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investigate the so-called Impressionist ring, a group of high-society art dealers trading in superlative fakes of Monets, Cézannes, and Renoirs. It was during this, one of his first totally legitimate jobs, that Sam found himself working with the L.A.P.D., in the impressive shape of Lieutenant Bob Bookman. Here was a man who loved his food, and it showed. But being tall, he wore his weight well, helped by a self-imposed dress code that never varied. A generously cut black suit, a black knitted silk tie, and a white shirt. He called it undertaker chic.
    His relationship with Sam got off to a promising start when they discovered a mutual interest in wine, and once the art case had been dealt with they fell into the habit of meeting every few weeks for dinner, taking turns in choosing the restaurant and selecting the wine. These were in no way business meetings, but inevitably a certain amount of underworld gossip was exchanged. It had turned out to be a pleasant and fruitful arrangement for both men.
    Bookman answered Sam’s call with his customary world-weary grunt.
    “Booky,” said Sam, “I need to pick your brains, but I’ll make it pleasant for you. I’m taking the cork out of a bottle of Bâtard-Montrachet this evening, and I hate to drink alone. What do you say?”
    “I could be interested. What year?”
    “It’s the ’03. Six o’clock at the Chateau?”
    “Don’t overchill it.”
    A few minutes after six, Bookman arrived at the door of Sam’s suite. It had been a hard day of serious meetings at L.A.P.D. headquarters, and Bookman felt the need to let off a little steam. He rapped on the door and adopted his most official police officer’s voice. “I know you’re in there,” he said. “Come out with your hands up and your pants down.” A young woman passing along the corridor took a startled look at the large, black-clad figure and scuttled toward the elevator.
    Sam opened the door and stood aside to let Bookman’s bulk into the hallway. They went through to the small kitchen, one entire wall of which was taken up with the temperature-controlled cabinets where Sam kept wines for immediate drinking. The open bottle of Bâtard-Montrachet was in an ice bucket on the counter, next to two glasses. Bookman picked up the cork and sniffed it while Sam poured the wine.
    Without speaking, they held their glasses up to the evening light coming through the window. Gently swirling the wine, they applied their noses to the heady, luscious bouquet before taking their first sip.
    Bookman gave a sigh of pleasure. “Let’s not send this one back.” He took another, longer sip. “Isn’t this the wine that Alexandre Dumas said should be drunk while kneeling, with the head bared?”
    Sam grinned. “I’ve heard that people in Burgundy salute every time they go past the vineyard.” He took the ice bucket into the living room, and the two men settled into oversized armchairs, the wine on a low table between them.
    “Now,” said Bookman, “let me guess why I’m here.” He took another sip of wine and contemplated his glass, as if in deep thought.
    “I’ve taken on the Roth case.”
    “So I heard. I had someone brief me on it before I came over. Getting anywhere?”
    “My only discovery so far is that Mr. Roth is a pain in the ass. Also, he’s dishonest—or trying to be. The wine’s insured for 2.3 million, and he’s claiming it’s worth three. Which it probably is; but it wasn’t insured for three. Apart from that, all I know is that it was a pro job. I’m going to check with the auction houses tomorrow, but my bet is that the wine wasn’t stolen for resale. It was for a private cellar.”
    Bookman nodded. “Makes sense. You don’t see bottles like that every day. They’d be too easily traced.” He held out his glass for a refill. “You don’t think Roth fixed it himself, for the insurance money?”
    “No. You read that piece in the L.A. Times? Roth is the kind of guy who has to show off what