Gold Coast Blues

by Marc Krulewitch

  “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.”r />
  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—”

  “Why didn’t you just ask me to do the job? What’s with the cloak-and-dagger bullshit?”

  She studied me again. “I’m trying to apologize.”

  “I’ll accept your apology if you include the truth. Let’s start with my business card. I don’t remember leaving one here.”

  A blank look, then, “You left one with Brenda.”

  “Who was the girl who called and came over?”

  “Jennie Adler. She works for Brenda. I asked Brenda if I could borrow her for a quick favor. Neither of them knew any details. I drove Jennie over, waited, then took her back.”

  “Who was your greaseball errand boy?”

  Margot looked puzzled. “You mean Spike? He’s a college kid we met when we lived in Evanston. He used to run errands for us to make extra cash.”

  “Spike? The Spike who worked at Doug’s bar?”

  “Yes. He was Doug’s assistant.” She walked to the attic chain of paper butterflies and stroked one lovingly. “All handmade in India,” she said then walked into the kitchen and returned with a box of tissues. She blew her nose a few times and dabbed her eyes.

  “Then you called Spike to run another errand?”

  Margot started crying again. “It was supposed to be easy and quick. Nothing to it. I swear I never would’ve knowingly sent Spike—or you—into a dangerous situation.”

  “So Spike was supposed to make the swap and at the last minute you decided I should be there.”

  “After you left yesterday I started thinking about what you said. That some crazy could just walk up those stairs—and like a fool I would let them. And then I started thinking about Spike and that he should have an older man with him. I still thought it would be easy, but why not have someone like you, someone who probably carries a gun—just to make sure?”

  My turn to study Margot. “Uh, you do know Spike pulled a gun on me, right?”

  “What?” Margot whispered. Her expression of horror appeared genuine.

  “Let me guess. The little bastard told you we got mugged in front of the theater surrounded by mobs of people, and you believed him. Sorry. Spike stuck a snub .38 into my gut then walked me back to the alley. I got jumped right after he said, ‘Fuck you, Margot.’ ”

  Margot staggered back to the chaise. “I can’t believe it. I mean, I believe you. But I can’t believe he would do that.”

  “Believe it. I noticed you buzzed me in without using the intercom.”

  Margot thought for a moment and then said quickly, “But I knew it was you. I saw you from the window walking down the sidewalk—you parked on Webster.”

  Good guess. “Where’s Spike?”

  “He called me in a panic. He said he ran away after you got hit on the head.”

  I thought of Spike’s arrogant expression just before I got hit. “What exactly did Spike know about this easy job?”

  “He knew nothing about the arrangement! Only that we asked him to exchange one package for another. I kept him in the dark on purpose—to protect him. He didn’t even know the package was a bottle of wine.”

  “You’re sure he didn’t know?” I said.

  Margot looked at me wild-eyed. “Yes. I just told you I kept him in the dark. I was afraid he wouldn’t understand the value of wine.”

  Her last comment made no sense. “You’re a wine connoisseur, eh?”

  “Well, no. But you knew Doug had turned the pub into a wine bar—”

  “How would I have known that?” I asked.

  “You talked about it with Brenda. She told you she taught him about French wine.”

  Margot had done her homework.

  “So you think Spike couldn’t resist stealing the five grand, and that’s all there is to it? Then who stole your wine? The thieves must’ve stolen an entire case from you, right?”

  Margot hesitated. “Ten cases.”

  “Holy shit! When?”

  “Two months ago.”

  “And you don’t think Spike had anything to do with it?”

  “No, I don’t believe it. He’s been a great help to me until now. He succumbed to the lure of the cash, that’s all. He grew up very poor.”

  “Where was the wine stolen from?”

  “A wine storage facility.”

  “Okay. Here’s what’s bugging me. A wine expert told me a bottle of Lafite Rothschild costs four to five thousand. The ransom was five thousand. Why would you pay for the same bottle twice?”

  “If the stolen wine was Lafite Rothschild, I would agree. But the stolen wine was Mouton Rothschild.”

  “How much per bottle?”

  “Around twenty thousand.”

  I wanted my eyes to pop out like a cartoon character. “Twenty grand multiplied by two hundred and forty bottles?”

  “Half of that. Wine cases have twelve bottles.”

  “And the thieves wanted to swap a 20K bottle for 5K?”

  “I don’t think they realized what they had. So they thought five thousand sounded like a good price.”

  “I found this Lafite Rothschild cork in the alley. I think it was used as a key fob. Do you think the same person would have kept a Boone’s Farm screw cap?”

  “How would I know how these people think? And I don’t appreciate your sarcasm.”

  Margot wheeled herself around to stretch out on the chaise. I studied her profile as she gazed out the window. Any sign of anguish had vanished. Now she just looked pouty.

  “The thieves broke in to a storage facility? Don’t they have to compensate you?”

  “They have to investigate first—like insurance fraud. It takes time.”

  “Have you investigated Doug’s staff? Didn’t that place have security cameras?”

  “If the police started asking questions, the thieves would’ve sold it at a deep discount and still pocketed a lot of cash. I didn’t care if I had to pay for it.”

  “So they were going to sell it back to you one bottle at a time?”

  “The one bottle was supposed to be a test to see if they really had my Mouton Rothschild.”

  “You think they’ll call again?”

  Margot sat up and faced me. “Can you help me get the wine back?”

  “Unless the wine has something to do with the missing girl, Tanya, I’m not interested.”

  “But I’ll pay you!” she shouted, once again startling
me. “You can have a bottle as payment!” I didn’t respond. She calmed down. “I did it again,” she said. “I had no right to talk to you like that.”

  “I don’t like wine.”

  “Keep it as an investment! I’ll give you two bottles. That’s forty thousand dollars in a commodity that has given double-digit returns the last ten years.”

  Forty thousand was a hell of a lot of money, about four times my net worth. The rich have been getting richer the last thirty years. I dared to predict their future looked bright and would include insanely expensive wines.

  “If I can find your wine in the process of finding Tanya, I’ll do what I can. But the girl will be my first priority for as long as it takes.”

  Margot jumped out of the chaise, ran behind the love seat, then wrapped her arms around my neck. “Thank you, Jules,” she said and kissed my cheek.

  Her weird behavior canceled out how nice her touch felt. “Margot, you need to chill out! I really don’t know what I can do for you.”

  “Yes, yes, I understand,” she said, although her voice remained ridiculously upbeat. For some reason she seemed to have a lot of faith in me.

  Chapter 13

  The Audi sedan merged onto Webster Avenue as soon as I walked out of Margot’s building. I didn’t think much of it until I reached my 1983 Honda Civic and heard the tires squeal as the Audi executed a sharp U-turn and pulled up to me. The window lowered and I saw Amy angling toward me over the passenger seat. “Let me give you a ride. Get in.”

  I leaned through the opened window. “You’re following me?”

  Amy frowned. “Oh, don’t make a big deal out of nothing. Just get in and hear me out.”

  The sharpness in her voice put me off, but I did as told. Amy pulled another U-turn and we headed east. “So what the hell are you doing following me?”

  “I know you think I’m a nut but I’m supposed to be involved in this investigation. It’s just the way I am. There’s a puzzle that needs solving and I want to help.”

  “I told you, I work alone—”

  “But it’s not about you, it’s about me. It’s what I want to do—what I have to do. So many innocent young women are taken advantage of. Tanya Maggio’s energy is calling me. I’m not sure she’s alive anymore and the least I can do is offer my skills to make sure she’s found and someone is brought to justice.”