Bordeaux: The Bitter Finish

by Janet Hubbard

  Walt said, “You and Chaumont have concocted a big counterfeit scheme, Max, but I don’t see much proof. A magnum of wine was stolen from the hotel safe immediately after her death, but you haven’t succeeded in linking it to Ellen’s death.” That damned bottle, she thought for the hundredth time. A third magnum from the lot Casey purchased would be opened this evening, she explained, which was predicted to be fake.

  “It’s going to be rigged, I bet, especially if Goodwin sold it to Casey. You’ve looked into that angle, right?” Hank asked.

  “They were both reluctant to disclose that she sold it to him,” Max said. “Now they can’t recall the provenance.”

  “Ha! Subponea Casey’s records, and hers, too!”

  “I’m not having it,” Walt said. “They can taste all they want, but I’m confiscating a bottle for the Fraud Squad. What kind of money are we talking here?”

  “We’re in the $30,000 plus per magnum category,” said Max.

  Walt gave a low whistle. “Have you ever tasted any of these special wines?”

  Max shook her head. “I’m curious, though. There don’t seem to be enough adjectives in either French or English to adequately describe the experience.”

  “How about delicious? What more do you need?” Walt said. He paused, “You think Casey might be involved in this ring of counterfeiters?”

  Max said, “I don’t think so. Casey’s involved because he paid a bundle of cash for something that he’s suddenly not getting a good return on. He’s upset about Ellen’s murder, and at the same time trying to protect himself from ridicule for buying a lot of fakes.”

  “Why would he be ridiculed? He’s a victim, for god’s sake.”

  Max was tired of explaining. She said, simply, “When saddled with fakes, collectors feel stupid.”

  “Stupid I understand,” Walt said.

  Hank said, “Casey’s also protective of Paula. If he hadn’t been such a loud-mouth, Ellen might still be alive today.”

  “I don’t know if I’d agree with that,” Walt said. “But I’m interested in meeting with Chaumont. This happened on French soil and I see it as a French problem to solve.”

  “That’s what the list of suspects is about.”

  “None of them add up in my book,” Hank said. “Except Barthes. Who do you have over here?”

  “Nobody specific. We’re going to be checking out a number of importers and distributors, starting with a small importer named Angus Richards. Some of the marked wine from Bordeaux showed up in Richards’ office and customs let me know.” Max knew she didn’t sound very convincing.

  Walt leaned back in his chair. “I’m going to send this report over to my buddy at the Fraud Squad.”

  Max knew what that meant. She got up to leave. “Go ahead.”

  “You look discouraged,” Hank said.

  “I am. We keep running into dead ends. Vincent’s involved in shipping fake wines, but with his dad backing him, nothing much will happen.”

  “Let’s go back to that message on his answering machine,” Walt said “Had Vincent already listened to the message?”

  “I don’t think so. He would have saved it or deleted it. I deleted it, though.”

  “Good. One more question: Was the camera on?”

  “I hope not, but honest answer: I don’t know.”

  “Keep us informed,” Walt said. He stood up and looked out the window. “I’ve got a new partner for you. Name’s Carlos Vasquez. He’ll start today.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Just made grade three detective after being in narcotics. Kind of a runt, but I think he’ll be okay.”

  “And Joe?”

  “He’s being transferred to the Bronx.”

  “What if I asked to go instead?”

  “Why?” Walt asked, too surprised to remain detached.

  “More autonomy.”

  Hank scoffed.

  “Let’s see how this case goes,” Walt said.

  “Whatever.”

  She left, and hopped on the subway, more determined than ever to break the case wide open.

  ***

  Time dragged by as Max waited for Olivier to arrive. At 9:00 she ordered Thai take-out, not sure whether he would have eaten or not. He hadn’t called, but she also wasn’t worried because she knew Bill Casey would take care of him. She had left the 20th Precinct office and gone to a Jiu-Jitsu lesson, arriving back at her apartment energized. Joe had texted her every twenty minutes for two hours, wanting to talk, but she hadn’t answered. The buzzer went off in the kitchen, indicating that someone was in the small foyer asking to enter the building. She asked playfully who was there over the intercom.

  “Joe.”

  “I’m busy.”

  “Max.” It sounded like a command. She buzzed him in.

  “I can only give you a few minutes. I thought you were sick.”

  “I had a quick recovery.”

  “Funny how that happens.”

  He got a beer out of the fridge and sat down. “My key didn’t work downstairs.”

  “Hank changed the lock.”

  “He’s given me hell since you left. I’m on probation now. So what happened at the meeting?”

  “I knew it. You want the dirt from me before you sit down with Walt and Hank.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” he said, wearing a hang-dog face.

  “I requested a transfer, but they didn’t take me up on it.”

  His eyes softened. “You’d do that for me?”

  “I’m doing it for me. Let’s face it, Joe, we suck as partners.”

  His gaze had shifted to the television that was on mute, and he reached up and turned up the volume. “Here’s a report on Ellen Jordan,” he said, interrupting her. After showing the coffin of Ellen Jordan being loaded onto the hearse at the airport, the commentator announced that two suspects had been arrested. Philippe Douvier’s face flashed up on the screen. Standing beside him was Abdel! In two seconds they were off the air, and the commentator had moved on to a different topic.

  Max wondered if her grandmother knew what was going on. Joe got up. “I’m outta here. I’m heading up to Monaghan’s Bar with some of the gang if you want to come along.”

  “Not tonight.”

  “Hey, Max,” he said, looking into her eyes. “I’ll say the words that will change everything. I’m sorry. Now will you put on your fucking cowboy boots and stop the game-playing?”

  The door buzzer rang, and Max said, “I guess you’ll meet Olivier.”

  “Who?”

  “My French partner.” She decided to run down to greet Olivier. “Wait here.” She skipped quickly down the three flights of stairs. Olivier stood there, weekend bag in hand. She opened the door and threw her arms around him, and he laughed out loud. Hearing footsteps behind her, she turned. She looked up at Joe, who was trying to hide his shock, and introduced them. Joe nodded, then walked off into the night.

  Olivier said, “I’m not interrupting something?”

  “Thank God you are,” Max said. She leaned over and gave him a kiss. Noticing the high-tech wine case like the one she had carried on the plane for Ellen, she said, “Don’t tell me you’ve got another magnum of wine to protect!”

  “You’ll see.” They walked up the stairs. “Joe’s tall,” Olivier said.

  “I’ll be glad when we’re not dealing with each other’s exes,” she said.

  Olivier sat quietly looking around the apartment while Max opened a bottle of white wine, and poured each of them a glass. “Pas mal,” he said.

  “That’s pushing it,” she said. “How was the tasting?”

  “The bottle Bill Casey opened was authentic.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “I think Paula Goodwin switched bottles.” He lifted the wine case. “I
believe she took this one from Bill’s collection, and had the opportunity to bring in an authentic one as she did the decanting.”

  “Which means she laid out a lot of dough to fix things. She probably had to buy that baby. How’d you figure all that out?”

  “I saw her going to her car with a case, and watched her. I’m turning into you.”

  “How?”

  “I stole her case and ran like a madman to Bill’s cellar and stole a California and put it in a different metal case.”

  It was Max’s turn to laugh. “What will we do with the stolen bottle?”

  He picked it up and studied the label, then took out a loupe and analyzed it. “If it’s counterfeit, they did a good job. This is the one that should go to the Fraud Squad.”

  “You got it. Bill Casey is going to be rip-shit.” Olivier obviously didn’t understand. “Furious,” she explained. “You went behind his back.”

  “I had to move fast, and he would have objected.” He picked up the bottle again. “I think you should subpoena Bill Casey’s and Paula Goodwin’s purchase and sale records. I want to go to the château directly when I return.”

  “That’s what my dad just said.”

  “It’s logical.”

  “I think she did something illegal five years ago when she sold this lot, and Bill knows it. It doesn’t make her a counterfeiter because she sold wine illegally.”

  “We have reversed roles. You’ve become rational.”

  Max filled him in on the day, mentioning Walt’s skepticism that the counterfeit operation would bring in the killer, then skipped to Douvier’s press conference. Olivier said he would call Abdel. She went to her computer and brought up the justice minister on French television. She turned up the volume: Minister of the Justice, Philippe Douvier, announced the arrest of two suspects in the Ellen Jordan criminal case, winemaker Pascal Boulin and vineyard foreman, Yannick Martin. Abdel nodded grimly by his side.

  “Merde! This could ruin their reputation if they’re innocent. I should go back immediately,” Olivier said.

  He brushed the hair that had fallen onto his forehead back with his hand, a sign of frustration, and took another sip of the white wine. What a graceful man, she thought. What a fabulous, graceful man. She put down her plate and climbed into his lap and kissed him on the lips. “Not yet,” she said.

  The investigation was quickly forgotten as they made their way to her bedroom. They lay in bed after making love, her head on his shoulder. She had lit a candle on the bureau, which cast the room into shadows. Someone shouted down below on the street, and the retort was a barrage of vulgar epithets.

  “It sounds as if the people on the street are in this room,” Olivier said. “And they’re not pleasant company.”

  “I never hear it anymore,” she said. She was ready to drift off to sleep. “How did Paula Goodwin behave at the wine tasting?”

  “Fine. She invited me home with her.”

  Max’s eyes jerked open. “Quelle bitch!” Olivier laughed.

  Max sat up. “That’s a clue to her character. She goes after what she wants, but we know that already. Her abs means she has discipline. Appearance means a lot to her. She has the $400 hairstyle with extensions, she’s had at least one facelift, and probably shops at stores like Barney’s or Bergdorf-Goodman.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “How does she do all that on her salary?”

  “Didn’t we learn she has a rich husband?”

  “Ex-husband.” She told him what Bill Casey had told her.

  “Sounds like you’re bored with our suspects in France?” Olivier asked. “Did you find out more about auction houses?”

  “Sometimes they travel abroad and buy from the châteaux. Most lots come from private investors who are getting rid of cellars, or want to earn on their investments. They will purchase from a distributor if he’s going out of business, or has so much stock that he needs to liquidate some bottles on the cheap.” She turned over and looked at him. “Did you know instantly that you were drinking the real stuff this evening?

  “Absolutely. I could write an essay about the nuances involved, so for the moment I will only say that it was incomparable.”

  “Maybe one day I’ll be so lucky,” Max said, yawning.

  He put his arm around her, “Chérie, we must sleep.” He pulled the cover up. “Tell me a story while I fall asleep. How did your parents meet?”

  “It’s a short story,” she said, “with a long ending.” She told how her mother had been held up at gunpoint in New York when she was with a friend on the Upper West Side, and Hank had been the cop on duty.

  “It’s not such a sweet story,” Olivier said. “She could have been killed.”

  “But she wasn’t, and they married, and had me and my brother!”

  He chuckled. “I’m not surprised that your mother’s family disowned her. It was common back then, but the rules have relaxed in recent years.”

  “I wonder how much they’ve relaxed. Your parents wouldn’t be thrilled to have you with an American cop.”

  “Who happens to have a stellar French background, but that has nothing to do with anything. They will love you for you.” He took her hand, and she felt him relaxing. She thought he was asleep when he said, “I sometimes wonder if we have behaved like amateurs, Max. Vincent is making counterfeit wine, I don’t question that, but it could be a small operation. Two people in Bordeaux are locked up, but for misdemeanors, not for Ellen’s murder. And I don’t think I see much enthusiasm from your father or Walt O’Shaughnessy.”

  “That’s not their style. They’ve seen detectives spend twenty years on one murder case.”

  “We’ll be old by then.”

  He drifted off to sleep and Max lay awake mulling over his last statement. Was she projecting, or did it sound like he was insinuating that they would still be together in twenty years?

  Chapter Thirty-one

  April 9

  Mourners waiting to enter Saint Thomas Cathedral on Fifth Avenue stood in a single file line that went halfway around the block. Max had left the apartment early, and asked Olivier to take a taxi to the church. He showed his pass to the attendant at the front door, careful to avoid the cameras circling the front of the building. He had a double identity, and could be recognized by some viewers as the French judge, and by others as collector Pierre Guyot. Max was the assistant to Ellen Jordan in the minds of people in the wine world, and to others she was Detective Maguire.

  The wine world was well represented in the great sanctuary. Olivier recognized critic Robert Parker, who was with friends. Mayor Michael Bloomberg and his entourage strolled down the aisle of the church, causing a mild stir. Max, looking chic in tailored pants and jacket, walked up the aisle with an avuncular-looking man in a well-tailored suit on one side of her, and a tall, angular man who seemed to take everything in without blinking on the other. They had to be the great investigative duo, Hank and Walt, Olivier thought. Max caught his eye and winked, then said something to Hank, who glanced in his direction and nodded. Walt and Hank sat down a few rows in front of Olivier, and Max joined Olivier, who squeezed her hand when she sat.

  Olivier thought the funeral was like a state occasion, as people continued streaming into the church. He was admiring the Gothic architecture when Bill Casey leaned over to say “The Queen of Hearts is yelling ‘Off with your head!’”

  They were to discuss the missing wine now? Olivier wondered. Americans, he had decided, were never in the moment. “She’s the furious queen in ‘Alice in Wonderland,’” Bill whispered.

  Whatever that was. Olivier sank into a state of relief when the organist started playing Bach’s cantata, “God’s Time is the Best of All.” Glancing to his right, he saw Paula Goodwin, impeccable in a Thierry Mugler suit, hurry to take her seat. The church was almost filled to capacity when a petite, dar
k-haired, sparkly eyed woman walked to the chancel and sat in a chair resembling a throne. “That’s my mom,” Max whispered again to Olivier. The organist began Chopin’s “Funeral March” after which Bloomberg walked up to the podium and gave high praise to the woman who had broken through so many barriers, and who had influenced millions of oenophiles.

  The rector introduced Juliette de Laval Maguire. Juliette, elegant and displaying no trace of nervousness, began to talk about Ellen’s earliest tasting days in France. She spoke of her friend’s integrity, and how she had had little tolerance for those who didn’t live up to her standards. With a voice laced with passion, Juliette said, “Ellen died because she was giving someone one more chance to come clean, to step forward and own a mistake, and rectify it. Poisoning someone is the ultimate act of cowardice. Ellen did not deserve that.”

  The silence that followed seemed eternal. Olivier had an urge to scan the crowd, wondering if the murderer was sitting among them. Juliette said softly, “Adieu, mon amie. Adieu. Farewell, my friend.” She stepped down. Someone applauded, and in a moment everyone had joined in. It had been a simple statement of truth, Olivier thought.

  “That French woman was amazing,” a woman behind them said after the service as they stood in a small circle. “She has guts.” Olivier watched Max’s face flush with pride.

  Feeling a tap on his back, he turned to see Max standing beside her mother, who addressed him in French, “Max is at last interested in the world of the French,” Juliette said, smiling, “and I am pleased that she has you as an influence.” Olivier admired her sagacity. He assured Juliette that there were many influences besides his, hopefully positive, and then they were interrupted by Hank, who came up and extended his hand. Olivier guessed he was at least three centimeters taller than himself.

  Hank put his arm around his wife. “Maybe somebody will feel some remorse after hearing your declaration and confess.”

  “I hope so,” Juliette said. A tender, little smile was Hank’s only reaction to her earnest reply. Walt joined them, and shook hands with Olivier when introduced.

  “What’s the plan?” Hank asked.