That future disappeared, in shocking fashion, one winter’s night in Marseille. It was one of those rare years when freezing snow had fallen on the city. The roads were slick with black ice, conditions that very few Provençal drivers know how to handle. Vial’s father and mother had been to the movies, and were driving home when a truck skidded sideways into their car, crushing it against a concrete wall. The car’s occupants died instantly.
What happened then changed Vial’s life. Reboul took his friend’s son under his wing. He encouraged his early interest in wine and paid for him to attend a six-month course in viticulture at the wine institute of Carpentras, followed by a year’s apprenticeship working for négociants in Burgundy and Bordeaux. During the year, it became apparent that the young man had an exceptional palate. This was confirmed by a final six months in Paris under the eye of the legendary Hervé Bouchon, who at the time was the best sommelier in France. Acting on Bouchon’s recommendation, Reboul decided to take young Vial on as his corporate caviste, with a mandate to put together the best private cellar in France, and gave him a generous budget to help him do it.
“That was a long time ago,” said Vial, “nearly thirty years. I don’t know where I’d have been now if it hadn’t been for him.” His thoughtful expression brightened as the waiter came to take their orders for the last course. “If you permit, we might try with our dessert the closest thing Provence has to one of those Sauternes you Bordelais do so well. A glass of muscat from Beaumes-de-Venise. Can I tempt you?”
Vial’s story had left Sophie feeling a little confused, and she found herself beginning to hope that Reboul wasn’t guilty. Even if he was, a small voice was telling her, it would be a shame if he didn’t get away with it. She stole a glance at her watch and wondered how Sam was getting on.
• • •
Philippe and Grosso, a slight, neatly dressed man with a black attaché case that he described to Philippe as his box of tricks, had arrived in an unmarked car ten minutes before one o’clock, to find Sam waiting at the door. It was Philippe’s first visit to the cellar, and the sight of row upon row of bottles stretching away beneath the vaulted ceilings of rose-pink brick rendered him almost speechless. “Merde,” was all he could say. “Merde.” Grosso let out a soft whistle.
Sam led them over to the bin that contained the magnums of Pétrus. Grosso looked them over as he opened his attaché case and took out a halogen flashlight, a selection of brushes, a flat black box, and a small plastic canister. He sucked his teeth and flexed his fingers. “On fait toutes les bouteilles?” He looked at Sam. “All of the bottles?” Sam nodded. “And do you need DNA?” Another nod. Philippe was busy taking notes. He could see his scoop taking shape and, at this crucial stage of the story, the more detail he could pick up the better. He moved closer to Grosso to get a better view of what he was doing.
“Monsieur Grosso,” he said, “I don’t want to distract you, but I’m fascinated. Could you tell me a little about how you do this?”
Without looking up at Philippe, Grosso beckoned him closer. He had laid the first magnum on the ground and was shining his flashlight over it. “First, I do the visual examination,” he said, “to check the surface for prints.” He adjusted the angle of his flashlight. “Some of them can only be seen by the use of oblique light.” He grunted, put the flashlight down, and unscrewed the lid of his canister, tilting it to one side so that Philippe could see the contents. “Metallic flake powder. The flakes are aluminum-they’re the most sensitive, and they lift nicely.” He took one of his brushes, and began to dab on the powder, sparingly, and with a light circular motion. “This is what we call a Zephyr brush; carbon fiber, with a mop head, which is less likely to disturb the print deposit.” He finished with the brush and opened his black box, taking out some strips of clear adhesive tape. “Now I’m going to use this to lift the prints.” Fingers moving with delicate precision, he applied tape to the scattered prints and then peeled off the strips before placing them on a sheet of clear acetate. “Voilà. You see? With this technique, there’s no need to take photographs.” The first magnum was replaced. Grosso moved on to the second.
Sam had been watching the ritual. It seemed to him agonizingly slow. He tapped Philippe on the shoulder and said, in a whisper, “Is there any way you can get him to speed things up?”
Philippe knelt on the floor next to Grosso to ask him. Sam couldn’t hear what he said in response, but it sounded more like a growl than an answer, and Philippe was grinning as he looked up at Sam.
“He said, ‘I can’t dance faster than the music.’ I think that means we should leave him alone to get on with it.”
Sam told himself that Grosso’s painstaking progress would seem even slower if he just stood there watching, and so he wandered off, down to the far end of the cellar. His eye was caught by a big pile of cartons neatly stacked in a corner and half-hidden behind Vial’s golf cart. The cartons were marked with the ornate script he always thought of as vineyard copperplate: Domaine Reboul, St. Helena, California. He remembered Vial referring without any great enthusiasm to a property in the Napa Valley, and opened one of the cartons to see what kind of label he used for his American wine. But the carton was empty. So was the next one, and the one after that.
He called the hotel to see if he’d received a delivery from FedEx. Nothing yet. Doing his best to be patient, he retired to the impressive surroundings of the Rue de Corton-Charlemagne and turned over once again the questions that had been occupying a corner of his mind for the past few days: If the prints matched, what would he do? Confront Vial? Get the police officially involved? Pass the problem on to Elena and the people at Knox Insurance? All of the above? None of them?
The minutes passed; on leaden feet, but they passed. The next time he looked at his watch it was still not quite two o’clock. He went back to see how Grosso was getting on among the magnums. Only four to go.
Sophie had said she’d duck into the ladies’ restroom and call when she and Vial were about to leave the restaurant.
Grosso continued; cool, calm, methodical.
“But this is quite delicious,” said Sophie, after her first sip of Beaumes-de-Venise. “Halfway between sweet and dry. Lovely.” She raised an appreciative glass to Vial, who was nodding and smiling at her reaction. Not surprisingly, he had some comments to make about the wine’s pedigree.
“The name of the grape, so the historians tell us, comes from the Italian moscato. That is to say, musk. Now, musk is very highly thought of among deer.” Vial permitted himself a roguish twitch of the eyebrows. “It is the scent with which they-how shall I put it?-issue an invitation to deer of the opposite sex. Indeed, musk is also used as an ingredient in perfumes which, when worn by us humans, are supposed to have a similar effect.” He picked up his glass, held it up to his nose, and took a long, considered sniff. “Delicate, very feminine-and yes, a hint of musk. Many sweet wines are fortified, but Beaumes-de-Venise is not. This gives it a gentler, more subtle taste than, for instance, the muscat of Frontignan.” He took a sip and leaned back in his chair, his eyes going from Sophie to the view, and back to Sophie. With a shrug of reluctance, he looked at his watch.
“I can’t tell you how much I’ve enjoyed our lunch,” he said. “But I had no idea of the time. How it has flown by. I’m afraid we should be getting back.”
“A quick coffee before we go,” Sophie said. “I’ll order it on my way to the ladies’ room.”
Closing the door of the stall behind her, she checked the time as she waited for Sam to answer her call. Just past 2:15. “Has he finished?”