Sergeant Philips, who was put on the other end of Sutton’s call, was less than the picture of attentiveness at this hour. He’d barely arrived at the office, he thought, even the sun decided this was far too early an hour to get out from under the covers. Why should he have to deal with this?

But as soon as the words passed through the phone to his ears it was all Philips could do to keep his fingers around the receiver. He bit his lip to keep his jaw from dropping.

Tuscumbia.

Why did that ring a bell? And a noisome one at that?

With a quick “Could you hold on a moment, sir?” he gently set the phone on his desk and practically sprinted to Inspector Dart’s office, almost plowing over the door.

Michael Dart, only on his second essential cup of coffee, narrowed his eyes at the young sergeant but was curious about the urgent expression on his face.

“We’ve a call,” he explained hurriedly, “about the Tuscumbia case.” Dart’s eyes widened in a way only vintage infamy could provoke. “Would you mind taking it?”