Read Online Ghost Dance by Mark T. Sullivan - Free Book Online

thirty-four, she had been named the first female detective in the history of the Vermont State Police. At forty-six, she had become the first woman lieutenant in the prestigious Bureau of Criminal Investigations. Rumor had it she was in line to become a captain.
    Nightingale briefed her on the drawing, the note and Gallagher’s explanation of the myth of Charun. After Bowman had her repeat it all twice, there was a protracted silence on the other end of the line. ‘Why didn’t you call me immediately after you found the note and drawing?’
    Nightingale twirled the gold stud in her left earlobe and said, ‘Because I wanted to show you I could use the evidence to move the investigation forward, which I did.’
    ‘By not calling in an evidence team and discussing the letter with a likely suspect?’ Bowman cried. ‘Didn’t you hear this Gallagher say he was an anthropologist, an expert in myths?’
    ‘Of course,’ Nightingale retorted. ‘But I questioned him at length, and my instincts say he’s not the one. I agree he’s a confused New Yorker, but if that was the sole motivation for this killing, we’d have fifty thousand suspects in Vermont every weekend.’
    ‘He’s our prime suspect,’ Bowman insisted.
    ‘I haven’t ruled him out,’ Nightingale allowed. ‘And I sealed off the Potter house and had his wife and children move to her sister’s until after the evidence team is done. They’ll be there first thing in the morning.’
    Silence; then Bowman asked, ‘How are you feeling?’
    ‘Fine.’
    ‘You’re sure?’
    ‘Brigid, it’s been two years.’ Nightingale twisted the telephone extension cord into knots.
    ‘I know, but not calling in something like that note—’
    ‘I need you to believe I can handle this … like you used to.’
    There was a third long silence between them; then Bowman said, ‘We’ll take it day by day.’
    ‘Thank you, Brigid.’
    ‘I want your report on my desk first thing tomorrow,’ Bowman said. ‘I want that drawing and that hunting locker gone over for prints and then photographed, and a copy of the whole file sent to the FBI. Clear?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘The press is swamping us with calls,’ Bowman informed her. ‘I hope your Mr Gallagher doesn’t go blabbing about the note. That’s how hysteria starts.’
    ‘I asked him not to talk with anyone about the note or the body,’ Nightingale said. ‘I’d like your permission to keep talking to him. He seems to have insight into the killer’s mind.’
    ‘Maybe because he’s the killer,’ Bowman said. ‘I want to be there the next time you talk to Mr Gallagher.’
    ‘Fine,’ Nightingale promised. ‘And, Brigid?’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Thank you for this chance. I’ll see you at the autopsy first thing Monday morning.’
    Nightingale hung up the phone. She threw her fists up in the air, shook them and did a little victory dance. Almost instantly her elation ebbed. Her palms sweated. Her tongue thickened. Her attention came to rest on the fuchsia, which she went back to quickly. She finished repotting the plant, then sat at her computer and tried to write the report, but an edgy energy got the better of her.
    Cook dinner, she told herself. She turned on a boom-box CD player to Sade and heard the singer’s smoky voice fill the room. Nightingale sang along for a minute before her voice trailed off.
    She focused on her breathing as she filled a four-quart pot with water and set it on the six-burner stove. From a drawer next to the stove she got out a two-quart pan and put it on a second burner. She poured spaghetti sauce from a Tupperware container she’d laid out to defrost much earlier in the day, then tugged open a cabinet door above the counter to find some garlic powder for garlic bread, since there were no fresh cloves.
    Nightingale moved aside vanilla, soy sauce and Worcestershire sauce, looking for the correct canister. Her hand reached deeper into the cabinet, pulling down colored sprinkles for cakes and