{"id":3353,"date":"2024-10-03T04:56:52","date_gmt":"2024-10-03T08:56:52","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/naccarato.org\/Spencer\/?page_id=3353"},"modified":"2024-10-03T11:02:40","modified_gmt":"2024-10-03T15:02:40","slug":"call-of-the-nightingale-a-james-cartwright-p-i-mystery","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/naccarato.org\/Spencer\/call-of-the-nightingale-a-james-cartwright-p-i-mystery\/","title":{"rendered":"Call of the Nightingale, A James Cartwright P.I. Mystery"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
<\/div>\n\n\n\n
\"Call
Call of the Nightingale, A James Cartwright P.I. Mystery (Book 2 of 3)<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n
<\/div>\n\n\n\n

Call of the Nightingale, A James Cartwright P.I. Mystery (Book 2 of 3)<\/h2>\n\n\n\n
<\/div>\n\n\n\n

Blurb:<\/h4>\n\n\n\n

Cartwright is cynical, resourceful, and tough. He lives by a moral code, one which he believes helps him distinguish right from wrong, fact from fiction, and truth from lies. But as Cartwright discovers during each of his cases, it’s one thing to believe in the code, and quite another to live by it. In each case, Cartwright uses his intellect, brute force, and unique powers of deduction in unwitting his unsuspecting adversaries.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In his latest case, James Cartwright, a Detroit ex-cop, turned private eye, sets out to prove the innocence of a seventeen-year-old girl named, Alice. She\u2019s suspected of murdering her grandfather, Professor Carmichael.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

However, the murder turns out to be anything but straightforward. Carmichael, a leading genetic scientist, has a dark and sinister past, dating back to the American Eugenics programs from the 1930s.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n\n\n\n
\n

Excerpt:<\/h4>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
<\/div>\n\n\n\n

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,<\/em> <\/p>\n\n\n\n

When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,<\/em> <\/p>\n\n\n\n

When he beats his bars and would be free;<\/em> <\/p>\n\n\n\n

It is not a carol of joy or glee,<\/em> <\/p>\n\n\n\n

But a prayer that he sends from his heart’s deep core,<\/em> <\/p>\n\n\n\n

But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings\u2014<\/em> <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I know why the caged bird sings<\/em> <\/p>\n\n\n\n

– Paul Laurence Dunbar –<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/div>\n\n\n\n

\u9634 YIN <\/h1>\n\n\n\n

PROLOGUE <\/p>\n\n\n\n

IT WAS THREE IN THE MORNING when he was rudely awoken by the thunderclap of a distant storm. He decided to get up, knowing there was no way he\u2019d get back to sleep. He maneuvered himself onto the edge of his bed, his feet suspended, not quite reaching the parquet floor below. He was drenched in sweat, uncertain if it was due to the medication or the unbearable heat being generated by an unusual weather pattern. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Through his opened bedroom window, he noticed that the night sky had turned a crimson red. The moon, punctured by hues of cerulean blue, hung precariously over the withering willow trees that lined the riverbank a couple of hundred yards away. The storm predicted by the forecasters was heading his way.  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

He remembered how a few years back, scientists had warned that the atmosphere would begin displaying erratic behaviour\u2014an inevitable result of climate change. Of course, he, like many others, hadn\u2019t believed this possible, but there it was, nature\u2019s proof, pushing back at him through the open window.  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Giving up a long, anguished sigh, he got up to close the window. In the distance, he could hear a nightingale singing a mournful serenade, a warning perhaps of the impending storm. Shutting the window and engaging the latch, he turned and made his way to a white lacquered dresser stationed against the wall opposite his bed. He opened the top drawer and began searching anxiously for something. A moment later, his search was successful. He extracted a small piece of paper. Returning to his bed, he unfolded the paper as he’d done on countless occasions. It was still the same as before. Blank. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

When he examined the paper earlier that day, he recalled how something had been different. But he couldn’t remember what. He brought it close to his face, hoping to divine its secrets. But nothing jumped out. Frustrated, he shifted his gaze to the approaching storm outside the window. Bolts of white light were now piercing the blood-red sky, interspersed with the roar of thunder. A torrential rainfall followed, bellowing the window with brute force, demanding its entrance. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Looking back at the paper, he suddenly couldn\u2019t recall why or how it had gotten into his hand. Noticing the folds etched into it, he decided to follow its pattern, first refolding the paper in half. Then in quarters. He continued folding it over onto itself until it had become impossible to add any more folds. He then began flipping it from palm to palm as though evaluating its weight.  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Finally, he allowed it to come to rest in his right hand. He then clenched his hand, making a fist, causing the folded piece of paper to disappear within. He continued squeezing with such intensity that his knuckles turned a ghostly white. Perhaps he feared the object would somehow escape his grasp or worse\u2014be stolen. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

At some point, he must have felt that it was safe to release his grip\u2014to allow the object to rest once again, unguarded, in his open palm. Tears began forming along the edges of his hazel eyes. He had had an epiphany. He realized that this folded piece of paper represented the sum of his life\u2014his dreams, desires, and beliefs. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

He also knew he had little time left. To him, living was, at best, an irrational and compulsive folding in of one’s time, of one\u2019s space, of one’s experiences. He had played many roles within his allotted time and space\u2014spaces he\u2019d occupied for the past eighty years. But like the folded piece of paper, which now lay inert in his palm, having reached the end of its folds, he, too, had reached his. All that remained was the unfolding. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

2<\/strong> <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I GOT A CALL THAT MORNING from Lieutenant William Ant from the homicide division of the 3rd Precinct. I was at my office catching up on some paperwork, which for me, amounted to playing the saxophone without a reed. The IRS had decided I should be audited for reasons I suspect were not altogether kosher. My last case upset a few bureaucrats, so I figured they had called in some markers. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat gives, Lieutenant?\u201d I asked as though I didn\u2019t have another care in the world. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019ve got something for you.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIs it my birthday? I thought it wasn\u2019t for another two months?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFunny guy. Not sure if you\u2019ll see it as a gift once you hear all the details.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSuch as?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe\u2019ve got a girl here charged with the murder of her grandfather. The thing is, she\u2019s not saying a word.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYeah. So, what\u2019s that got to do with me? <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, we found one of your business cards in her pocket.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat\u2019s weird. Haven\u2019t printed any of those for over a decade. Doing my bit for the environment.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019ll bet,\u201d said Ant, \u201cmore likely you didn\u2019t want to spring for new ones.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNow you know why. They have a habit of ending up in the strangest places. So, what\u2019s her name?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAlice Carmichael. Ring any bells?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNone.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, she keeps saying that she\u2019ll only talk to you. So, we need you to come down.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat about the details of the murder?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat\u2019s where it gets even stranger. But I\u2019d rather fill you in at the Precinct.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWow. Here I was, thinking I\u2019d spend a quiet, relaxing morning working on my taxes. But if duty calls, damn the taxman. See you in ten.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

3<\/strong> <\/p>\n\n\n\n

OUT ON THE STREET, I began my relentless attempt to flag down a yellow cab. My powder blue Caddy had bit the dust a few weeks back, leaving me at the mercy of Motor City\u2019s cabbies. Five minutes later, one finally pulled up to the curb. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhere to, mister?\u201d the voice boomed out once I was seated. The voice belonged to a large-bodied man of African American descent. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c3rd and W. Grand,\u201d I said.  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

He dropped the lever attached to the cab\u2019s meter. The numbers on its LED screen started churning quickly upwards. I felt the little cash in my pockets falling even faster\u2014downwards like water tumbling over the edge of Niagara Falls.  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

After a few minutes of silence, the cabbie ventured a question, breaking my Zen-like relationship with the meter. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou in trouble?\u201d he asked, glancing at me through his rear-view mirror. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat makes you say that?\u201d I threw back, surprised at the question. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, there are only three reasons someone visits a cop station voluntarily. Either they\u2019re a cop, a witness, or a suspect. I figure you\u2019re not the first two.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAre you always this upfront with your fares?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDepends.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYeah, on what?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOn first impressions. You strike me as someone who can handle himself. I was curious.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019ve learned from experience that curiosity\u2019s a good trait unless it involves butting one\u2019s nose into other people\u2019s business. Could be bad for one\u2019s health.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCan\u2019t help it. I\u2019m a cabbie.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGood point. I\u2019m in the private business.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh, yeah. What kind?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe private eye kind.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo shit, you guys exist?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy? You figured we only hung out in pulp novels?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, judging by what you\u2019re wearing, yeah,\u201d angling his head toward me with a mischievous Cheshire cat-like smile pasted across his face. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Glancing down at my black felt fedora sitting next to me and my matching black, cotton double-breasted suit offset by my snub nose and chiseled face\u2014he wasn\u2019t far off from the truth.  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

We spent the rest of the way making small talk about the ins and outs of living in Motor City. Finally arriving at the 3rd precinct, he released the metering lever demanding I pay $14.50. I handed him a twenty and told him to keep the change. I then asked, \u201cWhat name do you go by?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cJason.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGot a last name?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy? What\u2019s it to you?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cJust curious.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDidn\u2019t you just tell me that could be bad for one\u2019s health?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat I did. Mine\u2019s Cartwright. James Cartwright.\u201d I extended my hand. He took it and shook it hard. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSince you\u2019re so cordial and upfront, mine\u2019s Bourne. Jason Bourne.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAs in the master spy?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat can I say? You don\u2019t have the exclusive on the pulp market.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTrue,\u201d I retorted, smiling at his jab. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cListen, James, you want me to wait for you. I\u2019ve got no fares scheduled.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019d say yes, but my budget\u2019s a little tight right now.\u201d  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

 \u201cThat\u2019s no problem. Maybe we can work out some deal.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh yeah. Like what?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI drive you around, and you teach me some tricks of the trade. I\u2019ve been considering a change for a while. Maybe this is it.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLet me get this straight. You\u2019re thinking we hook up and become a thing, like Kato and the Green Hornet. Make it like we\u2019re some superhero team. And what? Are you applying for Kato\u2019s role?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIf that\u2019s what it takes.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGot any experience?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDid a couple of tours in Afghanistan. Then worked security for a firm down in Florida before moving up here.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLet me think about it. Where can I reach you?\u201d  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

He scribbled his name and phone number on a scrap of paper and passed it to me. I pocketed it and got out with no intention of getting back to him. I enjoyed working alone. That way, any screw-ups were mine and mine alone. Besides, all my previous partners had ended up dead or seriously handicapped.  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

But watching him pull away, I imagined tomorrow\u2019s headlines:  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

KATO AND THE GREEN HORNET TAKE ON MOTOR CITY\u2019S CRIMINAL UNDERWORLD <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I gave my head a few quick shakes, hoping to erase such absurd notions, and refocused my attention on the real matter. I made for the steps, thinking I was ready to confront whatever hornet\u2019s nest awaited me. Boy, was I wrong. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

4<\/strong> <\/p>\n\n\n\n

SHE WAS THIN FRAMED, no older than seventeen, looking like she hadn\u2019t eaten for days. She was seated on a wooden chair, hunched over, knees against her chest, and dressed in black jeans and a plain black T-shirt.\u202f <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The room Ant put her in was painted bleach white with bright fluorescent overheads. I exited my spot behind the two-way mirror from where I\u2019d been observing her and made my way through a hallway to a door marked B\u2014one of five interrogation rooms the 3rd had reserved for their guests.\u202f <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I walked in and sat down across from her. A plain white Ikea-like table on four legs set us apart. She didn\u2019t look up\u2014her head now folded in and down between her knees, rocking back and forth. I waited several minutes for her to adjust to my presence. Then dove in. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAlice.\u201d Nothing. \u201cAlice, you asked for me. My name\u2019s James Cartwright.\u201d This seemed to register something. She looked up. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAre you the James on the card?\u201d she ventured to ask, her voice frail and suspicious. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI figure I am. The lieutenant in charge got a hold of me based on the information on that card.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI need your help.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHow so?\u201d\u202f <\/p>\n\n\n\n

What she really needed was a talented lawyer and something to eat. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMy grandfather told me I could trust you if I ever got myself into trouble. I guess this would count as one of those times.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

A faint smile echoed across her lips, hinting at her attempted humor. I smiled back. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

A knock at the door momentarily interrupted us. A uniformed cop walked in, handing me a bag of takeout food from a local fast-food restaurant which I had the Lieutenant order earlier.\u202f <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I passed it over to Alice, hoping that she wasn\u2019t vegetarian. She took the bag, giving me an inquisitive look, and emptied its contents. She played with the food for a while, like a cat does once it\u2019s gotten hold of its prey. But within minutes, she had devoured the burger and fries. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I waited for a beat, allowing her to digest her food, then asked, \u201cWhat was your grandfather\u2019s name?\u201d\u202f <\/p>\n\n\n\n

We both knew it was a rhetorical question, but I needed an entry point, and this was as good as any. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOliver Carmichael,\u201d she said. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDo you have any idea why your grandfather had my card or why he thought I could help?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe said your paths had crossed at some point. But he wouldn\u2019t tell me how.\u201d\u202f <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I had no recollection of meeting anyone matching the professor\u2019s description. But I met many people in my line of work. I\u2019d have to check some of my back cases to see if something would click. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat did your grandfather do for a living?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe was a university professor at the University of Michigan. He taught biochemistry.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd what were you doing at your grandfather\u2019s yesterday? <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe had asked me to come by. He said he had something important to tell me.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat happened when you got there?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat\u2019s the problem. All I remember is unlocking the door and walking in. After that, it\u2019s a complete blank. Next thing I know, I\u2019m covered in blood, handcuffed, and brought here.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou don\u2019t remember calling the police?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo. Did I? <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo, it seems. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat do you think, Mr. Cartwright? It doesn\u2019t look good for me.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTruthfully, no. But the evidence is all circumstantial. There are no witnesses. Do you have a lawyer?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThey appointed one for me.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cForget that. I know someone. I\u2019ll have her come by. She\u2019s good.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou don\u2019t have to do this for me.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes, I do.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy\u2019s that?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBecause. I believe you\u2019re innocent.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/div>\n\n\n\n

Ant had been watching<\/strong>\u202fmy interaction with Alice behind the two-way mirror. As I exited, he was lying in wait for me. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat the hell do you think you\u2019re doing, Cartwright? I let you in there thinking you\u2019d get a confession and save the taxpayers some dollars. Instead, you give her false hope, telling her she\u2019s innocent.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShe is.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHow do you figure? Did we read the same reports?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOn paper, it doesn\u2019t look good.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat makes you say that?\u201d he said sarcastically. \u201cCould it be that they found her beside her grandfather\u2019s body, with the murder weapon in her hand and nine stab wounds zigzagging his body? Or is it that when she called the thing in, she admitted to the murder?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLike I said, it looks bad on paper.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo, what makes you think otherwise?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe way she ate her food.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat about it? <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShe\u2019s left-handed. The killer was right.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMaybe she\u2019s ambidextrous.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMaybe. But it\u2019s enough to get me looking elsewhere for the actual murderer.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/div>\n\n\n\n
\n\n\n\n

Available on Amazon<\/a> and other fine book stores<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n\n\n\n

Publisher: \u200e Original Press (July 14, 2020) \/ Language: \u200e English \/ Paperback: \u200e 282 pages \/ ISBN-10: \u200e 1989577008 \/ ISBN-13: \u200e 978-1989577004 \/ Item Weight: \u200e 16.1 ounces \/ Dimensions: \u200e 6 x 0.71 x 9 inches<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"2023
2023 MAXY INTERNATIONAL BOOKS AWARDS WINNER (Mystery & Crime Category)<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Call of the Nightingale, A James Cartwright P.I. Mystery (Book 2 of 3) Blurb: Cartwright is cynical, resourceful, and tough. He lives by a moral code, one which he believes helps him distinguish right from wrong, fact from fiction, and truth from lies. But as Cartwright discovers during each of his cases, it’s one thing … <\/p>\n

Read more “Call of the Nightingale, A James Cartwright P.I. Mystery”<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":2574,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-3353","page","type-page","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/naccarato.org\/Spencer\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/3353"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/naccarato.org\/Spencer\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/naccarato.org\/Spencer\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/naccarato.org\/Spencer\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/naccarato.org\/Spencer\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=3353"}],"version-history":[{"count":8,"href":"https:\/\/naccarato.org\/Spencer\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/3353\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3392,"href":"https:\/\/naccarato.org\/Spencer\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/3353\/revisions\/3392"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/naccarato.org\/Spencer\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/2574"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/naccarato.org\/Spencer\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=3353"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}