“You made it sound like you had a smoking gun,” he says. “You don’t even have a water pistol. Now take your mask and your lies and get the hell out of my restaurant.”

My instincts tell me this bastard is lying. He’s such a goddamn control freak, I bet he knows the thread count of the napkins on every one of his tables. The brand of urinal cakes in every men’s room. He definitely knows where his money goes.

I feel an urge to wring his neck until I get the truth … if there weren’t two armed ex-commandos standing five feet away from me.

“Don’t worry,” I answer. “I won’t be coming back here.”

I can’t help but add: “The zucchini was too salty and my lamb chop was dry.”

He smiles.

“Thanks for the feedback, Killer Chef. Maybe someday I’ll be good enough to ladle dog shit out of the back of a truck.”

He pauses, then says, “Or go after another man’s wife.”

My fists tighten. Now I really want to wring his neck. Or worse.

But I keep my cool. Barely. I turn and exit the pantry. With an escort from his two security goons, we retrace our steps back through the kitchen.

This time, however, they lead me to the rear “staff only” exit.

The door opens up into a dark, quiet alley.

Realizing this, I spin around. I raise my hands, bracing for a beatdown.

But the two Israelis just stare at me. Then they slam the heavy door in my face.

Slowly, I lower my fists in relief.

Alone now, I have two thoughts.

One: I’m even more worried than ever before.

Two: The zucchini and lamb chop were actually perfect.

CHAPTER 45

“Sorry for the wait,” I say to Vanessa as I return to the front of the restaurant.

She’s standing with her back to me. But I notice the mist of her breath is visible.

How strange. It’s February, but this is New Orleans. The temperature tonight is a balmy sixty-one degrees.

Then I see why: she flicks a cigarette butt to the sidewalk.

If that rumor Gordon Andrews shared with me is true, she’s someone who should definitely kick the habit. But it’s obviously not my place to mention that.

So instead, I smile and say, “You’re just full of contradictions, aren’t you? An art historian in the food biz. A Big Apple girl in the Big Easy. Sober, but a smoker.”

She grimaces. “I picked it up in grad school. What can I say? The flesh is weak. All my doctors keep begging me to quit.”

“‘All your doctors?’” I ask. “What’s that mean?”

Now, that’s not a “gotcha” question. I’m just testing to see how much she cares to reveal about herself. A classic interrogation technique, repurposed for romance.