Hot Rocks

attendant a twenty for a look at the body. In Max’s experience a picture of Andrew Jack-son cut through red tape quicker than explanations and paperwork and more levels of bureaucracy.
    He’d gotten the bad news on Willy from the motel clerk at the Red Roof Inn where he’d tracked the slippery little bastard. The cops had already been there, but Max had invested the first twenty of the day for the room number and key.
    The cops hadn’t taken his clothes yet, nor from the looks of it done much of a search. Why would they on a traffic accident? But once they ID’d Willy, they’d be back and look a lot closer.
    Willy hadn’t unpacked, Max noted as he took stock of the room. Socks and underwear and two dress shirts were still neatly folded in the single Louis Vuitton bag. Willy had been a tidy one, and he’d loved his name brands.
    He’d hung a suit in the closet. Banker gray, single-breasted, Hugo Boss. A pair of black Ferragamo loafers, complete with shoe trees, sat neatly on the floor.
    Max went through the pockets, felt carefully along the lining. He took the wooden trees out of the shoes, poked his long fingers into the toes.
    In the adjoining bath, he searched Willy’s Dior toiletry kit. He lifted the tank lid on the toilet, crouched down to search behind it, under the sink.
    He went through the drawers, through the suitcase and its contents, flipped over the mattress on the standard double.
    It took him less than an hour to search the room and verify Willy had left nothing important behind. When he left, the space looked as tidy and untouched as it had when he’d entered.
    He considered giving the clerk another twenty not to mention the visit to the cops, then decided it might put ideas in his head.
    He climbed into his Porsche, switched on Springsteen and headed to the county morgue to verify that his strongest lead was on ice.
    “Stupid. Goddamn, Willy, I figured you for smarter than this.”
    Max blew out a breath as he looked at Willy’s ruined face. Why the hell did you run? And what’s in some podunk town in Maryland that was so important?
    What, Max thought, or who?
    Since Willy was no longer in the position to tell him, Max walked back out to drive into Angel’s Gap to pick up a multimillion-dollar trail.
     
     
     
    If you wanted to pluck grapes from the small-town vine, you went to a place where locals gathered. During the day, that meant coffee and food, at night, alcohol.
    Once he’d decided he’d be staying in Angel’s Gap for at least a day or two, Max checked into what was billed as The Historic Wayfarer’s Inn and showered off the first twelve hours of the day. It was late enough to pick door number two.
    He ate a very decent room-service burger at his laptop, surfing the home page provided by the Angel’s Gap chamber of commerce. The Nightlife section gave him several choices of bars, clubs and cafes. He wanted a neighborhood pub, the kind of place where the towners knocked back a beer at the end of the day and talked about each other.
    He culled out three that might fit the bill, plugged in the addresses for directions, then finished off his burger while studying the printout map of Angel’s Gap.
    Nice enough place, he mused, tucked in the mountains the way it was. Killer views, plenty of recreational choices for the sports enthusiast or camping freak. Slow enough pace for those who wanted to shake the urban off their docksiders, but with classy little pockets of culture—and a reasonable drive from several major metro areas should one be inclined to spend the weekend in the Maryland mountains.
    The chamber of commerce boasted of the opportunities for hunting, fishing, hiking and other manner of outdoor recreation—none of which appealed to the urbanite in Max.
    If he wanted to see bear and deer in their natural habitat, he’d turn on The Discovery Channel.
    Still, the place had charm with its steep streets and old buildings solid in their dark red brick. There was a nice, wide stretch of the Potomac River bisecting the town, and the interest of the arching bridges that spanned it. Lots of church steeples, some with copper touches gone soft green with age and weather. And as he sat, he heard the long, echoing whistle of a train signaling its passing.
    He had no doubt it was an eyeful in fall when the trees erupted with color, and pretty as a postcard when the snow socked in. But that didn’t explain why an old hand like Willy Young had gotten himself mowed down by an