The Last Nightingale [NOOK Book]


San Francisco, 1906. The great West Coast city is a center of industry and excitement--and also, to many, of sin. When the Great Earthquake hits, some believe it is the day of reckoning for the immoral masses.

Meanwhile, twelve-year-old Shane Nightingale is witness to the violent deaths of his adoptive mother and sisters–not from the earthquake, but at the hands of a serial killer. As Shane wanders the city appearing to be just another ...

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The Last Nightingale

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San Francisco, 1906. The great West Coast city is a center of industry and excitement--and also, to many, of sin. When the Great Earthquake hits, some believe it is the day of reckoning for the immoral masses.

Meanwhile, twelve-year-old Shane Nightingale is witness to the violent deaths of his adoptive mother and sisters–not from the earthquake, but at the hands of a serial killer. As Shane wanders the city appearing to be just another anonymous orphan, he keeps what he has seen a secret. But when his path crosses that of Sergeant Randall Blackburn, who is in pursuit of the killer, the two become an investigative team that will use both a youth’s intuitive gifts and a policeman’s new deductive techniques and crime-fighting tools to unmask a vicious murderer whose fury can be as intense as that of Mother Nature herself.


Random House Trade Paperbacks is please to present Mortalis, a line of books featuring mysteries and thrillers that are historical and/or international in scope. The list includes trade paperback originals as well as reprints of classic mysteries, international thrillers, and the occasional tale of true crime.

"Mortalis gives us an ideal way to introduce the best new writers as well as to celebrate the masters in these genres," said Jane von Mehren, Vice President and Publisher, Trade Paperbacks, Random House Publishing Group.

Mortalis republishes some classic authors such as Martin Cruz Smith , P. D. James, Robert Harris, Agatha Christie, and Wilkie Collins as well as original trade paperbacks such as Boris Akunin's SISTER PELAGIA AND THE WHITE BULLDOG (the start of a new series from an internationally bestselling author), New York Times Notable author David Corbett's BLOOD OF PARADISE, and Alex Carr's literary thriller AN ACCIDENTAL AMERICAN. Featuring stunning new packaging, each title contains a "dossier" in the back-a brand new commentary section that illuminates a specific and intriguing aspect of the work, or the author's career.

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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly

Screenwriter Flacco nicely evokes the aftermath of San Francisco's 1906 earthquake in his fiction debut, a novel of suspense. On the eve of the disaster, Sgt. Randall Blackburn, perhaps the one honest cop on the San Francisco force, patrols the grim Barbary Coast neighborhood, which has been plagued by a serial killer, whom the press has dubbed "the Surgeon," who castrates his victims. After the quake, Blackburn joins the frantic rescue efforts, in the course of which he meets 12-year-old Shane Nightingale, whose adoptive mother has been murdered by the Surgeon. In the rubble, Shane and Blackburn pursue the Surgeon, whose identity becomes known early on. Through the fiend's demented perspective we learn of a plague he plans to loose on the devastated city, but this plot line gets lost in the shuffle. The action devolves into a routine cat-and-mouse chase, building to an ending some readers will find maudlin. (June)

Copyright 2007 Reed Business Information
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780307486981
  • Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 12/10/2008
  • Sold by: Random House
  • Format: eBook
  • Pages: 272
  • File size: 3 MB

Meet the Author

Anthony Flacco
Anthony Flacco is an acclaimed author, ghost writer, screenwriter, and public speaker. He is a member of the Writers Guild of America/West, International Thriller Writers, and the Mystery Writers of America. Recent speaking engagements include MediaBistro seminars and the Jack London Writers Conference. He is also co-author of Publish Your Nonfiction Book, coming from Writer’s Digest in November. For more information, visit
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Read an Excerpt


Wednesday, April 18, 1906 5:12 a.m.
The First Shock Wave

Randall Blackburn’s muscled frame did not strain at the long uphill hike, even though the route led from his policeman’s beat in the waterfront district all the way back to the City Hall Station. At thirty-two years of age, he was able to power his long legs up the steep terrain with such speed that he could leave his beat at five in the morning, traverse more than a dozen blocks uphill, plus a few short connecting streets, and still be at his desk with enough time to jot down a brief nightly report and quit the shift by six. The strenuous hiking routine usually helped to calm him down after a long night. This morning, it barely had any effect. He was coming off of an unusually rough beat patrolling the “Barbary Coast” district, whose grand name was a façade for a strip of bottom-feeder saloons and dead-end flophouses down near the waterfront. The whole night had been filled with more violent rampage and general disturbance than he had ever seen on a  single shift. He spent most of his shift dodging punches from drunken gamblers and avoiding knife blades flashed by syphilitic whores. Their mania was contagious among them all night long and more so with every passing hour. He had never gotten used to the place, even though the dangerous foot patrol assignment was routinely meted out to him by his station chief. Blackburn realized that the continual Barbary Coast beat was intended as some sort of an ongoing affront to him, and that it was being done for the benefit of the rank-and-file officers. He just didn’t have any good ideas as to what to do about it. His reputation as a widower who was far too obsessive in his police work naturally pleased the upper brass, but it also placed a lot of pressure on fellow officers: men with families, lives away from the job. Then some bright soul up in the command office figured out that with Blackburn’s overactive code of ethics, he would work just as hard in the dangerous district as he did anywhere else. And so week after week, the dreaded assignments sent a morale-soothing message to the rank and file: Don’t worry about Sergeant Blackburn, no matter how much of a fanatic he might be. Look at where he is. Nothing matters unless the right people like you. While he strode along the sidewalk, Blackburn tried to tell himself that the real reason he constantly drew the graveyard shift and the Barbary Coast assignments was because of his superior physical capability. But a voice in his head accused him of being the author of his own predicament. The back of his neck tightened at the unwelcome truth of it. On any night, it was a relief to leave the district behind at the end of a shift. That was especially true this morning; it had been a real “ladies’ night” along the Barbary Coast, and between the women and the men, the street corner hags were by far the most dangerous. Those bottom-rung females lived in a drunken haze, battered by lives of nonstop torment. He approached every one of them knowing that they would eagerly offer sex to a policeman to buy his tolerance, or just as eagerly snatch away his sidearm and shoot him in the face. Most were prepared to either live or die in the attempt, and it was all the same to them. Lately, while he kept a sharp eye out for their flurries of random rage, he also knew that the Department strongly suspected that at least one of these doomed women had somehow become highly skilled at throwing heavy-bladed knives. Blackburn himself had seen the grim products of the mysterious killer’s work. Each of her victims had almost certainly fallen to the same knife, which left identically deep and wide cuts. The crime was always committed as a fast kill, always under cover of darkness. The consistent knifepoint entry at the back of the neck indicated surprise or ambush. The victim’s spinal cord was usually split by the thick blade. Over a dozen such victims had turned up in less than nine months, with never a clue beyond a couple of reported glimpses of a “small-framed woman” seen hurrying away. No one even knew if this woman had any actual involvement in the crimes. That’s how thin the evidence remained, after all this time and all those victims. Blackburn had personally found three of the bodies, on three separate occasions. Every one was castrated with precision and skill, postmortem. Not a single victim was robbed. It seemed as though the taking of the victim’s life and the removing of his useless manhood were enough to complete the desired experience—one longshoreman’s body was even found with a sizeable wad of cash right inside the vest pocket. When the press got wind of the story, with macabre humor they dubbed the killer “The Surgeon.” The SFPD publicly speculated that The Surgeon was almost certainly a physically fit young woman, probably one who had fallen into ruinous ways. Perhaps she grew up on a farm, where she had learned her skill with the knife. Possibly butchering hogs. Since then, on most nights along the Barbary Coast, Blackburn had nothing more for company than the inevitable castration jokes that seemed to come from all directions. The night-beat clientele generally agreed that as long as they weren’t the ones being killed, the best thing to do was to laugh it all off. And since Blackburn was under Chief Dinan’s orders to keep an ear to the street, he had no choice but to spend his nights asking the same questions about the killings, over and over, and listening to the same handful of jokes in response. No one actually voiced open approval, but he couldn’t help noticing that the sidewalk ladies were uniformly ignorant of any useful facts, free of any helpful theories. None was inclined to so much as guess who the ghoulish killer might be. And while they never went so far as to openly cheer The Surgeon’s grisly work, that extra bit about slicing off the cocks of the dead men usually made them giggle whenever the topic came up. As for the killer—Blackburn still hoped that there was only one. But throughout the past night’s shift, with that crazed charge hovering in the air, he had half expected to trip over a collection of bled-out corpses at any moment. He kept fearing that a few of the other violence-prone whores might have started to find The Surgeon’s behavior personally appealing. So tonight he was doubly glad when his shift ended without major trouble. He took extra long strides back to the station, making good time even though the predawn light was absorbed by the fog. With the gas streetlamps still burning at every corner, he could see just well enough to keep up his pace between the isolated pools of weak yellow light while he moved through the chilled mist. The sound of his heavy boot heels ricocheted off the cobblestones and echoed around the silent brick storefronts. The smell of early morning ham and egg breakfasts floated from a number of homes, tempting him to get back home to a meal of his own. He paused to check his silver pocket watch when he passed through a circle of pale gaslight near the corner post office at Mission and Seventh. He was only a few blocks away from the City Hall station, and it was only twelve minutes past five: record time. He liked that. It was as if more of the night’s prickly energy had risen up from the ground and soaked through the soles of his boots with every step, filling him up as fast as he burned it away. He pocketed the watch and started to take a step outside of the lamplight, but just as he lifted his foot, the entire street jerked sideways and pulled itself out from under him. His footing vanished with such power that, for an instant, he thought that he had stepped on some drunk’s sleeping blanket and gotten it snatched out from under his feet. Half a second later, the street’s cobblestone surface jumped up and hit him with the rude force of a blind-side fist in a bar fight. His body slammed to earth and he took the pavement as a full frontal blow, barely reaching out in time to protect his face from the cold bricks. Spots filled his vision and his head rang with waves of pain that throbbed in time to his heartbeat. He heard his own voice cry out, “It’s an earthquake!” even as he fought to avoid blacking out. Instinct brought him to his hands and knees, moving his limbs with natural magic while the ground shuddered under him. But he remained in place. After a boyhood in Northern California, Blackburn had enough experience with earthquakes to know that it wasn’t time to get up yet. He reassured himself that at least he was awake and knew what was happening—he hadn’t been ejected out of a warm bed and onto a cold floor, as most of the city’s residents no doubt were. And most of whom were probably now lost to confusion and panic. Until the rattling died down, there wasn’t any safer place to go. If he moved out of the range of falling bricks or stones from one building, he would only move into range of another. He thought about taking shelter in a doorway, but rejected that. In the heavy stone buildings that lined both sides of this street, a doorway might only prove to be a good place to get buried alive when the keystones gave way. He knew that if any structural damage had taken place during the bigger shock, then a building might only need another little rattle before coming apart. He told himself that with any luck, this first shock wave would be the worst of it. But just as he began to rise from his hands and knees, the street began a hard swirl that threw him onto his side. This movement was much stronger, coming not thirty seconds on the heels of the first shock wave. It rolled with such power that the best he could do was to scramble back down onto all fours and remain there on the ground. Beyond that, the shuddering earth was already telling him everything he needed to know. That first wave, he now realized with a cold rush, had not been the real earthquake. It was only a foreshock. Blackburn did not know if he yelled the words or not. And then it was more than just the idea of a major earthquake that leaped into his mind. It was all the dire implications that went along with it for a brittle city of bricks and mortar. They quickly became real. The violent rolling motion of the earth was joined by a vertical rise and fall. The ground dropped out from under him, then slammed back up again. Blackburn found himself clutching the back of a lurching beast. It was all so unreal that the first icy shot of mortal fear had not even hit him yet. All he knew, at that moment, was that he had never been through an earthquake like this one. Then abruptly, the ground’s vertical movements slowed. All movement stopped. Quiet descended . . . And within seconds, everything was shrouded in a deathly silence. The air felt like a thick wet blanket that did not transmit sound. There was nothing reassuring in the absence of noise. The silence lasted for eight or nine slow heartbeats. And then a deep rumbling began. A pulse throbbed, far beneath the earth’s surface. It was indescribably deep, so low on the tonal scale that he felt it in his bones and deep in his chest. For an instant, his memory flashed a boyhood image of putting his ear to a railroad track, listening for the vibrations of a faraway locomotive. Except now there was no track and no train. This rumbling sound was wrong, completely out of place. It was then that the first burst of real fear stabbed through him, stronger and colder than anything he had ever felt. It cut through his training, his life experience, and at that moment, if the rolling earth had allowed him to climb to his feet, the fear would have owned him and sent him screaming into the night. His instincts already sensed what the rest of him was about to learn. When he glanced down Mission Street, he stared into an impossible sight—a massive surge of energy was running toward him, underneath the surface of the earth. It hurtled through the ground like a wave of curling surf. Solid earth was rolling like the sea itself. His brain seemed to freeze while the invisible monster shot toward him and trailed upheaval in its wake. Brick storefronts buckled and exploded. Granite paving stones blew upward like kernels of popping corn. By the time the energy wave hit him, Blackburn was a paralyzed statue of astonishment. The wave tossed him into the air. When he landed and the street curb crashed into his ribs, the blow knocked all of the wind out of him. Then he could do nothing more than lie helpless: ten seconds, twenty seconds, fighting the sensation that he was drowning on dry land. He rolled onto his hands and knees and managed to take a clear breath, but by then the invisible wave was long gone. The din of destruction overpowered his hearing. Behind him, the roof of the post office was gradually collapsing, and those sounds were only part of a much larger chorus. In all directions, buildings of every size were still shedding their stone exteriors like giant reptiles casting off skin. The ones that collapsed upon themselves expelled thick clouds of dust out the windows and doorways, coughing their guts into the streets before they died. He turned his head in a circle and caught shadowy glimpses of Armageddon. Never since losing his wife and child had Blackburn felt the overpowering need to cry. Now the choking sobs took him as if they had only been gone for a day. He cried out in wordless despair. It was several seconds before he regained control and strangled the feelings back down. The noises around him diminished at the same time that he managed to squelch his own outcries. In a self-conscious flash, he felt thankful to know that even if anybody was awake and looking out of their window and right at him, they were certainly far too distracted to have noticed his slip of emotion.

From the Trade Paperback edition.

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Reading Group Guide

1. There seems to be a slight change of focus between Chapters 3 and 4; the action shifts away from the earthquake and its aftermath, toward the mystery of Tommie Kimbrough. What is the effect of this shift? Is it really such a drastic thematic change? What is the relationship between the earthquake and Tommie’s bloodlust?

2. Blackburn is outside when the first shock wave happens, and is therefore in a way separate from the tragedy that ensues. How is this appropriate to his character and what implications does this have for the plot?

3. Around half of the novel focuses on the affairs of the San Francisco Police Department, who are the first responders. What effect does this have on the narratological perspective and the attitudes/behaviors of our main characters? How does this narrative style affect the reader in a way that is different from many other stories?

4. What were the first priorities of the police when responding to the earthquake and fires? Did these historically accurate concerns surprise you?

5. What does this novel say about emergency and the human condition? Did the responses of some San Franciscans (such as looting and self-preservation) surprise you? Did they remind you of the aftermath of emergencies you have seen in recent news (e.g. Hurricane Katrina)? What are some similarities and differences?

6. Let’s talk about males and protection/preservation of the domestic sphere. Blackburn is relieved to see the neighborhood still intact, while everything else burns. Shane feels guilty that he didn’t defend his adopted mother and sisters. Father Nightingale leaves home to check on his store, rather than protecting his family. What does the story say about the role of the male as protector? What effect does the repeated shirking of male roles have? What sort of template for male behavior does Blackburn provide?

7. Do you see any symbolism in the title? Why do you think Shane Nightingale is the titular character?

8. What do you make of the group that Shane travels with immediately after the earthquake? They seem to make organic decisions with little or no conversation. Why do you suppose the author depicts them behaving in this way? What does this reveal about trauma and coping methods?

9. When Shane joins the workers’ group, their first job is to restore the Mission and its graveyard. Although none of the characters is overtly religious, what is the role and importance of religion in the novel? For the individual characters?

10. Regarding corruption within the religious sector and amongst the religious authorities in the novel, are there as many cases of good religious people as there are of bad ones?

11. What are some of the similarities between Shane and Blackburn? Why do you think the author chose to make them parallel (or complimentary) characters?

12. How does Shane’s character develop throughout the story? Is he redeemed from his terrible burden of guilt at the end?

13. Why do you suppose Kimbrough supported Shane during all the years he was in the orphanage? Why didn’t he support Vignette?

14. Patterns of treachery and loyalty run throughout the story. Is it sometimes surprising which characters are treacherous and which ones are loyal?

15. When Shane helps to solve the murder case involving Elsie Sullivan, Blackburn is amazed by his powers of perception. At the end of the story, Shane torments Tommie by recalling Tommie’s painful past to him. Does he really remember Tommie’s past?

16. Do you feel any sympathy for Kimbrough? (How about in light of the information presented in the Dossier about disorganized criminals?)

17. In the Dossier, the author claims that readers of crime fiction love more than the twists and turns of a good mystery; they love to pit their individual sense of right and wrong against the driving ethics at work in the story. Which ethical issues in the story affected you most deeply?

18. The Last Nightingale addresses many moral issues such as loyalty, virtue, altruism, and duty. Which character/s did you find most inspirational or admirable?

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Customer Reviews

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Sort by: Showing all of 5 Customer Reviews
  • Posted July 22, 2010


    I love a good mystery but this wasn't one. While there were moments of excitement I found the young characters to be implausible. I agree children growing up in an orphanage may be wise beyond their years but the author took it to the extreme. The killer and his motives were interesting but there were few surprises and at least one dead end that left me scratching my head in confusion. Overall I found the book boring and the end too pat. I won't be reading any more books by this author.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted August 3, 2007

    Hunt for Murderer Amidst 1906 San Francisco Earthquake

    As the book opens, we share in the terror of a child of 12 who witnesses the murder of his adoptive family. Soon the chaos surrounding him is about to enlarge, as the true strength of the story unfolds. This murder mystery is set in the middle of the 1906 San Francisco earthquake. Death and destruction surround the city, and this boy's story is just one of many unfolding in the madness of the earthquake's aftermath. Thousands of homeless refugees roam the city. Lawlessness and looting take over. The second strongest character to emerge is the story of a police officer assigned to maintain order in the worst part of the city. That these two characters meet and develop a strong bond is the heart of this story. Flacco is strongest as a storyteller when he is putting his readers in the center of the earthquake. Less convincing is his serial killer and the connection with the 12 year old boy (his next target). For those who love the city of San Francisco, this can be a great read. Strengthened by its historical background and Flacco's convincing description of what the city must have felt like after this devastating event, the reader can easily overlook the weaker details of the story to enjoy this murder mystery.

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    Posted July 16, 2009

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  • Anonymous

    Posted October 28, 2008

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    Posted July 25, 2011

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