Introduction

A talented detective duo must unmask a sinister child smuggling ring and expose the corruption in a world rocked by war.

Four and a half years after the terrorist bombing plot of 1916, expert detective Randall Blackburn is ready to face his toughest case yet. When a San Francisco mayor recruits him and his adopted daughter Vignette Nightingale to bust a horrifying child smuggling ring, Randall plunges into a sinister investigation with roots far deeper than he could have ever imagined.

As they begin to peel back the layers of mystery behind the so-called “Orphan Trains,” Randall and Vignette piece together the shocking truth behind an underground railroad with ties across the Atlantic. Determined to stop the ruthless practice and bring down the culprits, the detective duo must use all of their wits to expose the corruption that lurks in the shadows.

But there are powerful figures who would rather keep the Orphan Trains a secret… and Randall quickly finds himself locked in a deadly battle to unmask the shady people who have crept into the upper echelons of power.

Dive into the thrilling fourth book in New York Times bestselling author Anthony Flacco’s Nightingale Detective series. Drawing on his experience as an award-winning screenwriter and true crime novelist, this exhilarating historical crime novel features real-life figures and events. Perfect for fans of Devil in the White City.

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Praise for New York Times bestselling author Anthony Flacco and the Nightingale Detective series:

“…Dickens meets Hannibal Lecter. Brace yourself.” —Booklist

"...gripping and completely original…will raise the hair on the back of your neck.” —William Bernhardt, author of Capitol Threat “Every historical mystery tries to hone in on the ideal setting at the perfect moment in time. Anthony Flacco succeeds on both counts in his first novel." —Marilyn Stasio, NY Times Book Review

"...leaves you anxiously awaiting the next installment." —The Freelance Star

"...offers an abundance of those page-turning pleasures readers seek in historical thrillers: a time-trip through a richly imagined past, a story that never loosens its suspenseful grip, and a fascinating look at the roots of modern forensic science." —Harold Schechter, author of The Serial Killer Files

“Atmospheric, chilling, and with more twists and turns than crooked Lombard Street. The Last Nightingale has it all. I couldn’t put it down.” —Cara Black, author of Murder On The Ile Saint-Louis

Editorial Review

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Excerpt

PROLOGUE

It was still dark out. Early fog hung thick over San Francisco’s waterfront. Darkness and fog, however, did not stop them. They somehow found the boy beneath the wharf and they were on him like flies. He knew the strange ones came out in full force during the dark hours, but how did this batch of random Old Ones know about him?

Hiding was one of his essential survival skills. How did they locate him in his hiding spot under the wharf?

He bolted like a rabbit and took off, hearing the taunting catcalls behind him. They were far enough back that he was certain he could outpace them. He was a natural sprinter, and as always, it felt good to unleash his legs and let them eat up the ground, kicking it behind him. The sound of wind rushing in his ears gave him a confident sense of control. He was generally safe if he had room to run, especially if he could work in a little head start.

He left his knapsack tucked underneath Pier 7 and dashed away at full speed. His day had begun like this several times in recent weeks, but he always surprised the drunks with his speed.

CHAPTER ONE

CITY SQUIRE HOTEL – TENTH FLOOR (PRIVATE)

MANHATTAN, NEW YORK

February 15, 1920

1:00 am, Eastern Time

THESE WERE THE DAYS WHEN SHE survived by keeping her focus tight to the moment. Like all who live in chronic pain, she had learned to value the deep art of concentration. She felt only slight reactions to heat or cold. Her eyes and ears took in no more than was necessary to perform a given task. As for the sense of smell, in her occupation it was best unused.

One productive trick was to deliberately take pleasure in tiny details of the moment: the comforting feel on the soles of her feet of the luxuriant carpet on this private floor. Much more luxurious than that of the rest of the hotel. Since she was ordered to appear at the party wearing a fresh uniform, barefoot, and without underwear, the softness under her feet made for a good point of distraction.

The piano music was also something to focus on. A gifted player was out there at the end of the wide hallway, sending up lush romantic art songs. She had seen him adjusting his bench while she was on her way in, and managed to avoid catching his eye before she ducked into the cloak room. It was better not to know him at all, but made no real difference. There would be a new piano player next time.

The familiar party noise outside her door floated over the music. Tittering female laughter rose and fell in waves, as if endlessly amusing observations were being exchanged. She had learned enough of their language to make out most of what she heard, but as human beings the women behind the voices remained opaque to her. They appeared to be the crème of society to anyone who did no more than look. Anyone who knew nothing about them. She found herself observing what might as well be another species while their escorts dropped off coats and wraps worth enough to buy her out of her contract.

Every minute or two, she heard the men out in the hallway burst into manly laughter over nasty words, but less so as the party continued and serious deeds were anticipated. Soon, the catch of the month would be filed in, cuffed and chained, paraded, then posed for choosing. White slaves straggling out of the Baltic regions, following the same Great War that killed most of her. She knew what these auction parties were because she had no choice but to know. All too well, as it happened. She had starred in her own, before the devil put her where she landed. Now the parties played out before her—while what was left of her wandered in a stupor.

The unseen crowd began to grow very quiet, as if anticipating the arrival onstage of some great Diva. It took no words for everyone there to notice that nobody had departed yet, thus signaling to one and all that everybody was on board with the occasion. Liquor flowed from the open bar next to the piano while everyone was served by indentured servants who would be replaced with the next boatload.

She could see enough of the hallway to follow all eight couples while they filed by, heading for the music area to watch the auction and then repair to the private rooms. Nobody made any announcement about it being time to begin; they all just formed up like migrating birds, still talking back and forth, but quietly now, almost whispering.

They were primed for the arrival of the reasons they were there, waiting with anticipation. Everyone faced down the long hallway to see the indentured ones brought in, but at first there was nothing to see but for the single wide hallway and its doors leading to large rooms equipped with royally large beds—and nothing else. None of the rooms had so much as a spot to hang a hat or jacket.

The fine hallway carpet stopped outside the room doors. The floors inside were of hardwood, but they were easily cleaned. Fastidious visitors would appreciate that.

She gently pushed one of the wheeled coat racks close to the door and stood behind it like a rabbit watching a gathering of wolves. She knew they were deadly, but they would fit right in with any major social event. Fashions of the day were still wrapped up in the late Edwardian Era with full sleeves, fitted waistlines, and dresses done in rich silk reaching ankle length. Long pearl necklaces and drop earrings were everywhere. Women’s shoes were all alike: thin, form-fitting leather fastened with laces and running all the way up past the ankle. If their feet were the same size they could have swapped footwear and gone home without knowing it.

Sometimes party guests chose to wear masks, but tonight’s group seemed to feel no need to hide. Hats were also off and heads were all bare, with the men’s fedoras and newsboy caps hanging in her cloak room next to the women’s velvet helmets and silk turbans. This in itself was message enough of illicit things to come.

Thus the casual state of attire signaled the determination of eight obscenely wealthy couples to ignore social boundaries and numerous laws, partly for pleasure, partly for future profits, and mostly because of the joy in flaunting the ability to get away with it. Deep doses of exhilaration were to be found in daring the civilized world to come after them, knowing they would dodge prosecution even if they were caught.

Moments later she heard the rattling of chains and an excited murmur went through the guests while eight people who had either been kidnapped from the Baltic region or deceived into coming on their own were led in by one of the revolving staff. She knew they were used in the running of the hotel but had no idea what ever happened to them after they disappeared.

The auction was over in minutes, with the bidding done as a silent dance of hand gestures. Tonight’s group consisted of three young adult women, three young adult men, and two children, a boy and girl of seven or eight years. The victims were lined up and scrutinized, selected by one couple or another, then separated from the others and moved into one of the private rooms containing nothing but large beds. The captive adults all went quietly, resigned. She knew they had all taken thorough beatings already, including the children, to ensure cooperation and silence.

The private tenth floor of the City Savoy Hotel fell silent after the piano player and the bartender disappeared. She walked out of the cloak room and began cleaning up the bar area, hearing nothing more than occasional bursts of laughter or grunts of pain. This was a moment she could only endure by jamming her emotions so far down inside of herself she was nearly an empty vessel. She had just filled a bus tray full of glassware and empty bottles when a young girl’s scream rang through the floor.

One of the room doors flew open and the girl came rushing out. Closer now, she looked maybe eleven or twelve years of age, half dressed and carrying the rest of her clothing.

The bus tray full of glassware came crashing to the floor. All of her restraint shattered with it.

To see this helpless child desperate for escape flooded her with rage. Before she had time to think about it, she found herself signaling for the girl to follow her, then led her to the fire stairs. She pushed the girl through the door into the stairway, telling her, “Run to the street and head for the train station. You can blend in there.”

The girl said nothing but spun on her heel and fled down the stairs.

Other room doors began to open while occupants shouted complaints about the noise. Mister Clayton and his wife Allison came out of one of the rooms followed by the governor’s chief of staff and his wife, with a confused adult female looking on behind them.

“What the hell is going on? Where is that kid?” he hissed at her.

“She went that way, but I did not see her,” she told him. She pointed toward the end of the hall. “Maybe into one of the rooms?”

Mister Clayton and his wife wasted the next minute or two asking guests to step outside and confirm that nobody had entered their room. Once all the rooms were searched, he came back and pulled her into the cloak room, slammed the door, and twisted the lock.

He grasped her by the throat with both hands and squeezed until her breath locked up. She knew better than to fight; experience taught her fighting only made him more determined to inflict pain. He hands instinctively grasped his wrists, but she knew better than to try to pull them away.

“You helped her get out, didn’t you? Why would she know how to find the steps so quickly, eh? You sent her down the stairs!” He released her throat long enough to allow her to take a few shuddering breaths, then grabbed her again and reapplied the pressure.

“Now I know it. You helped the boy run, didn’t you? Everything you told us about him supposedly disappearing was a lie, yes? We’ll find that girl back down on the street, but I’m not letting you lie your way out of it anymore. You know where the boy is, don’t you?”

He squeezed until he felt her knees giving way. He released her again and allowed her to take a breath. She knew from experience he could strangle her into unconsciousness over and over again without actually killing her. He called it foreplay. Tell me where—or this time I won’t let go until your body goes cold.”

She considered dying an attractive offer, but the instinct to get her airway free again was too powerful. The words seemed to come from her lips on their own. “San… San Francisco.”

“San Francisco? All the way across the country? Are you trying to tell me he’s been out there for the past three weeks?”

She dared to sneer at him, but her voice came out hoarse and weak, “You can’t have him.”

He responded by increasing his grip again, He applied pressure so hard, pain exploded in her chest from heart and lungs desperate for air. She began to feel herself go lightheaded.

In the past, he had always stopped just short of killing her, making an art of dangling her over the precipice of death. This time, while she felt her consciousness go dark, she could only hope he would bring her back from the dead as he had in the past. Not that she cared for life anymore, but instinct commanded her to breathe. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

1. Does anything in this book’s story remind you of our current day situation?
2. Is human trafficking a political problem, or a problem of human nature?
3. Do you believe this unlikely family has a chance at survival?
4. Before reading this story, had you ever heard of the Orphan Trains?
5. Would you have wanted to live in this era?
6. The externals of life are certainly very different today, but how about the experience of being human? In your opinion, since the days of this story’s setting, has human nature moved forward, backward, or stayed the same?

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