Not to be cruel, but despite the fitted tuxedo he’s wearing, this is one unattractive fellow. He’s fifty-ish, short, bald with splotchy skin, with a patchy moustache nestled under a crooked nose. But I give the guy credit. He does know how to project authority.

“Not at all,” I answer. Then I bluff: “I actually am a friend. Of David’s. He’s just getting settled in the back office. He’s expecting me.”

Keeping his hand on my elbow, the maître d’ laughs in my face.

“Really? If that were the case, sir, you would know that Mr. Needham won’t be arriving at the restaurant until later this evening.”

I lock eyes with the maître d’, refusing to back down.

“If that were the case, why did I see his Town Car show up ten minutes ago?”

That’s another interesting fact about David Needham. Whether it’s a phobia of the road, a fear of another DUI like the one he got in his twenties, or just a rich man’s affectation, he doesn’t drive. Hasn’t in years. He has a black Town Car and chauffeur that takes him wherever he wants to go. David has also constructed a discreet, covered rear entrance for Rosella’s more famous diners to use—which I spied his vehicle pulling up to just minutes ago. I’d parked my own car down the block and had been eyeballing the place for the past few hours.

The maître d’ frowns but keeps blocking me from going any farther.

“I don’t know what you’re doing here, sir,” he says. “But I strongly suggest you leave.”

He tightens his grip on my elbow—with alarming strength for a man his size and age—applying painful pressure directly to the tendon. I try to keep my face composed from the increasing pain and I can’t do it.

And then it dawns on me. His accent isn’t Eastern European. It’s Israeli. This man might indeed be the maître d’ … but before memorizing menus and wine lists, I bet he used to be Mossad. Maybe now he doubles as the restaurant’s undercover security chief. Which makes sense, given Rosella’s exclusive clientele and David’s paranoid eccentricities. And that bulge in the maître d’s side pocket could be the master wine list. Or, a concealed Jericho 941 9mm semiautomatic, developed by the Israeli army.

My arm is growing painfully tingly. And I’m not about to get into a brawl in the middle of a busy restaurant. That wouldn’t do anyone any good. Least of all me.

“Good day then,” I simply reply, jerking my arm from the ex-soldier’s iron grip.

I turn and stride out the way I came. Thwarted, but undeterred. That a former Israeli commando just stopped me from interviewing my newest person of interest worked for the moment.