Little things like warning people are interesting to investigators. The babe-in-the-woods monologue was you shouting that you knew more than you wanted to tell me. And now there’s all this valuable wine missing. You are a wine expert who owns a wine bar. You are friends with Margot, the woman you warned I was coming to visit.”
“That’s all circumstantial—”
“You’re doing it again!” This guy was a gift. “You open your mouth, you tell me you know something.”
“Bullshit. You’re trying to get me to incriminate myself.”
I laughed. “You’re doing a brilliant job of it without my help.”
“Fuck you.” Jeremy started dialing.
I watched him tell the dispatcher he owned the Auvergnat Vin Bar and that a man was refusing to leave his establishment.
“Make sure you tell them how hard you worked to get where you are today,” I said and walked out.
Chapter 18
Pressure points poked my torso before morphing into a ten-pound weight distributed across my chest. My eyes opened to puffy white whisker pads bordering a black nose. Punim leaped down from my bed and ran to her food bowl—as was her custom.
I sat up, noted the blue sky outside my window, pondered my investigation’s latest spin—some kind of bond between Margot Daley and Jeremy Godello—then reexamined the vagaries pulling me along the unknown route of my case: a missing girl, stolen wine, a cagey client named Eddie Byrne, and Spike’s face before I got KO’d. Subtle mannerisms imprinted on your brain for a reason. Spike’s smug expression gave something away, but what? Flagrant amateurism, I thought. A sweet boy robbing his way through college. What of Margot’s anger at the suggestion Spike was in on the scam? Phony outrage? Maybe the kid was playing her. Maybe they were both playing me.
Punim ate a turkey heart. I called Margot. “It’s Jules Landau.”
“Yes?”
Dead air. “Yes? Yesterday, you hugged and kissed me. Today it’s ‘Yes?’ ”
“I didn’t mean it that way. You took me by surprise. How are you?”
“Tell me again about your relationship with the sweet college boy, Spike.”
“He’s a kid we met in Evanston. He ran errands for us, helped with small projects around the house. Eventually, he worked at the bar as Doug’s assistant.”
“He became a pal to Doug and Margot?”
Even over electromagnetic energy waves, her approaching irritation was practically tangible. I braced myself. “It’s really condescending to speak to someone in the third person,” Margot said, scarcely able to control her anger. “Yes, we enjoyed having him around. Doug and I never had children, after all, and we got to know him very well. Raised by a single mother, he barely knew his father—”
“Would Spike have had access to your wine storage facility?”
“He knew about it. But nobody but me would’ve had access. Spike didn’t steal the wine, Jules.”
“Oh, yeah, he just steals your cash when trying to buy the wine back. I forgot.”
Margot sighed loudly. “Doug ran off with Tanya before the wine went missing.”
“But Doug could’ve told him the access code. Could Spike have been in touch with Doug after he left town and before he died?”
“Really, Jules. You’re starting to sound unhinged.” She hung up.
Calling Margot an arrogant, manipulative bitch would’ve been unprofessional, but proclaiming my feelings to an audience of one cat seemed appropriate. And Punim was a good listener. Just as Spike’s pompous, shit-eating grin gave him away, so did Margot’s passive-aggressiveness. One could only act a part for so long before offering a tell. Yesterday, Margot was the guilt-ridden victim radiating gratitude. Today, instead, a distracted, impatient, innocent bystander.
—
To understand what a thief would be up against trying to burglarize a modern wine storage facility, Paul from Der Weingott recommended that I visit the Vintner’s Treasure, a ground floor business of exposed brick, marble,
“That’s all circumstantial—”
“You’re doing it again!” This guy was a gift. “You open your mouth, you tell me you know something.”
“Bullshit. You’re trying to get me to incriminate myself.”
I laughed. “You’re doing a brilliant job of it without my help.”
“Fuck you.” Jeremy started dialing.
I watched him tell the dispatcher he owned the Auvergnat Vin Bar and that a man was refusing to leave his establishment.
“Make sure you tell them how hard you worked to get where you are today,” I said and walked out.
Chapter 18
Pressure points poked my torso before morphing into a ten-pound weight distributed across my chest. My eyes opened to puffy white whisker pads bordering a black nose. Punim leaped down from my bed and ran to her food bowl—as was her custom.
I sat up, noted the blue sky outside my window, pondered my investigation’s latest spin—some kind of bond between Margot Daley and Jeremy Godello—then reexamined the vagaries pulling me along the unknown route of my case: a missing girl, stolen wine, a cagey client named Eddie Byrne, and Spike’s face before I got KO’d. Subtle mannerisms imprinted on your brain for a reason. Spike’s smug expression gave something away, but what? Flagrant amateurism, I thought. A sweet boy robbing his way through college. What of Margot’s anger at the suggestion Spike was in on the scam? Phony outrage? Maybe the kid was playing her. Maybe they were both playing me.
Punim ate a turkey heart. I called Margot. “It’s Jules Landau.”
“Yes?”
Dead air. “Yes? Yesterday, you hugged and kissed me. Today it’s ‘Yes?’ ”
“I didn’t mean it that way. You took me by surprise. How are you?”
“Tell me again about your relationship with the sweet college boy, Spike.”
“He’s a kid we met in Evanston. He ran errands for us, helped with small projects around the house. Eventually, he worked at the bar as Doug’s assistant.”
“He became a pal to Doug and Margot?”
Even over electromagnetic energy waves, her approaching irritation was practically tangible. I braced myself. “It’s really condescending to speak to someone in the third person,” Margot said, scarcely able to control her anger. “Yes, we enjoyed having him around. Doug and I never had children, after all, and we got to know him very well. Raised by a single mother, he barely knew his father—”
“Would Spike have had access to your wine storage facility?”
“He knew about it. But nobody but me would’ve had access. Spike didn’t steal the wine, Jules.”
“Oh, yeah, he just steals your cash when trying to buy the wine back. I forgot.”
Margot sighed loudly. “Doug ran off with Tanya before the wine went missing.”
“But Doug could’ve told him the access code. Could Spike have been in touch with Doug after he left town and before he died?”
“Really, Jules. You’re starting to sound unhinged.” She hung up.
Calling Margot an arrogant, manipulative bitch would’ve been unprofessional, but proclaiming my feelings to an audience of one cat seemed appropriate. And Punim was a good listener. Just as Spike’s pompous, shit-eating grin gave him away, so did Margot’s passive-aggressiveness. One could only act a part for so long before offering a tell. Yesterday, Margot was the guilt-ridden victim radiating gratitude. Today, instead, a distracted, impatient, innocent bystander.
—
To understand what a thief would be up against trying to burglarize a modern wine storage facility, Paul from Der Weingott recommended that I visit the Vintner’s Treasure, a ground floor business of exposed brick, marble,
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