By the time I finished the climb I was more than a little out of breath and sweating noticeably. When Lincoln opened his door he found me leaning against the railing and smiled. He looked nothing like I had expected. He was tall and blonde and had shoulders more suited to a construction worker than a painter. "Those stairs are a bitch, aren't they?"

"They are indeed." I concurred, flipping him the keys. "But I'm only visiting. You're the one that's got to live with them."

"I'm used to it." He shrugged. "Before everyone decided that I was the next greatest thing since oil paint, I used to earn a living - if you could call it that - hauling refrigerators, couches and a lot worse up to these type of places." Which explained the shoulders. "Please, come on in."

His loft was bathed in light, open, airy, but barely large enough to land a Lear jet in. From the looks of things an early attempt was made to separate the living quarters from the studio/work space, but as it stood, one had dissolved into the other. Paint was everywhere. Clothes, CDs, books and magazines were piled throughout. There were brushes in the kitchen sink and dishes on the easels and a fine coat of dust on everything. Lincoln gave me his milk-and-cookies smile and shrugged apologetically. He was a boy in a man's body. I crossed to the windows and poked my head out.

I said: "He came up the fire escape, knocked a pane from your window, opened it, climbed in, grabbed the paintings-" "Off that wall." He pointed to the far wall facing the street.

"Opened your door from the inside, made a few trips up and down and probably drove away. You say you came home at five o'clock, your door was wide open and nothing but the paintings was missing."

"The new ones. They left a couple of my old ones where they're hanging now."

I looked at the paintings he was referring to. They were roughly three by four in size, beautiful in a mathematical sort of way and as simple as the fine print on a loan agreement.

"Is it common knowledge that you keep your work here?"

"Here or in my house in Vermont. Why?"

"Well it looks as if whoever took the paintings not only knew they would be here, but was knowledgeable enough to know which were the old and which were new. You said you were coming from the gallery, is that right?"

"Yes. I had a four o'clock meeting with Arthur Modin. He owns the NoSun gallery and acts as my agent."

"What was the meeting about?"

"As it turned out, not much. Arthur phoned and sounded frantic and asked me to come over to the space. Something about placement of the paintings or the lighting. I forget. But when I got there everything was fine and there really wasn't much to discuss."

"And when you came back, the paintings were gone."

"Yes."

We looked at each other. "You don't seem terribly upset about it," I said.

"You know, its funny. I'm not. At first I thought maybe it was shock. You know, something I've been working on for two years was gone and I went happy- catatonic or something. But then I realized it wasn't shock. It was just that I didn't care so much." He paused for a moment and read something in my face. "Oh, I see what you're thinking. Why should I care considering I've been paid already, right?"

"Something like that," I volunteered.

"But that's the thing. I haven't been paid. Not a cent. Not even an advance. I mean, the paintings were sold to Ian Land and I know I'll be paid soon enough butŠ"he threw up his hands dismissively.

"There are always other projects to pursue?" I offered.

"Exactly! I did these pieces as I envisioned doing them and thought the results were good. Not great, but good. The paintings were presold to begin with and once I'd finished, there wasn't much to be done with them. They weren't mine. I wasn't going to be able to keep any of them or donate any, so to my mind they were already gone. The opening was just going to be a formality, really. Just for media purposes and so Ian Land could schmooze the likes of Uma Thurman, Deniro, JaggerŠ" There were a lot of people Ian Land wanted to schmooze.

I stayed another thirty minutes and was surprised to find that there were no photographs of the works in question. Zilch. There were sketches, but even those were a little unusual, and it served to heighten the sense of anticipation within the art galaxy. (Lincoln claimed that had been Arthur Modin's brainchild.) Yes, the works were insured. Based, he assumed, on the price of his last collection plus the media's inflation of his talent. No, he didn't find that somewhat absurd. Yes, he was sure Arthur Modin had been paid. No, he did not know the form of that transaction. No, he repeated, he had not yet seen a cent of it. And no, until now he had never thought of alarming his windows.

It didn't take long for Lincoln to tire of all the questions. He glanced at his watch for the tenth time. "Is that it?"

"There's just one more thing" I assured him. "But I don't think you're going to like it."

"Try me," he said. "It couldn't get any worse."

I grinned and asked him what I'd asked Ian Land about the artist running out of ideas, despoiling the canvas and calling it art. "Would you do that?" I said.

Lincoln folded his muscular arms and scowled hard at me. "Don't be an idiot," he said.

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"It means it's been done already so what's the point?"

"There is no point," I said.

"Well congratulations then. You're now an art critic."

He let me navigate my own way out.

The NoSun Gallery wasn't far. Right on Church. Left on Broome, don't bump into the corner poseurs or gawk at the movie star (shorter than you imagined) coming your way.

A sign on the door read CLOSED but I tried it anyway and found it to be an untruth.

Super Sleuth.

Inside the door there was nothing but virgin bowling lane-quality wood floors and white walls as blank as a talk show host's conscience. The smell of fresh paint mingled with perfume.

"Hello," the source of the perfume said. "We're closed. Didn't you see the sign?"

I'd missed her as I came in. In fact, I missed the entire setup where she sat, a sort of cubbyholeoffice to the immediate left of the entrance.

"I'm here to see Mr. Modin," I said. I took out my wallet and showed her the private investigator's license. I enjoyed doing that. Although in some places it was about as effective as saying you were a Universalist Unitarian.

"That's not a very good picture." She frowned. "Do you have something else?"

"To prove I'm a Private Eye?"

"Well, yes." She didn't say stupid, but that's what she meant.

"How's this?" I said. "You're wearing a perfume mass marketed to teenagers who are supposed to think that bisexuality is cool, though you're no teenager. You got this job because mommy or daddy is somehow hooked into this foolish business. You read Vogue for advice, Vanity Fair for news, Elle and Details for fashion tips, Interview forŠChrist, even I don't know why you read Interview. You think French films are really sensual though you haven't figured out why, you're not wearing a bra, and if you don't close your mouth soon you're going to swallow some flies."

She closed her mouth and punched some buttons on a phone console under the counter. Aside from the Tommy Gun tapping of her heel, we waited in silence. When nobody answered, she grudgingly abandoned the safety of the counter and led me to the back of the gallery and a door marked OFFICE. Like an idiot, I'd forgotten to mention the tribal tattoo on her ankle. She knocked on the door. We waited. She made a point of not looking at me. I got paid to look so I did. She knocked again. Somewhere people were leading meaningful lives.

"Try the handle." I said, overcome with boredom.

She did and opened the door wide enough to stick her head through. And then she screamed the loudest scream I'd ever heard.

She was still screaming as I pushed in past her and she kept right on screaming as I checked Arthur Modin's cold wrist for a pulse I knew wasn't going to be there.

"Call the police!" I yelled at her.

She kept right on screaming.