Gladys Knight, Lucien's black cat, sniffed carefully at the worn, dirty-brown leather gloves that Lucien had thrown on the floor. Lucien sat cross-legged beside Gladys -- as usual -- eating a Lean Cuisine and watched her intently.

He'd come in from the office at 8:30 p.m., exhausted. He was so rattled these days that, arriving home, it took him nearly five minutes to open the four locks on the door to his loft -- the chain, the deadbolt, the police lock, and the Medeco.

He'd popped the first thing he found in the freezer into the microwave, changed into a Calvin Klein T-shirt and sweat pants, and did we he seemed always to be doing these days: he worried.

The murder of Artemis Bagley had become a running story tucked away in the Metro section of the Times -- body was identified by the police, aimless drifter, no real suspects, rumored drug deal, blah blah blah. Not as high profile as the Central Park jogger case, not as interesting as the West Side rapist case -- but a matter of public record nonetheless ... and an unsolved crime. Miraculously, Lucien's name had been kept out of the reporting so far, and, -- almost unbelievably -- no one at Hillyer, Jones had any inkling that this B-level Manhattan murder mystery had anything whatsoever to do with Lucien.

Loss of appetite. How can Lucien eat at a time like this? First someone was blackmailing him -- and now he's being stalked ... stalked? Artemis is dead -- so who in the hell has taken his place in a seeming attempt to ruin Lucien's life?

Even when Detective Berkowitz had shown up at the office that day, escorted in by Agnes Ramirez, Lucien later lied and said he'd simply been a witness to a mugging, and was giving a statement to the police. And apparently, when Detective Berkowitz spoke to the media, she didn't tell them that the murder victim's brother was a Madison Avenue art director named Lucien Brandt. Was this a good or a bad sign? Was Berkowitz doing him a favor? Was she protecting him from bad publicity? Did she think he was innocent? Why would she not want to finger him publicly, if he was, in fact, a suspect?

Most alarmingly, Lucien had no explanation for how the pair of gloves had appeared in his pocket -- and, more important, who they belonged to. They certainly weren't his -- Lucien wouldn't have been caught dead in a ratty pair of cheap, unlined gloves that looked like they came off the after-Christmas sale table at Woolworth's. It was unsettling, to say the least.

Lucien reached under the Carlyle sofa for the remote, being careful not to spill food on the pure wool Berber wall-to-wall he'd just bought at ABC Carpet for what seemed like approximately six million dollars a square yard, and had installed just last week. Lucien had decided at this point that comfort was everything.

Pointing the remote at the TV -- which was turned on but on "mute" -- he channel surfed past Larry King, a "Bewitched" rerun on Nick at Nite, a Christiane Amanpour "war torn country report" on Headline News, and a white yuppie sitcom on ABC.

As his eyes glazed over and he settled on New York 1 -- the all-news local New York City channel -- he noticed, out of the corner of his eye, that Gladys Knight seemed to be wrestling, like a kitten, with of the phantom gloves. She was frantically sticking her tiny, pointed snout inside and rooting, like a terrier in a rat hole. As Lucien half-watched her, her noticed her pull what appeared to be a piece of paper from inside one of the gloves -- Lucien hadn't ever actually put them on -- and run back to where she "lived" with it: the open bottom drawer of the armoire near Lucien's bed.

"Gladys? Gladys, get over here NOW with that paper," Lucien commanded, as though he were speaking to a child, not a completely untrained, completely out of control cat. Bizarrely, she obeyed him, and romped over to him, sat down, and placed the scrap of paper on the floor next to where he still sat cross-legged. Lucien picked it up, uncrinkled it, and read it. Written in a desperate scrawl were the words: "See? You will pay." Reflexively, Lucien stood up, walked across the room, and drew the huge white parachute silk draperies across the wall of windows that looked out to the Hudson River.

Lucien realized -- it didn't take a brick wall to clue him in -- that someone had planted the gloves in his jacket. And that, very likely, he was being framed for the murder of Artemis Bagley.

He shuddered.

Bernadette DaCapo stared at the ceiling trying desperately to fall asleep. She had returned from having drinks with Harold Schwendt, her lawyer, three hours ago -- it was nearly one in the morning -- but she still couldn't even close her eyes. What Harold had suggested was so unthinkable as to be comic. If only he had been joking. But he hadn't. Listening to the wail of a siren from a fire engine racing up Park Avenue, Bernadette lay in the darkness replaying the conversation in her head.

"Are you completely out of your mind?" she'd said to Harold. "I can't believe what I'm hearing! I come to you for some sane, sensible advice and you're suggesting something out of 'The Godfather'? This isn't happening! Tell me you're joking -- please, Harold!"

The sleep of the just. Hardly! This thing is spinning out of control. Maybe Bernadette should just accept Hollis's duping her as the blow to her ego and her pocketbook that it is, and let it go. If not, she could end up as accessory to extortion -- or murder.

"Shh, shh," Schwendt had said. "Calm down. This is a public bar, people will hear you. Don't create a scene, Bernie." "God forbid anyone should hear us!" Bernadette had responded, sitting on the edge of the sofa in the hotel bar where they were sitting, and pulling her skirt down around her knees in a schoolgirlishly modest gesture. "Honestly, Harold, the very idea. You had me going there for a minute! I actually thought you were serious!" "Bernie, you've got to listen to me. I'm quite serious. I know someone who can take care of it cleanly and quickly."

What Harold was suggesting -- and what had Bernadette so incredulous -- was calling on a mob contact to send a 'tough guy' -- that was the absurd word Schwendt had used -- after Hollis, to strong-arm him into returning the money. Harold was actually suggesting that Hollis be threatened with broken kneecaps . . . or worse.

"Harold, what kind of a world do you live in! I'd say you were suffering from dementia, but you're not old enough!"

"Bernie, say no more. I totally understand," Harold said, and winked at her.

"Harold, I mean it. Absolutely not."

"Gotcha," Harold said. "You're completely against it. Don't say another word."

Bernadette realized that Harold was excusing her from responsibility by verbally acknowledging that she was against his scheme -- but he was taking it as tacit approval.

"No, I don't think you do understand, Harold --"

"Bernie, end of discussion, I never brought it up. It never happened. Care for another drink?"