IT WAS A DARK NIGHT, the Summer Solstice, the shortest night of the year. I was in my office-a beat up relic from the 1970s. It was on the second floor of an abandoned mechanic's shop tucked away at the end of a greasy alley that the Mayor of Franklin forgot existed.The sign above the door said, "Bugsy's Detective Agency." That's me: Bugsy, the world-famous detective. Franklin, Tennessee is my beat. Fighting crime is my passion. No job is too big or small. Lost dogs, missing pocketbooks, stolen bicycles, or revolutions on small South Pacific islands. This particular night, I needed a job. I also needed my sleep. A thirteen year-old girl needs all the rest she can get. Little did I know that right beneath my snoring nose, a job was brewing-a caper bigger than anything I could have imagined. And it would change all I knew about detective work.