He took a fresh thermos of black coffee off the pantry shelf and set it beside his legal pad.

“Who phoned the non-emergency dispatch line at seven o’clock?” I asked.

“Colleen did,” my father said.

“She told the dispatcher a relative from out of state was making disruptive threats over the phone.”

“She meant you, Dad,” I said.

My father picked up his spoon and gave no answer.

At nine twenty, Douglas Hayes pulled his sedan into the gravel turnaround at the side of the house.

He carried a dark brown leather briefcase with worn brass hinges into my father’s little study.