The Wine Seller

by David Hagerty

Of course, I knew why she came to me. I was among the first people the police contacted, because nobody within the department knew squat about how to investigate the theft. One hundred grand of wine disappears out of someone's private cellar, you're not going to find it in pawnshops or car trunks. Not even the auctions - not Christie's, not Sotheby's, not winecommune - could unload that kind of haul without attracting attention.

“The man you want,” I said, “not only knows his wine, he knows the industry, too.”

I turned to Detective Newcomb, who sat on a stool in front of the bar at my wine shop. The first time I heard the name, I imagined some dowdy English guy with a red nose and a pot belly. Then I met her. Newcomb is Jing Newcomb, the only Asian female cop in the San Mateo Sheriff's office. In many ways she's what you might expect from a Chinese woman: neat, petite, polite. Still young as well, mid-30s I'd guess, only she's got a face too chiseled to be pretty, and a way about her that's anything but deferential. Impenetrable is a better description. The only thing I've gleaned is she wears ill-fitting, black pant suits that disguise her femininity.

She sat with her hands folded on the oak bar and stared absently at the cubbyholes of wine bottles on my back wall. Over the years I've added a few luxuries to my shop - some leather chairs, an antique bar and mirror, used wine barrels as display tables - but it's hard to create character in a strip mall.

This was at least the tenth time Newcomb had been to my store in the last six months, and in all that time I never figured out her methods. Didn't take notes. Didn't look me in the face. Just stared off into space and let me talk. This time she said she needed more “background.” What did she expect from me to tell her who did it?

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Most people never even heard about it, though it was big news out here. Front page in the Peninsula Times. All the dot.com millionaires were shocked that one of their own had been outsmarted. When you're a captain of industry, you come to think that you're infallible. That is, until someone proves you wrong.

That's how it was for Thaddie. He started out like most of them did, founding an obscure company while he was still in college. He called it Hackinnet because it protected company web sites from infiltration. Soon, all the major corporations had signed up, making him a millionaire while he was still in his 20s.

I always admired that he was a self-made man. No graduate of Berkeley or Stanford or Cal Tech, he did eighteen months at community college, then two years at Cal Poly. All of this he paid for himself by taking programming jobs on the side. He was lucky, I guess, to have been born so homely. With that freckled skin, nappy red hair, and hooked nose, there weren't too many women around to distract him. They came later.

His background is well known, part of the creation myth of the company, but its effects aren't. When you grow up middle class, you think that money is all you need, that things will give you satisfaction. He hadn't yet learned that ownership is no cure for emptiness.

That, I think, is why he started living the life of a millionaire: 20 bedroom house in Woodside, collection of 1960s sports cars, including a Shelby Cobra and an Austin Martin DB5, women he flew in from around the world. He signed up for one of those dating services that caters only to millionaires and gold diggers. Even in that group he would have stood out. Very few people can afford an estate with 50 acres of open space surrounding it in Silicon Valley. I couldn't even afford a starter house there, nor I'm sure could Newcomb. I turned to her expectantly.

“How did you first meet him?”

Newcomb still averted her eyes, but her gold wedding band glinted at me. I tried to imagine what kind of man would marry a woman without warmth, but couldn't. Talking to her was about as rewarding as a tasting of jug wine. But I decided to humor her.

“Through one of his girlfriends. Katia was her name, I think, something Slavic.”

She dragged him into the shop one afternoon, shaking her gold bracelets and flinging around her hair as though I'd never seen a good bleach job before. She was one of those naturally pretty girls who doesn't know when to quit. Not only was she wearing too much makeup - heavy eyeliner, ruby red lipstick, indigo eye shadow - she baked her skin to a leathery tautness and inflated her lips until they were so swollen she couldn't keep her mouth shut.

“What's Didier mean?” she said, pronouncing the final r.

“Did - ee - AY,” I said. “It's French. The shop is named after me.”

Neither of them knew a thing about wine, and she was a typical score whore, impressed by anything with a 90 or better next to the price tag.

“That's an A in school, right?” she said, turning to Thad for confirmation.

In him I saw potential, though. He took the time to taste some things, asked a few insightful questions, and then bought a very respectable Chateau Montelena Cab. I could tell right away he had a good palette and that with a little cultivation, I'd have a customer for life.

After that he became a regular, attending all of my tastings, even hosting a vintner's dinner at his house. He could stand his own against experts who quoted Robert Parker verbatim. Never one to be bowled over by indecipherable language or pursed lips, he let his tongue do the judging, separating the great from the merely pleasant. Good for him, I thought. Trust no one in this business.

His collection grew exponentially. A couple times a week, he'd come in to ask me what I had that was “premier cru.” It takes years to produce wine, I told him. You can't expect new additions daily. But his taste was insatiable. Some days he'd stay for a few hours to soak up the “ambiance” as though my little shop were some dank cave suffused with oak and tannin.

I think he was making up for a youth wasted on industry. Every man needs a time in his life to enjoy irresponsibility and Thad could afford it young. He started dressing better, giving up the blue jeans and corporate polos for Zegna suits in silk and linen. He threw away his glasses and got a hair cut that tamed his brillo. Some even said he looked handsome, although when I looked at him I could still see the freckle faced-boy he'd once been.

If I'd been afforded the opportunities that he was, I would have done the same - only better. Why he wanted to stick around here was beyond me. Northern California is a pale imitation of Tuscany, I told him. If you're that interested in wine, go to Europe. Travel through Burgundy and Bordeaux. See where our vines originated.

Being from an Alsatian family, I always dreamed of returning there. Even though I remember little of the French my parents spoke, give me six months and I would fool the natives. That's never been my fate, though. I've been forced to work hard for everything I have. Not that I haven't been blessed as well, in many ways. My business has grown over 20 years, I have a comfortable home, a wife, and three children. What more can a man ask for?

Still, when you spend your days serving the rich it's constantly thrust in your face what you're missing. It was never the cars or the women I coveted. The clothes I will admit tempted me more, being from a people that values fashion. What really seduced me was the freedom. To buy every bottle that you love, by the case . . . that's a luxury I'll never afford.

I shouldn't complain. I've benefited from my customers' free spending almost as much as they have, acquiring wealth slowly and almost without their notice. One thing I'm careful about is never to be too conspicuous with my prosperity. To most people I look like a typical middle-aged Frenchman, with a growing gut, a wire thatch of gray hair, and a protruding lower lip. I drive an American sedan, wear clothes off the rack, and never speak about the luxuries I've purchased for fear that my customers will feel cheated. For some reason, the rich are more obsessed with value than any Wal-Mart shopper.

Newcomb had other obsessions. She stood and walked to the display racks, running her fingers atop the labels of a couple bottles of cheap Australian Shiraz. Her manicure was professional but without polish, an effort at modest sophistication. Sort of like her taste in wine.

“Tell me about the resale market. Who would want to buy hot wine?”

No one, I thought, but held my tongue. I walked from behind the bar to the leather chairs, waving for her to join me. If I was ever going to get through to her, it would have to be face to face. She seemed reluctant, moving slowly across the shop as though she were looking for something. When finally she sat down opposite me, I tried to explain it again in terms she would understand.

“Wine is not marijuana, and no one is going to buy it from a seller without some reputation. Just because the bottle has a famous name doesn't mean it's still good. Old wine depends on proper storage to endure.”

I gestured to the steel refrigerators that held my best bottles.

“Too much heat or not enough moisture and it's ruined. So you can forget about the auction houses. You'd be as well off hanging out at the local homeless shelter looking for men holding dusty bottles.”

Especially given the quantity. There were over five hundred bottles in that collection, all premium quality. Thad had Grand Cru, limited releases from California, obscure Ports that only a connoisseur would recognize, and a vertical flight of red Burgundy going back 20 years. There's no way you could unload all that without attracting attention.

Newcomb seemed convinced it was an inside job, though. I heard she interviewed everyone who'd ever been to the house. She spent a week working over the gardener, cook, secretary, and maid. Then she talked to the girlfriends. She wanted to interview all Thad's business associates as well, but Thad would rather give away everything he owned than drag the other tech barons into this.

To me, she afforded special consideration. At first she wanted to bring me in as a consultant.

“No thanks,” I said, “I've got a career.”

Then she'd show up at my shop every couple weeks asking if I'd heard anything new. She must have been reading “Wine for Dummies” because with each appearance she wanted to explore some new theme. How could you authenticate good wine? (You can't.) What would you need to store such a collection? (A really large basement of the sort never found in California.) Who buys wine on the resale market? (Idiots.)

She was here so often, it became bad for business. My regular customers, upon seeing her at the bar, would run to BevMo rather than be subjected to her inquisition. Staring at her now, I sensed her directing the conversation to some purpose, but I couldn't discern what.

“How much do you think his collection would sell for?” she said.

“Since I don't deal in stolen wine, I wouldn't know.”

She was looking out my picture window at the Jaguar dealership across the street. On television, cops always try to stare you down, but she couldn't hold my gaze for more than a moment.

“I thought the police liked to look people in the face,” I said, “as a lie detector.”

“It's not expression that gives away lies, it's inconsistencies.”

I knew she meant the comment as a challenge, but I took it as a victory, since for a moment she met my gaze, those black eyes opening up to me.

Deciding to push the advantage, I stood, collected two glasses from behind the bar, and uncorked a nice Cab. Before I could pour, she put her hand over her glass.

“I don't drink.”

I looked at her with the shock of recognition. A teetotaler? I should have guessed.

“For religious reasons?”

“I don't like being deluded.”

A tension in her voice suggested that once she had relinquished her stranglehold on herself. I imagined a time in school when some man had taken advantage of her innocence. Thereafter she had decided never to afford someone the opportunity again. She must have joined the police force right after, because to rise to detective so young, especially as a woman, you'd need time to prove yourself.

“So why are you so passionate about catching the thief, if you don't even value the loss?”

She was silent and turned to look out the window again.

“You'd be surprised. A break-in is traumatic for people, even ones who can afford to replace things. It leaves them feeling vulnerable.”

She was right, of course, and I did feel badly for Thaddie, but he'd recover. I heard that he'd started assembling a new collection without my help.

“Would you say you have a close relationship to the victim?”

Her question reminded me of a time when I saw Thad at a bocce tournament put on by the Chamber of Commerce. It was an unusually warm day for the Bay Area, and one of the local industry barons had just announced he was making a six-figure donation to some charity, when Thad pulled out a bottle of Château Margaux from I don't know where. I tried to stop him from opening it, told him the heat would ruin it. Do you know what he said?

“I can always get more.”

“You don't understand,” I said. “A fine cabernet will sell out in a few months, and after that people are unwilling to part with it. Treat them like one of a kinds.”

He didn't listen, though. After that I heard he gave his secretary a ‘92 Screaming Eagle as a Christmas gift. That's the thing about easy money: you don't appreciate it.

Sometimes I look back and wonder where I went wrong in Thad's training. He was among the most promising customers I've ever had. Musicians talk about a golden throat or perfect pitch. Thad had more: a palette that could distinguish not just between varietals but between vineyards, a memory that could call up wines he'd drunk six months before, and a budget that could afford whatever he desired.

We built his collection together. I'd bring in special shipments for him, not just estate blends but historic wines that had been cellared for years in private collections. These only went on the market after someone died or an ex-wife won them in a divorce settlement. He'd come in after hours, at my request, so that my other customers didn't get jealous. So it was more than just business that brought us together, though I couldn't tell Newcomb that.

“We were two people who shared a common interest.”

“How long has it been since you saw him?”

My last conversation with Thad was over the phone, a few days after the break-in. He wanted to know how many of the bottles I could replace. I told him almost none of them were still available. Not even money can buy that kind of fulfillment. Now, like the prodigal son, he's apparently too embarrassed to return to my shop.

“Six months I expect.”

I sipped a mouthful of the cab, swirled it over my palette, and inhaled the mellow cherry aroma.

“Did he suggest you talk to me?” I said.

“I don't recall.”

Meaning yes.

I've long suspected I have Thad to thank for sicking Newcomb on me. Around here, the police wouldn't have much else to do but pursue hopeless cases. Palo Alto is a pretty quiet suburb. Other than the occasional car theft or vandalism there aren't any major crimes to investigate. Still, I didn't see how the theft of some wine merited such an inquisition.

“After six months, I'd think your chances of solving this are pretty slim.”

I looked her up and down, curious to see how she'd respond. She turned toward me but looked over my shoulder at the racks of wine that line two walls of my store. I keep them in the shadows so no light can penetrate the glass.

“We've got the list of suspects narrowed down quite a bit. The only thing stolen was wine, so we know that was the motive. Whoever did it walked right past art, electronics, even a checkbook.”

She paused as though waiting for my response, but I wasn't about to interrupt.

“The thief would not only need to know the victim's security system but his schedule and habits. It would have to be someone who knew that he was going to be out of town the weekend of the burglary. Someone who'd been inside the wine cellar before and had an opportunity to observe the alarm code.”

“Most importantly, someone who knew what to do with the wine after he stole it. As you said, someone from inside the industry. None of it has turned up on the resale market.”

Thad must have been keeping tabs on the auctions.

“Which means if we search in the right place, I'm sure we'll find it.”

She looked me squarely in the eyes for the first time.

“Did you know he kept a list of every bottle he purchased? As a tax write off.”

“Wealth has its advantages.”

She stood and walked to the wine refrigerator on the far wall, peering in at my more expensive cabernets.

“Isn't this one of the vintages you sold him?” she said holding up a bottle.

I walked to her and took the wine, examining the label then setting it back in cold storage. I had to give her credit for diligence, but not insight.

“I believe Thad did have some Harlan in his collection,” I said, “but that one is a 2002, just released last week.”

I turned my back on her, returned to my chair, and picked up the glass for another sip.

“You want to know my opinion?” I said.

“Absolutely; that's why I'm here.”

I leaned back in the chair and set down my glass.

“I've always felt that reselling it would be a waste.

“There are easier things to fence than wine. It'd be better to keep the collection for months or years after the theft, waiting until the resale market was no longer on the lookout for those bottles. Or, better yet, to dispose of the bottles slowly, one memorable evening at a time, selling the more common ones as needed, but preserving the best for home consumption.

“In the meantime, it'd be easy to store them in disguise. A steamer and some labels from a common vineyard would make the bottles indistinguishable.”

I refilled my glass and swirled the wine in the bowl before taking another mouthful.

“If I were the thief,” I said, “I'd be sitting back in a leather chair right now, drinking a glass of smoky Bordeaux, and thinking about how privileged I was to have it.”

Because some people appreciate quality. And some people don't deserve it.