Mission Road (2005)
“It was one of the more ridiculous places she’d ever been asked to rendezvous—a fifteen-foot-high grimy pink goliath of pork at the edge of the diner parking lot.
She glanced at the brown Acura parked across the street and prayed her police tail wouldn’t decide to take her picture. Her only consolation was that the cop inside the car was probably as cold and bored as she was.
After eleven minutes, the old fry cook Mike Flume emerged from the diner. He wiped his hands on his apron and trudged toward her.
“Sorry, I got busy,” he said. “Here.”
He tossed her a house key rubber-banded to a slip of paper and started walking away.
Maia caught his arm. “Whoa, wait a minute.”
“I got less than a minute, miss. There’s nobody watching the oil.”
“How’d you get the key?”
The old man glanced toward his diner.
He reminded Maia of a geriatric leprechaun—small, wrinkled and nervous, thinning orange hair, ears and eyebrows and nose all a bit too pointy.
“I rent the property from Ana.
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