THE POLICEMAN IN front of the store was in an argument with the gentleman I bumped into. We bounced into each other, did double steps to regain our balance and simply stared at each other, both trying to think of the right thing to say. The policeman grabbed the arm of the man and Ron grabbed mine to steady me. I did not have much time to think about whether I was allowed to recognize the man I had bumped into or pretend that I didn't. He made the decision for me.

"Calendar, what a pleasure to see you here." I wasn't sure whether he meant it as a threat or a greeting. Thomas Cornelius III gave me a quick series of European air-kisses on the left and right cheeks, something he had picked up in Swiss boarding school. I bravely pecked back under Ron's suspicious looks.

"Thomas, so good to see you." I said, "Unfortunately, the gallery is closed for business today due to a crime."

Cornelius gave us his widest American toothpaste-advertising smile to morph into the apologetic mouth that acknowledged the tragedy. "I have heard, of course. That is why I am here. But this gentleman," he pointed toward the policeman, "would not let me through."

He wore a black suit over a black turtleneck, Armani. His blue eyes could be charming one minute and cool the other. His gray, carefully groomed short hair, together with his healthy tan, gave him a look of quiet authority, someone you didn't doubt.

Ron listened to our small reunion of friends from the sideline but the cop got the better of him. "Are you a business associate of Mr. Altward?" He retrieved, flashed and put away his badge in one very smooth motion.

Cornelius gave Ron a longer look, glanced back at me, noticed that I wasn't wearing handcuffs and gave a slow nod. "Yes, Mr. Altward and I are partners in a couple of art deals."

"How impolite of me not to introduce you," I suddenly chirped in. "Thomas, this is Detective McCloseky of the SDPD. Ron, this is the famous art collector Thomas Cornelius III, from New York City."

Ron asked innocently. "A collector? You collect precious gemstones? Got something from Calendar in your collection already? I heard that she is unique." If one were a shady character with something to hide, one could hear Ron's underlying suspicion. But good old Thomas was much too suave to care much less notice.

"I assure you that Calendar is very unique. But no, nothing from her in my possession, yet. I specialize in art from the late nineteenth century. Precious gems, jewelry, paintings, sculptures, furniture. Our friend Calendar is talented, no doubt, but I always wait for the opinion of history as to what to collect or not."

"What Thomas is trying to say is that I must be dead and gone for at least 100 years before he will consider my work," I explained.

Thomas put his long aristocratic arm around me. "But that sad day will be long after my own passing, Cal." This definitely meant that he would have me killed in the next few days.

I forced a smile and snuggled into the arms of my future killer. "Thanks for the praise." I said.

Ron asked, "Do you happen to collect works of Patrick Monte-oat as well?" I wasn't sure whether he mispronounced it intentionally, since he had heard my pronunciation before.

"Montee-oat? Oh, Montenhaute! No, he is eighteenth century, not my taste. You could delight my grandmother with his stuff though. The eighteenth century was much too decadent and aimless for my taste. But around 1900, you could feel the turn of the times in art."

Ron switched subjects and clarified things. "Mr. Altward is not in; maybe you should try his home?"

"Oh, thank you, I must have been misinformed." Thomas looked at me while he spoke. "Calendar, I hope we have a chance to talk about pleasure and business both in the next few days." He pressed my hands for a second, shook Ron's hand with a nod and went back to his small but expensive Mercedes SLK, black of course, and sped off.

Thomas Cornelius III was probably the one most organized crime czar of the East Coast and when he meant business, he meant business. The instant one of his minions spotted my arrival at the Altward Gallery he had come over to deliver his message personally.

And the message was, "You stole something that I planned to steal; hand it over."

However, I was pretty sure that whatever I stole the night before was not the stuff in which he was interested. I was also pretty sure that he was looking for the items that the killer had stolen. And I was well aware that it would become a little difficult for me to explain the double burglary at Altward's gallery to Thomas. Such coincidence did not exist in his vocabulary.

Things were getting complicated.