The Fine Art of Murder by Emily Barnes Page A

“There wasn’t anything new at the station either. Any suggestions?”
    “Did you ever find out who made the nine-one-one call? Maybe it’s the same person who found Stacey’s body.”
    “No one has a clue.”
    “Why don’t you meet me for lunch tomorrow at the diner, around one? I’ll bring my crew. They’re an odd bunch, but between the six of us, we’ll be able to come up with the name of the caller.”
    “I’ve never thought of you as having a ‘crew.’ It seems strange.”
    “Good strange or bad strange?” he asked.
    “I’ll let you know tomorrow.”

Chapter Thirteen
    The Twelfth Street Diner wasn’t on Twelfth Street and had never been on Twelfth Street. The original owner, Benny Angelo, had moved to Minnesota from Brooklyn with his wife, five kids, and a handful of Mama Rose’s recipes. He claimed it was to give his family a better quality of life and named the place in honor of his old neighborhood so he’d never forget where he came from.
    Whenever my dad had a craving for Benny’s three-bean chili, which always seemed to come in the middle of the night, he’d get us out of bed and we’d drive out to the diner. I can’t remember how many times I sent poor Sully out there for a meatloaf sandwich when I was pregnant. It was the scene of Lizzie’s first date. Over the years, going to the Twelfth became a tradition in our family. But I hadn’t been there since a Yuppie couple from Connecticut bought it and Benny moved to Florida. It was nice they kept the name.
    It still smelled the same: greasy burgers and coffee. As I walked across the worn, wooden floor, it creaked and I washappy to see nothing had changed. The old jukebox flashed in the corner, red vinyl still covered stools at the counter, but the ancient cash register had been replaced with a computer station. I guess you can’t hold back progress completely. A tall man with an apron wrapped around his waist handed me a menu and asked if I preferred a table or a booth.
    “I’m meeting someone,” I told him as I surveyed the room.
    “Hey, Kathy.” Nathan waved to get my attention. He’s the only person who ever called me Kathy . . . and I liked it.
    “There he is,” I told the host.
    Nathan stood up. “Squeeze in and I’ll make the intros.”
    The booth was extra long and I slid across the red vinyl toward a tough-looking middle-aged woman. Nathan slid in next to me.
    “That heathen over there,” he pointed to a muscular man, hunkered over what looked to be a triple-decker burger surrounded by a mountain of fries, “is Brock. The first time I ran into this monster, he was hauling some guy twice his size out of a club. As far as I can tell, he’s a cross between a rock and a brick.”
    Brock grabbed a napkin and wiped his right hand clean then extended it across the table toward me. “So now, I’m Brock. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Sullivan. Didn’t mean to start without you but I ain’t eaten in a few hours.” I couldn’t tell if he was smiling at me, his beard was so thick, matching all the hair on his head. He looked like a bear.
    I expected a painful grip, but Brock shook my hand gently. “Nice to meet you. And please,” I looked around the table, “all of you, call me Katherine.”
    Everyone nodded.
    Nathan continued. “You may have guessed, Brock’s our muscle. Don’t let the big guy scare you; he’s a real pussycat.”
    Everyone at the table laughed—except Brock, who scowled and continued eating.
    “I’m E.T.,” the man across from me said. Around thirty years old, he was almost Brock’s opposite: thin, focused, and very serious. Wispy light brown hair hung to his shoulders. He seemed uncomfortable and just nodded a hello. A bottle of mineral water sat in front of him, obviously bought elsewhere. His shoulders were narrow, and under his camouflage jacket, he wore a Green Peace T-shirt.
    “Did Nathan give you that name?” I asked.
    “Yeah, he caught me once—okay twice—eating some of the candy