Part 5 (1/2)

I stepped into the building and Declan followed me. ”You're in a good mood for a man whose cousin was arrested for murder last night,” I told him.

”Owen didn't do it,” he said.

”Then who did?”

”Last night, you suggested that it might have been me.”

”It was just a theory.”

”And not a very good one.” He closed the door behind us and we stood side by side in the waiting area.

”I can take a look around the restaurant if you like,” Declan suggested.

”Just like you wanted to look around last night.”

”Which doesn't make me a murder suspect.”

”But it does make you look awfully suspicious.”

He shot me a sidelong glance. ”Truth?”

I wasn't sure this was the time or the place so I hesitated, and when I did, he took it to mean I wanted to hear more.

”I figured the kid might be in trouble,” he said. ”Owen, that is. He's from South Carolina, here to visit Kitty and Pat and the rest of the family.”

”And you just naturally a.s.sumed that while he was in town, he'd be stealing the copper pipes from local establishments?”

”Owen is something of a h.e.l.l-raiser. Always has been.”

”And you wanted to keep him out of trouble.”

”Keeping Owen out of trouble isn't always possible, but I wanted to try.”

”And now he's been arrested for murder.”

Declan muttered a word I couldn't hear but I could pretty well imagine. ”Owen is a stupid kid and he was doing a stupid thing. There's no denying that. But the police don't have anything to connect him to the murder.”

”Maybe he's too smart for that.”

Declan chuckled. ”You haven't met Owen.” He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. ”Even without any solid evidence, they're going to try like h.e.l.l to get a conviction,” he grumbled. ”Gus Oberlin will see to it. Gus likes things wrapped up nice and quick. He sees one theory of a case and runs with it, even when he's running in the wrong direction.”

I strolled over to the rolltop desk. ”And you think that's what he's going to do this time.”

”Absolutely. Gus is going to steamroll his way through this case. I just need to make sure that when he does, he doesn't flatten Owen in the process. You'll see I'm right. Owen might be a goofball, but he's not a killer.”

I wanted to believe him. Not because I had any opinion-good or bad-about Owen Quilligan. As Declan said, I didn't know the kid. Still, I didn't like the thought of a young guy like Owen spending the rest of his life in prison. I didn't like the thought of Jack Lancer being dead, either. Or of finding bodies in restaurants. Dead instead of diners. Not a pretty thought.

I twitched it away and I'd already started through the doorway that led into the restaurant when Declan stopped me, his hand on my arm. ”Don't you want me to go in there before you?” he asked.

I laughed. ”What do you think's going to happen, the Lance of Justice's ghost is going to get me? Or do you think I'm one of those women who will dissolve into tears just looking at the place where the awful deed happened?”

One corner of his mouth twitched. ”You're not?”

”I don't have the time. And I don't have the disposition. So if you're waiting for tears, you're going to wait a long, long while. It doesn't bother me to think that Jack Lancer died here. I didn't know him. And I have no real connection with the Terminal, either, so it's not like I think the murder has somehow affected the ambience.” I didn't mean to sigh. Honest. But when I glanced around, I couldn't help myself. ”Let's face it, there's not much ambience around here to begin with.”

”Oh, I don't know.” His lips pursed, Declan looked around, too. ”It's a throwback to another era and a time when Hubbard was hopping. You know, before the factories closed and the companies packed up and headed to warmer climates. The place is charming.”

”Are you looking at what I'm looking at?” Of course he was, and of course he wasn't going to admit that he saw past the lacy facade to the tiredness beneath. And even if he was, I wasn't going to stand there and listen. I walked through the lace-curtained doorway and into the restaurant.

Just like the night before, there were no lights on in there, but this morning with the sun streaming through the windows that looked out at the railroad tracks, Sophie's Terminal at the Tracks was washed with golden light.

Sure, in a better, more perfect world (or maybe in a Hallmark Channel movie), the sunlight would have accented the Terminal's hominess, softening the rough edges of the place and gilding everything from the yellowed lace over the windows to the grainy black-and-white photographs of trains and railroad workers that hung on the walls. It would have made the dust motes that floated in the air into sparkling fairy dust.

In reality, all the light did was accent the gouges in the old floorboards, the smudges on the old wooden tables, and the fact that the windows needed was.h.i.+ng. Badly.

”I can hang around until George shows up.” Until he spoke up, I hadn't realized Declan had come to stand right behind me. Which was a funny thing, really, because anytime he was anywhere within five feet of me, I could feel the air heat between us as if tiny sparks of electricity crossed from him to me on invisible wires. ”George, he's your cook,” he added when I didn't respond to his offer. ”Denice and Inez are-”

”The waitresses. I know.” I spun away from the window. Too bad. Had I stood there a moment longer, I might have seen the freight train coming.

It rolled by not twenty feet from where I stood, and, startled, I gasped.

”People love it.” Declan raised his voice to be heard over the rush of the train. ”A lot of them come here just to see the trains.”

Through the wall of windows at the back of the Terminal, I watched car after car streak past, fast enough to send a buzz of vibration through the old floorboards and just slow enough for me to see the brightly colored gang tags that had been painted on the sides of one car after another.

”Denice and Inez usually get here . . .” Declan pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and checked the time. ”They'll be here by seven. Denice is usually first through the door.”

I turned from the windows and the train smoothly streaking by and headed for the kitchen. ”And you're usually up and going this early, too?”

He scrubbed a hand across the dusting of whiskers on his chin. ”Actually, I haven't been home. Been dealing with the cops. And Owen, of course. Kid's got a head as hard as a coconut.”

I pushed open the swinging door that led into the kitchen. ”I can't imagine there was anything for you to eat at the police station.”

”There's a vending machine and, hey, I'm used to Fritos at three in the morning.”

I glanced over my shoulder at him. ”Spend a lot of time in police stations, do you?”

”Unfortunately, yes.”

The kitchen was small, but thankfully tidy, and there was a coffeemaker on the stainless steel counter between an oven and a deep fryer. First things first: I got the coffee going, then checked out the walk-in cooler at the far end of the room. ”How do you like your eggs?” I called out to Declan.

”Over easy, if it isn't too much trouble.”

I got the grill started and found a loaf of bread and popped a couple slices into the toaster.

”You're not a vegan?” he asked, watching me crack the eggs. ”Organics only? I expected more from a California girl than fried eggs and white toast.”

”I'm used to cooking whatever my employer wanted to eat.”

”So what do Hollywood stars eat?”