a wide staircase. “One could use the stairs or the elevator, depending on how much product one was moving in or out.” He cleared his throat. “Did you have something particular in mind—with regard to a storage facility?”

“Security is my main concern. What if someone acquired my magnetic key and password?”

Peter either laughed or cleared his throat again. “That would just be the first stage. Before getting to the vault the thief would meet five layers of security doors providing the type of redundancy no criminal would want to contend with. Any fluctuation in conditions will at once notify our private guards as well as the police. And if you were still apprehensive, we provide an extra measure of protection—something extraordinary for those with the resources.”

“Currently, I have a small collection, mostly for consumption. I’m looking to expand my portfolio.”

He eyed me suspiciously. “What
segmentation
are you thinking about?
Premium
wines?”

Nice try, Peter. “That word ‘premium’ has such a subjective quality. I have an opportunity of possibly obtaining many cases of Lafite—as an investment.”

His face lit up. “We offer services for those desiring to diversify. Our professionals long ago recognized wine as an asset class, just like gold, silver, or art.”

“Excellent. If I’m going to invest, it would be specific vintages that have significant second market potential. A vintage with no more than, say, half a million cases produced.”

“Perhaps I could give you the name of a broker who could help you get started?” Peter handed me a card. “Using one of our brokers will make the transition quite seamless, practically from the supplier to your vault. He’s quite well connected—you should know.”

Peter held his gaze on me. “Okay,” I said. “
What
should I know?”

“Investments in fine wine are only a minuscule part of the market. Over the years it has become common for many producers to hold back a limited number of cases—to age them. When these reserve wines come to market, the demand is quite high. The key is knowing when a reserved vintage will be offered.”

I raised my eyebrows. “And your boy gets the early bird specials.”

“As do a select group of others.”

I pretended to ponder Peter’s words before changing the subject back to security. “What about video surveillance or detection devices?”

“We have devices along the perimeter of the building, as well as motion sensors, and smoke- and humidity-measuring instruments—all standard for a facility of our caliber.”

“I apologize for belaboring this point, it’s just that a friend of mine has many wealthy clients, some of whom are deeply immersed in the wine culture. And when I mentioned my desire to start investing in fine wines, he cautioned me
never
to assume a storage facility is foolproof, and that an appropriate insurance policy would also be required.”

“Your friend is correct, which is why we include insurance as part of the storage contract. I think you’ll find the cost almost negligible. Of course, one can always
over
insure.”

“Negligible because the odds of a successful robbery are small?”

“Exactly.”

“But it does happen, right?”

Peter thought about it. “I’m sure somewhere it has happened.”

“According to my friend, it happened here in Chicago. Ten cases of Mouton Rothschild worth over two million dollars.”

Peter shifted in his seat. “I hadn’t heard.”

“Really? I can understand the moneyed interests keeping such news quiet, but I figured within a niche industry like this, there were no secrets.”

This time I held my gaze on Peter and watched his eyeballs bounce around the room. He squirmed a little more in his seat. Too much time passed for him to get away with lying. He was a salesman, after all, who had sitting before him a potential client worth a fat commission on top of a potential broker kickback.

Peter took a deep breath and then crossed one leg over the other. “Well, certainly, we do hear things. But what’s true and what’s rumor isn’t always clear. And superstitions are always in the back of one’s mind in a small competitive market like ours.”

“Airlines don’t brag about their crash records.”

“Precisely.”

“Although one could argue the consumer has the right to know how safe his investment is. I assume this market is free from government regulations. And a business has the right to assure a client that mistakes made elsewhere are learning opportunities.”

Peter was starting to like me. “Absolutely! Which is why I can—with confidence—tell you that the rumored breach would have been avoided here.”

“I guess you’re not superstitious.”

“Science trumps superstition. Are you familiar with biometrics?”

“Like digital fingerprinting? Is this the ‘extraordinary’ measure you mentioned earlier?”

“We offer up to a four-layer biometric security package. Signature recognition is the first layer. Then the digital fingerprint. Third is the iris scan. The fourth layer takes the iris scan to the next level. It’s complicated, but think of being able to use the contractions of the pupil to determine the authenticity of an individual’s identity.”

I said, “The cost is determined by how many layers one desires, which would then be partially offset by a less expensive insurance payment.”

“You have a mind for business, Mr. Landau. Come, let’s have a look at the vault.”

I followed Peter to the wide staircase spiraling down into a subterranean arched hallway. From there, we journeyed through four separate steel-reinforced security doors designed to look like they came off the hinges of a medieval castle. Once Peter got us through the final door, we entered a temperature-controlled catacomb of floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with bottles. It reminded me of library stacks, except these racks were connected to mechanized levers that opened up walkways between the walls of wine, giving access to private collectors.

“And depending on the total value of the commodity being stored,” Peter continued, “we envision some instances where the purchase of insurance would be deemed superfluous.”

Canister spotlights added to a feeling of recently discovered antiquity, as if visiting an archaeological display. I said, “Layers upon layers of security available for the right price.”

“For some, peace of mind is beyond cost.”

Peter led me back to the stairway. He began the ascent then stopped and said, “Would you rather take the elevator?”

I declined. At the next turn I said, “The facility from where the wine is rumored to be missing, they did not have this technology?”

“If there was a breach in security, this technology could not have been in use. I have no doubt.”

“Unless it was an inside job.”

Peter waited until we reached the top step to say, “An inside job trumps all other scenarios. That is why you must trust your employees.”

“How would
they
get away with it?”

“They wouldn’t get away with it. Any action to disarm our security layers would be recorded electronically. Everything that is taken out is recorded, everything that is put in is recorded, every keystroke is recorded, somebody has to give the command….”

Peter went on to describe their surveillance technology as a devoted, intelligent employee that would never waver from its duty. Then he wrapped up our visit with a final, joyous allusion to a security system being an “omniscient, omnipotent oenophile,” and I joined him in a hearty laugh.

Chapter 19

Margot probably knew the people who stole her wine, I thought, while washing the gel out of my hair in the kitchen sink. But why would she pretend not to know anything and still beg me to get involved? The repetition of six notes on an electronic keyboard reminded me I had changed my ringtone to “Timeless.”

“You owe me an apology,” Amy said. “You hung up on me.”

It took a moment, but I remembered calling her from Brenda’s café. “Why would you even care if I hung up on you?”

“You don’t think that hurt my feelings?”

“Not in the least. Besides, I could claim
your
cellphone dropped the call, and that
you
hung up on
me
.”

“But you’d be lying.”

“True. I hung up because you gave me an important piece of a puzzle and I got excited.”

“Cool! You know I like puzzles. Will you share?”

My initial impulse was to say no, but I had a lot of information bouncing around my brain and it occurred to me that chatting with an intelligent person like Amy might help me see something I was overlooking—or, perhaps, help me figure out who the hell she was.

“You ever heard of Mocha Mouse?”

“Of course. I’m on the way.” She hung up.

—

Amy sat alone at a round table usually reserved for large parties. “Are you expecting more people?” I asked.

“I like having a little space around me.”

“You don’t think it’s a little rude—”

“For god’s sake, Jules, sit down. If a large party walks in we’ll move.”

She had a short fuse. I remembered her practically ordering me into her car after I left Margot’s apartment. “You know, I don’t get it—your anger.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“This is the second time you’ve snapped at me in the two days since we met. You would think that level of emotion would’ve required more of an investment of your time.”

Amy rested her hand on my arm and smiled. “I’m sorry. I’m worried about Tanya. I feel like every minute we waste could be the difference between life and death for her.”

She touched me. “So now you think she’s alive?”

“We have to find her—either alive or dead. Until then, she’ll never be at rest. Her family needs closure.”

“Tanya’s energy is calling you, but you can’t tell if it’s dead energy or living energy?”

Amy withdrew her hand from my arm. “Energy lives forever. In different forms, maybe, but it’s always there. Anyway, back to the puzzle piece I gave you. What is it?”

“Margot inherited her father’s wine collection two months before her husband, Doug, took off with Tanya.”

“Cheating husband takes off with younger woman, leaving millions in wine behind.”

“Exactly. But I’m wondering if Doug knew the wine’s value before he left. I’m not sure where it fits, but it’s a piece of something. Anyway, I also discovered that Margot had some kind of relationship with Jeremy—the owner of the wine bar that used to be Doug’s pub. Also, Margot is convinced her husband murdered Tanya, then killed himself.”

Amy straightened up and thought about it. “You think Jeremy and Margot are having an affair?”

“Can’t say. I don’t know when Jeremy came along.”

“But how is the stolen wine related to the missing woman?”

“Maybe she was just along for the ride with Doug.”

“And then—her boyfriend came out here looking for her, and hired you.” Amy looked around the room, then pretended to be interested in Mocha Mouse’s beer list.

“Which
boyfriend
are you talking about?”

“Oh, stop it. You don’t have to be psychic to assume Tanya had a boyfriend.”

“She probably had a mother, father, brother, sister, dog, cat, and capybara too.”

“Did Mom or Dad hire you?”

She had a point. “Eddie came out here from Newark. He’d been doing time when Tanya stopped keeping in touch.”

“Why was Eddie in prison?”

“I didn’t ask.”

“What do you know about their relationship?”

“They grew up together, street kids from the Newark area.”

We sat in silence while Amy resisted commenting on my investigative skills. “You’re the professional, but it seems to me you don’t know much about the subject of your investigation.”

“You’re the psychic who talks to Tanya’s energy, you tell me about her.”

Amy narrowed her eyes. “Why don’t you admit I’m right instead of being a smart ass?”

“You sound like a woman with an agenda. What’s your day job, by the way?”

Amy drummed her fingernails on the table. “I get the feeling you don’t trust me. Just say the word, Jules, and I’ll leave forever.”