I laid it right out in front of the English killer. A fat brown envelope on the Fontainebleau bar.
Damian and I had just purchased one of the most expensive pigeons in the history of crime. One of the keys to our getting away with murder.
On the morning of May 8, 1979-Tuesday-we let our pigeon fly. We had Clive Lawson make a big kill, while impersonating Damian.
CHAPTERTWENTY-FIVE
Behind every successful woman, there's a big prick.
The Rose Diary
May 9, 1979; Coastown, San Dominica Wednesday morning The Ninth Day of the Season.
Harold Hill hadn't slept well the night of the eighth.
At 5:30 in the morning he called Brooks Campbell's home in Coastown. Yet another bizarre phone call for poor Campbell.
'We have to get that kid Macdonald,' Hill blurted out with no introduction whatsoever-as if he and Campbell had been carrying on the conversation all night. 'For all we know now, we could have Damian Rose locked up already. We can't identify him by ourselves.'
Brooks Campbell tried to wake himself up in a hurry. Hill was saying something that sounded important. Hill was saying something....
'We, uhh... need someone who knows what Rose looks like,' Campbell finally managed.
'Exactly,' Harold Hill said. 'So let's concentrate on Macdonald as much as we can today.'
The configurations changed a little at 8:00 A.M. At eight Langley reached Hill with the news about his wife.
Langley didn't understand, though. Carole Hill's murder didn't make any sense.
Harry the Hack understood. Either he got Damian Rose, or Damian Rose would get him.
Port Gerry, San Dominica
That morning Peter woke with the bright Caribbean sun streaming in two windows, exploding on a mirror nailed over the sink.
A doctorbird stood on one of the windowsills, pecking at wood splinters.... The velvet, skullcapped head eyed the sleepy-faced man coldly, sneezed, then resumed its noisy woodworking.
'Hey. Be sociable or beat it,' Peter said to the bird. He was feeling better-okay, human, anyway. Something about the hotel room, all the sunlight probably, the nearby water, reminded him of his family's place up on Lake Michigan. In daylight the hotel was both pleasant and pleasantly ridiculous. There were different patterns of tacky wallpaper on three of the four walls, but he could also see a wide lane of cherry blue sea without getting out of bed.
'God, throw me a crumb,' Peter whispered to the open window.
Sitting yogi style on the rumpled gray sheets, the ex-West Point man in him wrote out a formal battle plan on the back of a single postcard he found in the nightstand.
Rockefeller resort (Caneel Bay).
Fly Martinique? St. Thomas?
New York City... transfer to Washington.
Senator Pflanzer. State Department? Washington
Post? Janie flight out.
Fish 'n Fool.
The Great Escape... the pretty good escape, anyway.
There was a sharp rap at the hotel room door, and Peter's stomach did a dramatic elevator-shaft drop. He grabbed the Colt.44 under his bedsheets.
A pretty brown girl with a full breakfast tray peeked into the room. 'Breakfus, Sir.'
'Oh, man.' Peter moaned. 'I just woke up about thirty seconds ago.' He tried to smile. 'It's okay. C'mon.
The girl had brought white toast with no crust. Enough marmalade and guava jelly for several loaves of bread. Steaming coffee in a child's thermos that showed cartoon pigs and a leering wolf.
Peter could see the tips of the girl's breasts as she put down the food. Pretty swaying breasts. Pretty brown legs. A nice, maidenish bum. The girl's thin brown hands moved smoothly on the plastic dishes.
Watching her work, Peter realized that he hadn't really spoken to anyone in a day and a half-not in person, anyway. Hi, there, he heard several times in his mind. I'm feeling a little nuts right now. Sit down. Have some of your good coffee there....
Peter said nothing, though. He watched the girl walk back across the room. A truly lovely little ass, Hearthreaking smile-travel poster material.
'Your breakfus gettin' cold.' She smiled at the door. Then she left. Peter chewed his toast and watched the songbird, unexpectedly hard and alive. And a little more afraid because of it.
Shortly after eleven he changed into a secondhand muslin workshirt; brown chinos; a floppy blue hat.
