“Sounds serious.” His secretary entered and handed Anson a sheaf of papers. “Here it is, Wexler’s. Port Elizabeth in New Jersey.”
“Good. I’ll start there.”
Richards said, “He’s a mover, Larry Wexler. Kind of an overnight success. The key, in the end, is being both importer and distributor.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Distributors have to own warehouses.” He rubbed his thumb and finger together to indicate a lot of cash.
Max looked at her watch, and saw it was four. That was pushing it time-wise, as she and Olivier were going to her parents’ for dinner. Still, though, she had accomplished nothing. “I need your help.”
“Okay.”
“I want to meet Wexler.”
“Today?”
“I want to nose around, that’s all. If I see something, I can go back tomorrow.”
He picked up his desk phone. “Who shall I say is coming?”
“A woman named Bailey Blue who is opening a new specialty wine shop in Lower Manhattan.” Damn, she thought, I have to include Vasquez. “And her…boyfriend.” Richards’ eyebrows sailed up to his hairline, as he glanced in the direction of the wiry, young detective. Vasquez stood up quickly, his head reaching Max’s shoulder. “I’m a good boyfriend,” he said. “Not the dude who gets drunk and beats the girl.”
Richards spoke into his cell. “Larry? It’s me, Anson. I have a woman I want to send over. She’s opening a new wine shop, and I don’t have some of the wines she wants.” He listened, then implored, “Come on, do it for me. Say forty-five minutes?” He hung up. “He’s terribly busy, but he said yes.”
“What wines should I be asking for?” Max asked.
“Tell him you want some of Pascal Boulin’s wine. The Terre Brulée. It’s a popular boutique wine here. Wait here, and I’ll get you a few labels that I don’t carry.” He left and soon returned with a couple of other names. “Wexler’s is a huge complex, much of it off-limits to the public.”
“Do you have a pass I can use?”
He reluctantly pulled out his drawer and handed her two special passes for entering the warehouse area. “Don’t lose them,” he said. Max thanked him, and he added, “I think you’re wasting your time going out there.”
Max and Carlos boarded the elevator to the lobby. Out on the street, she rushed over to a hot dog stand, and ordered two. Carlos said he wasn’t hungy and she tossed his into a wastebasket. She wasn’t sure she wanted to work with someone who didn’t eat hot dogs. She checked her messages. Olivier’s voice came on, “Max, call me. I have important information. See you at six.” She looked down at her cell. The battery was low. She swore, and stood for a second, deciding. “Your cell okay?” she asked her new partner.
“Yeah.” He handed it to her.
“Good. My battery’s going.” She took it and called Olivier’s cell, and hung up when voice mail came on. She hailed a taxi and once they were on their way, she called Walt, and said she and Carlos were doing a quick check on a guy in New Jersey. She didn’t mention his location. “A shot in the dark,” she said. “See you at my folks’ for dinner.”
“You didn’t give him the location,” Carlos said.
Max gave him a hard stare. “Don’t worry about it.”
He turned his head and gazed out the window. I’m acting like Hank, Max thought. She said, “I just went to the funeral of the woman I was hired to protect. It hasn’t been a good day.”
He looked at her. “I saw the YouTube video.”
“Did the damn thing go viral?”
“In the department it did. You hate men, huh?”
“I hate men who do bad things to women.”
“So do I. Are we hoping to find Ellen Jordan’s killer in Port Elizabeth?”
He doesn’t know when to shut up, Max thought. “This is a short stop. A courtesy call on a guy who had some questionable wine arrive in his warehouse. I’ll probably have you hang out in the parking lot.”
“I like being your boyfriend better.”
“I don’t know why I said that. A high-end wine shop owner wouldn’t be with you. No offense intended.”
“You’d be surprised by the types of women who come on to me. I am.”
“A lot of women like uniforms. Men not so much.”
The cab driver maneuvered his car through the Lincoln Tunnel, and continued on to Interstate 80 through what was commonly referred to as the Jersey Meadows, a euphemism for the oil refineries that extended as far as the eye could see, billowing black fumes into the air. Dante’s Hell couldn’t equal this, Max thought. They continued west. She saw a sign for Port Elizabeth. Max felt the weight of her 19mm Glock tucked into her waist holder, then checked her pocket for the little knife her brother had given her, and dabbed on lip gloss. She couldn’t believe the size of the parking lot. She texted Olivier: C U @ 6. She turned her phone off and dropped it back into the bag, then asked the cab driver to wait.
She and Carlos surveyed the vast network of buildings and vehicles. “I’m going in to meet this guy Wexler. The owner.” She gave Carlos the once-over. “You look like a worker, so blend in. I’m not sure about the patch of hair…”
“It’s called a soul patch.”
“Whatever. Have you done any undercover work?”
“I’m just out of narcotics, so sure.”
“Okay. You have your gun, right?”
“It’s on my ankle.”
“The main thing is to act like you belong. Move with purpose. And don’t stray too far.”
“I’m like a rat the way I can scurry in and out of places.”
“Just don’t scurry too far. My phone is almost dead and you need yours.” Max was embarrassed to think that Olivier’s arrival had turned her into silly putty. She couldn’t recall ever forgetting to charge her phone. She waited while he keyed in her cell number, and she did same. “I’ve got enough juice for this,” she said.
“I’ll be around.” He practically vanished before her eyes.
Taking a deep breath, and trying to imagine how a woman would behave who was opening a wine shop, Max entered Wexler’s Wines Importers and Distributors. It felt like a sanctuary after all the chaos outside. She sat down to wait, looking around at the spare, attractive décor of the reception room. A woman got up from her desk and turned to Max. “May I help you?”
“Bailey Blue to see Mr. Wexler. I’m opening a new wine shop. He’s expecting me.”
The secretary returned. “Mr. Wexler is with another client. Do you mind waiting?”
“Not at all. May I look around?”
“Go ahead. There’s a building across the walkway there that has a nice display area. Come back in ten minutes.”
“Thanks.” Max went outside and waved to the taxi driver.
“I don’t have all day!” he shouted from the car.
It had stopped raining but was still overcast and chilly. She pulled her jacket tighter around her, and headed toward the taxi. He rolled down his window and stuck his head out. “I’m sorry,” she said, handing him a twenty. He backed up and parked.
Max the building the secretary had pointed out to her. Approximately a hundred wine bottles were on display in a glass case. All the first-growth names from Bordeaux, along with what she assumed were impressive wines from many countries. She dug around in her bag and pulled out her phone charger, then found an outlet to plug it into. No one was around. She walked down the hallway to the right looking for a women’s room. Doors to what she presumed were offices were closed. She tried one, and it was locked. The second one opened when she turned the handle, and she turned on the light. It was someone’s private office, with photos of children propped up on the desk. She quickly scanned the room. At least a thousand labels were stacked on a shelf. She picked up a few and saw that they were from Bordeaux’s first-growth ch
âteaux.
She heard a light click and whirled around, reaching for her gun. “It’s me,” Carlos said.
“You nearly got shot on your first day. Whistle next time you’re sneaking up on me.”
In the corner were large UPS boxes. Max pulled the flap up on one that had been opened and pulled out two empty vintage bottles from the best châteaux. The address was Vin. The restaurant was sending Larry Wexler old bottles? “This is the biggest clue we’ve had,” she said.
“Wanna make an arrest?”
“I want to make sure. I’ll go meet the owner as planned and select wine for the store. As soon as we’re out of Wexler’s office, see if you can get in there and check out his computer.”
“You don’t want me to go with you?”
She pointed to the main building. “I’ll be there. Meet me outside Wexler’s office in half an hour.”
“Got it.”
Max grabbed her phone and charger, and rushed back to the main office. A man she assumed to be Wexler appeared, and she went forward to shake hands. He was fit, that was for sure. Muscles bulged beneath his jacket. They shook hands. His was damp. “Anson Richards said you were the man to see,” she said in a loud, cheerful voice. “What an operation you have here! I was just looking in the other building at your display.” She realized she was feeling nervous after her discovery in the display building, and reminded herself to speak more naturally.
“What specialty wines are you looking for?”
It was the creepy voice on the answering machine. He asked her again, with impatience in his voice, what she was looking for. She noticed that her hand was shaking. She reminded herself that Wexler didn’t know who she was. Play it cool, she said to herself.
“I was thinking about Pascal Boulin’s wines.”
“You’re going for the boutique stuff. That’s what it’s called here. Garage wines in France.”
“I think they will have appeal for my customers. I’m really interested in the artisanal wines, too. The organic.”
He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow, though the air was frigid. “Come with me,” he said, leading the way. They entered the huge warehouse, where she studied the rack and tier system that took up space the size of a parking lot. Everything was on pallets, each made up of a block and tier configuration four blocks across and eight high. Cases of wine were identified by numbers and letters. Workers were running all over the place, men were driving carts filled with cases, and phones were ringing. Wexler received a call, and glancing down at his phone, excused himself. He stepped away a few feet. Max went outside hoping to find Carlos. She decided to try Walt, but her battery had not charged enough.
A black Volvo SUV pulled up beside her, and Paula Goodwin stepped out. Max slipped her cell back into her bag. Paula stared at her. “You’re Ellen’s assistant,” Paula said. “Sorry, what’s your name?”’
“Bailey Blue.”
“Right. What on earth are you doing here?” Max almost gasped with relief. Women like Paula rarely remembered names of people who didn’t matter to them. “Buying wine for a big event,” Max said.
“Which one?”
“It’s up in Connecticut. My wedding, actually,” she lied. “My fiance’s inside.” She was about to ask Paula why she had come here when she looked up and saw Wexler walking toward them. Then she remembered. Bill said Paula was in a relationship with a distributor. Shit and merde alors, she whispered to herself.
“Paula.”
“I hope it’s important that you dragged me out here, Larry,” Paula said.
Max noticed the tension between them. “Excuse me a second,” Wexler said to Max, taking Paula’s arm and guiding her a few feet away. Max studied them, growing more worried by the second. Paula turned abruptly and strutted to the main building. Wexler smiled at Max, “Let’s finish placing your order,” he said, leading the way to his office.
Max spoke rapidly to Wexler, “I didn’t realize it was so late. I’ll take a quick look, but can come back tomorrow.” They walked down a long aisle until they came to an exit door.
“The wines you are interested in are in my new warehouse,” Wexler said. “I’m doubling the size of my operation.” With your new millions, Max thought.
“Impressive,” she said, thinking she should have told Carlos to trail her. They exited a door and went directly through another. Against the right wall were shelves filled with bottles. The rest of the building was empty, except for a giant sea-tainer in the middle, evidently waiting to be loaded or unloaded.
“These are my boutique wines,” Wexler said.
Paula entered, and Max was glad to see her, though she was terrified that she would remember her real name. “When’s your wedding?” Max could barely hear over the sounds of the trucks and construction work outside.
“Next week.”
“You’re getting married and opening a wine store in the same week?” Wexler asked. Max tried to feign a laugh. “It’s crazy, I know.”
Paula wasn’t amused. Her face grew hard. “Ellen Jordan’s assistant who knows nothing about wine is opening a wine store?”
“Assistant?” Wexler asked. “What’s going on?”
Max’s gun was out. “You’re under arrest for counterfeiting, Mister Wexler.”
He blinked hard. “You bitch!” he yelled.
“A gun’s on you, and don’t think I don’t know how to use it.” Max saw out of the corner of her eye the .22 Paula was holding on her. Only one choice. She ran in a zig-zag pattern toward Paula, who fired the pistol but missed. Max lunged at her and Paula dropped her gun. Max grabbed her arm, but too late. Wexler was upon her, using her as a punching bag. Max used her arms to ward off the blows, but her shoulder was still weak. She slumped to the floor.
Max awoke in a cold and dark place, shivering, hurting all over. She felt around, but couldn’t find an object to help center her. She thought she couldn’t have been out too long because Paula and Larry were still arguing about what to do with her. “How’d you know she was a cop?” Paula asked Wexler.
“She used Vincent’s phone to call her precinct from a bar.” Max moaned over her stupidity. “He called the number and got a NYPD detective, then texted me. He also caught her on camera listening to me on the answering machine.”
I’m dead meat, Max thought.
“What do we do now? Wexler asked.
“We follow the plan, only we leave tonight. Vincent shipped money to the Australian account.”
“What about her?”
“We get rid of her.”
“Max heard Paula’s voice moving closer. “Open it,” she ordered Larry. The side of the container went up like a garage door. Max pretended to be unconscious. Wexler moved in closer with a flashlight. “Shine it on her face,” Paula commanded. Max didn’t move. The door slammed and the container went dark.
“She’s in a sea container that goes out late tonight, correct?” Paula asked.
“We haven’t finished emptying it,” Larry complained. “There’s one more pallet of fine wine still in there.”
“Leave it. Make sure she’s out and cover her with the tarp.”
“She’ll die in that thing.”
“Duh.”
“I think you get the death penalty for killing a cop.”
“It will take eight to ten days for her body to reach France. Anybody could have killed her and thrown her in there.”
“I need a drink,” said Larry.
“Verify while I’m here that she’ll be picked up.” Max heard him make a call to ensure that the sea-tainer would be picked up within two hours and the ship would pull out at eleven, heading to France. The irony, Max thought. She rolled on her side, against the cold, hard metal side. The idea of dying of hypothermia and thirst in a sea crate was horrifying. Her hands crawled up the side of the container and
she found that she could stand, and even limp around. She placed her head against the side of the container in order to hear well.
A door opened, and the noise from outside the building roared in. Paula said, “I’m not here, no matter what, and if you give me away, Larry Wexler, I’ll shoot you dead before I go down.”
A man’s voice echoed across the warehouse space. “My passenger told me to wait. Tall blond woman. I gotta’ get paid.”
Max felt a surge of hope. It was Carlos pretending to be the cab driver. Brilliant!
Wexler yelled, “She left. This space is off-limits. Construction site.” His voice faded as he moved toward the door, then she heard voices raised.
“NYPD!” Max heard next, followed by a gun report, then a man yelling in pain. But who had been shot? Carlos or Wexler?
My only chance, Max thought. She yelled help, but the noise of a machine outside the building drowned out all other sounds. She crawled around on the floor of the container until she bumped into the pallet of wine, the whole lot encased in shrink-wrapped plastic. Reaching in her pocket she pulled out her brother’s knife that she carried around like a talisman and began jabbing it into the plastic. It took tremendous effort, but Max finally managed to extract a bottle. It shattered when she threw it against the wall. She screamed at the top of her lungs. The ear-splitting sound of metal banging against metal next to her ear caused her to cry out in alarm. Paula was screaming epithets and hitting the siding of the container with great force. The noise reverberated throughout Max’s body. She rolled into a fetal position, covering her ears. The interior of the container reeked of wine now.
The machinery outside droned on and on. Max lay on the floor thinking about her kidnappers. Neither of them would have any qualms about her dying a slow death crossing the Atlantic in a portable morgue. Walt knew by now that she was in trouble. Olivier would be sitting in her apartment, worrying. He said he had something important to tell her.
Max summed up the story she had figured out: The French exporter, Vincent, met up with Larry Wexler on the international wine circuit. Though it was illegal, Wexler surely provided wines to Paula, which she sold at auction, claiming to have gotten them from other people. Larry and Paula were romantically involved. And maybe Vincent and Paula. Ellen had stuck her nose into their business, and paid with her life. And for all she knew, Carolos had just paid with his.
Bordeaux: The Bitter Finish Page 25
