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away. The window on the back door is smashed in. That’s got to be how the killer and the victim got in here. But this is weird. The door that leads from the outside directly into the basement has been broken into, too, and it looks like someone was down there trying to swipe the copper.”
    Detective Oberlin had been taking notes about what I’d told him about the doors being locked and the lights off, and now his mouth pulled into a smug smile. He flipped his spiral-bound notebook closed.
    “So that explains it.” He tucked the notebook in his pocket. “The Lance surprised someone who was here to steal the copper. The thief knew he’d been seen. He killed the Lance to keep him quiet.”
    “But what was the Lance doing here in the first place?” I asked him. “And how did he get in? The restaurant’s been closed since Saturday. You don’t think he’s the one who broke in the back door, do you?”
    “Huh? What?” Oberlin’s shaggy brows veed over his eyes and that smile of his faded in an instant. When he turned to head back into the restaurant, he was grumbling.
    And I was left feeling just as confused as I had been since I found the Lance of Justice.
    I sat back down next to Sophie, but she was so busy craning her neck to see what was going on out on the street, I wasn’t sure she noticed. That is, until she provided the narration to the scene outside the Terminal’s front window.
    “There’s Kitty from the beauty shop,” she said, pointing to a woman whose hair was the same honey blond as mine and who was wearing a pink smock. “And that’s her husband, Pat. The big guy with the broad shoulders who’s standing next to her. Nice people.” She slid me a look. “Kitty and Pat Sheedy are Declan’s aunt and uncle.”
    I might have asked what on earth that had to do with anything, especially a murder investigation, but she didn’t give me the time. “And there’s Kim Kline. She’s still here.” Sophie rose out of her seat, the better to get a gander at the reporter, who had a microphone in her hand and was back in front of a camera. “I guess I should have been more prepared, huh? But when I knew the camera was filming, well, I just couldn’t get any words out of my mouth.” She swiveled around in her seat for a better look. “I thought she’d be taller. And look . . .” She pointed to the far end of the dead-end street and a redbrick building with a canvas awning over the front door.
    “That’s John and Mike from the bookstore.” She was referring to two middle-aged men who might have been clones. Both were tall and thin, both had receding hairlines and wore wire-rimmed glasses. They watched the proceedings at the Terminal, worry etched on their faces.
    “Carrie’s already gone for the day, of course,” Sophiesaid, turning from the bookstore to look across the street at a place called Artisans All. “The arts and crafts crowd,” she confided. “They don’t shop late. And then there’s Barb and Myra and Bill, of course.”
    For a moment, I thought I must be imagining things. Was that really perpetually cheerful Sophie sounding as sour as if she’d just bitten a lemon? I looked where she was looking, at the store just to the right of the empty storefront next to Artisans All where three people stood just inside the front door, coffee cups in their hands and their gazes trained on the Terminal.
    “Caf-Fiends?” I read the name painted on the front window.
    Sophie sniffed. “Stupid name for a coffee shop, isn’t it? New in the neighborhood. I don’t know about you, being from Hollywood and all, but I have to say, I don’t trust people who charge three dollars and fifty cents for a cup of coffee. Three dollars and fifty cents!” Another sniff emphasized her outrage. “It ought to be illegal.”
    “We’re going to have to talk to each and every one of them.”
    Sometime while I’d been looking out the window, Detective Oberlin and the young cop had come back out to the