Night Candy

by Max Tomlinson

Genres: Crime Fiction; Historical Thrillers; Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

1970s San Francisco: the sights, the sounds, the serial killers

As the ' 70s draw to a close in San Francisco, things do not bode well for the city— or for ex-con PI Colleen Hayes, whose daughter Pam, in a tragic turn of events, has lost her baby. Pam leaves San Francisco and Colleen, who moved there to reunite with her, starts to wonder what she' s doing in the Bay Area.

Meanwhile, a serial killer given the name “ Night Candy” is targeting sex workers, both male and female. The situation doesn' t improve when Colleen' s friend and ally— SFPD Inspector Owens— is arrested for the murder of his ex-wife, who was found burned in a fire the same night the pair had tried to rekindle their love. Could Owens have really done what they say? Even Colleen has her doubts.

But there are people depending on her: Owens, who needs help finding his ex-wife' s real killer, and a trio of sex workers Colleen keeps her eye on— especially with Night Candy on the loose. Then, one of the three girls is next to disappear. If anything is to test Colleen' s resolve, December 1979 seems to be it.

Perfect for fans of Steve Berry and Harlan Coben

While all of the novels in the Colleen Hayes Mystery Series stand on their own and can be read in any order, the publication sequence is:

Vanishing in the Haight
Tie Die
Bad Scene
Line of Darkness
Night Candy

 

Read more

Release date: July 25, 2023

Publisher: Oceanview Publishing

Print pages: 281

Sample

CHAPTER ONE

SAN FRANCISCO

NOVEMBER 23, 1979

The end of the decade hung with winter cold as Colleen Hayes drove over to Chinatown to serve papers on a restaurant owner who’d stiffed forty-three illegals. A Friday night, the day after Thanksgiving. Boom, her associate, filled the Torino’s passenger seat with a bulk that would have done a wrestler proud. His USMC field jacket was showing its age. So was Colleen’s Torino, audibly sucking gas as it chugged up Leavenworth, leaving twin puffs of smoke in the rearview mirror when she down-shifted. Sister Sledge were on the radio, and they were family.

But Colleen’s heart was too heavy with the news of her daughter to worry about the price of gas.

“Everything OK, Chief?” Boom asked, pushing his thick-framed glasses up his nose and flipping a page in the textbook in his lap. Boom was a Vietnam vet with dark brown skin and a calm voice. He supplemented his GI Bill by assisting Colleen on jobs where muscle might be required. Not being an ex-felon like Colleen, and having a gun permit, he was also able to legally carry a firearm.

Colleen said that everything was OK. There was no need to share her problems.

“You sure?”

“God, I hate to see that,” she said, changing the subject.

On the next corner underneath a 1920s apartment building that had once been grand but now was not, three young women hunkered down in the cold. An Asian woman, in her thirties perhaps, wore a shortie black raincoat that showed off legs encased in black nylon. Her collar was up high around her ears. The girl in the middle was white, tall and lanky, with a dark mod hat pulled down over her long, shiny blonde hair, and knobby knees peeking above black platform boots. She wore a big Giants varsity jacket. Skinny white thighs ended in snug denim hot pants. She shivered as she stood next to a fireplug of a Black woman with a stylish Afro, smoking a long cigarette in terse puffs. None of the three women were smiling. There wasn’t a reason to. It was a miserable night. If all went well, they’d collect twenty dollars a pop from anonymous clients who hopefully wouldn’t mistreat them, give half to some pimp who might, and do it all again tomorrow.

“Hate to see it too,” Boom said.

Night Candy hadn’t struck for a while. But even so.

She couldn’t just drive by.

Colleen blew a hard sigh, shifted the Torino down, pulled up in front of the ladies on the corner. Came to a stop, engine rumbling in idle. She yanked the handbrake, got out of the car. In her chamois-soft bell-bottom denims and black leather coat, she wasn’t competition for the three, who were dolled up to attract business. Her long, dark hair was pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail and looped through the back of a Giants ball cap.

“Evening, ladies,” she said.

The Black woman blew a puff of crystalline smoke and shook her head.

“Go Giants,” the tall blondie said in a twang, nodding at Colleen’s hat. She had a sizable nose and lots of makeup to hide the black eye she was sporting. Reminded Colleen of herself when she was still young, married to a guy she eventually put an end to, spending the better part of a decade in prison for it. “How you doin’ yourself, Officer?

“I’m no cop,” Colleen said. “Just another citizen.”

“One looking for a party?” the Asian woman said with a curious look.

“Nope,” Colleen said.

“How about your friend there?” the Black woman said, indicating Boom in the car. “He’s a bruiser.”

“Nope, and nope,” Colleen said.

“We don’t need competition or representation,” she said in a cool voice, sipping her cigarette. “Already spoken for.”

“Does he make sure you use rubbers?” Colleen said. “There’s some scary shit going around.”

“You might just find out how scary, you don’t mind your own damn business and mosey on. He won’t like it, he sees you interrupting commerce.”

“If you don’t buy,” Blondie said, fluttering her long fingers, adorned with rings. “Then you must fly.”

“I can’t imagine you three haven’t seen the news,” Colleen said.

“Night Candy,” the Asian woman said. “Yes, we know. But it’s been months since anything happened.”

“Even so,” Colleen said, “it’s not a concern?”

“The ozone layer concerns me,” Blondie said. “But what can I do about it?” She gave a taut grin, and a small inlaid diamond sparkled on a canine tooth.

“My dang rent concerns me,” said the Asian woman.

“Well,” Colleen said, handing out business cards, “if you three ever want to think about a career change, give me a call. No charge.”

The blonde woman read her card, the Asian woman stuck hers in her pocket, and the Black woman handed hers back.

“Hayes Confidential,” Blondie said, looking up. “Private Investigator.”

“You guys must’ve heard of COYOTE,” Colleen continued. Call Off Your Old Tired Ethics was a sex worker’s coalition founded a few years back. “An organization for working girls. I know the woman who runs it. If someone is giving you a bad time”—she eyed Blondie, who someone had given a bad time to—“or is taking too much of your hard-earned cash, or making you work when you don’t want to, like a freezing cold night after Thanksgiving, she can tell you about your options. And, believe it or not, there are some.”

“This has been a public service announcement,” the Black woman said, smoking.

“We got it,” the Asian woman said.

But the blonde woman was watching, listening. One out of three was better than none.

“You already know my name,” Colleen said. “Colleen.”

“Traci. With an i.”

Colleen looked at the Asian woman with a questioning smile.

“Fia,” she said.

Colleen turned to the Black woman, raised her eyebrows.

“None of your damn business,” she said.

Two out of three.

“Well, nice to meet you all,” Colleen said.

A car pulled up, a new BMW 6 series with a few rowdy guys in suits. The kind who made thirty K a year selling stock. An electric window whirred down, and a young face with a slick-back haircut gave Traci a leer and a come-hither finger.

“Prince Charming awaits.” She strutted over with an exaggerated swagger. “You look like you like to live life on the edge,” she said to the man at the wheel.

“How many times a night does she say that?” Colleen asked the others.

“Just go, already,” the Black woman said, flicking her cigarette out past Colleen, just missing her, into the street where it spit embers.

“I can take a hint,” Colleen said. “Well, I said my bit. Stay safe, ladies.”

She went back to the

car, got in.

“That looks like it went over like a lead balloon,” Boom said.

“Just spreading joy wherever I go,” Colleen said.

The radio was now playing “Funky Christmas.”

“I don’t frigging believe it,” she said. “One day after Thanksgiving.”

“It’s called ‘Christmas Creep,’” Boom said. “Gets worse every year.”

“Pretty soon it’ll be before T-day,” Colleen said, stepping on the clutch, putting the car into gear. “Let’s go serve some papers on Mr. Fan and get into the holiday spirit.”

Before she took off, she glanced over at the frozen trio on the corner. Traci was negotiating with a suit and looked up long enough to catch her eye. She brushed a long strand of blonde hair out of her face and gave Colleen a wistful smile. Colleen returned it, thinking of her own daughter, Pam, out there on her own again, somewhere, who knew where.

 

CHAPTER TWO

ONE WEEK LATER, FRIDAY NIGHT

Sitting in his car, Ray watched her from the corner of Polk and Pine. Tall, slender, long blonde hair. She looked like a real blonde. Just like Alice. She was lurking in the shadows under the awning of a camera store, its windows emblazoned with XMAS SALE ads, across the street from the Palms Café club. Guitars chopped the frozen air like buzz saws. Kids were hanging out in front of the Palms in spray-painted leather, ripped jeans, chains, spiky hair. A stiff Mohawk bobbed up and down. Cigarettes glowed and feet were stomped.

Ray saw her staying out of plain sight. A street hustler playing it low key. Black mini, torn fishnets, platform boots. Big black leather jacket, zipped up against the bone-chilling cold.

Get rid of the outfit, and a few other things, she could pass for Alice.

Just what he was looking for.

And she was alone. That was important.

Ray started up the Riviera, the big 455 growling to life, put the Buick into Drive, drove slowly past her doorway. She gave him a furtive little look as he trolled by, followed by raised eyebrows. She was open for business. A pretty oval face.

He drove down to the intersection, spun a U-ey, came back just as slow. A calm excitement overcame him. A new conquest.

He came to a stop in front of the awning across from the Palms. Hit the passenger-side electric window. Guitar noise bounced off the windows of the camera store and into the car, along with a blast of cold. He cranked the heater, double time.

She emerged from the shadows. Meeting his gaze. Her shiny long blonde hair was real, not a dye job. Crucial. Not much up top. But that was cool. Alice wasn’t exactly buxom either.

She sashayed over to the car in her platforms. Leaned on the sill. Bracelets rattling. Gave him a wicked smile. Wide lips, painted pink.

“Hey, handsome,” she said in a husky voice. “Nice car.”

“How do you handle this cold?”

“A girl’s gotta eat.”

He smiled. “Which is what?”

She winked. “Just about everything.”

He patted the passenger seat. “In that case you better get in.”

“Whoa,” she said. “It’s forty.”

Forty. High for street. But she was just what he needed.

“Cool. Get in.”

She did and he could smell the patchouli oil as her window went up. Not his favorite scent.

They set off.

She flipped down the sun visor, adjusted her bangs. Lots of eye makeup. “Go down Polk,” she said. “Turn left on Bush. There’s a parking lot by the hospital.”

“I was hoping for somewhere more private.”

“This is plenty private,” she said. “I know the guard. And your forty only buys you fifteen minutes.” She consulted a big chunky watch. “Make that fourteen.”

He acquiesced.

Down the street from St. Francisco Memorial, they parked in the back of the small doctor’s lot, high brick walls of old SF Tenderloin on three sides. A hospital van on one side of the Riviera, a Mercedes on the other made it private, provided no one came along. It was dark

“And you’re sure about this?” Ray said.

“Like I said, I know the night security guard at the hospital. Trust me.”

Trust a street hooker.

She turned, smiled.

“You’re a good-looking guy,” she said, touching his leg.

He knew that. In his prime, over six foot, toned at the gym daily, nice, neat chestnut hair, combed back, square jaw. Women liked him. And he took full advantage.

She pulled a condom from her jacket pocket.

And then he saw it. The Adam’s apple.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he said, exhaling.

“What is it, handsome?”

He nodded at her. Him? Smirked. “Talk about your false advertising.”

She/he turned, perplexed. “What? Not what you wanted, sweetheart?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“You sure about that?”

“Look,” he said. “This isn’t going to work. Just get out.”

She/he reached for his crotch. “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”

He smacked the hand away and saw now it was rougher than a woman’s. That’s what he got for being in a hurry. “Let’s not and just say we did.”

“Your loss.” He put his hand out, palm up. “But there’s still a little matter of forty bucks.”

“Forty bucks, my ass. Get out.”

“Seems you might be a tad confused about a couple of things,” he said. “A deal’s a deal.”

Ray gripped the steering wheel with two fists. “I’m not confused about a damn thing. Especially what happens next if you don’t get out of my fucking car.” He turned, smiled, raised his eyebrows. “This is the last time I’m going to ask you nicely.”

He/she muttered, hit the door handle, climbed out in the clompy platform boots. Slammed the door.

“Damn twinkie!”

“Have a nice day.” Ray twisted the ignition key. Threw the car into Drive, pulled out of the tight spot.

And as he did, he heard the scrape. Metal on metal. Rear panel.

The guy or whatever he was had just keyed his fucking car.

Motherfucker!

Ray hated to lose his temper.

He slammed on the brakes with a screech, smashed the Riviera into Park, left it running, got out, marched back to the sham woman standing in the gap where they had parked.

Grinning, a screwdriver dangling in his hand.

“You have any idea how much that paint job cost?” Ray said between his teeth. His fists were flexing and unflexing.

His opponent tilted his head to examine the rear of the car, a boat tail which made the Buick the classy ride that it was, then he looked at the pretty midnight blue paint, now with a wild white scrawl across it. Like graffiti on the Sistine Chapel. And then he looked back at Ray.

“Lot more than forty bucks, I’d say. And whose fault is that?”

Ray’s neck vibrated. Tension that knotted up. Vision that blurred.

“I’d say yours.” He walked toward the hooker, fists so tight they hurt.

The hooker’s face dropped. He held up the screwdriver in defiance.

“I’d think twice if I were you, sweetheart.”

“Thinking’s overrated, sweetheart,” Ray said.

And came in at him.

And when he was done, panting, sweating, the man in fishnets lay splayed before him, head propped up against the brick wall between the van and Mercedes at an unnatural angle. Not a living one. Lips cut and bloody.

“Get up,” Ray said, bending over, resting his hands on his knees, catching his breath.

No response. No movement.

“Get up already.”

Nothing. Just the whir of traffic on Pine Street.

“Crap.”

As Ray’s head began to clear, he heard his car, still chugging away behind him.

He looked at his dead victim.

Well, it was too late now.

Things didn’t always work out the way you planned.

He felt strangely calm. As he always did.

What to do with him?

He bent down, grabbed the ankles of his black platform boots. Dragged him, the man’s head sliding down the brick wall, hitting the asphalt with an unpleasant crack. Arms twisted around on the ground.

Straightened him out in between the two vehicles. Dead weight. Ray was puffing. Then he went around to the man’s head, straightened it.

Arranged the arms like wings. Pushed them down just a little.

Like an angel.

Ray stood up, admired his handiwork for a moment, realized the back of his hand was bleeding where he’d been slashed with the screwdriver.

Screwdriver. He hunted for it. Found it, by the wheel of a van. Picked it up. He’d get rid of it later.

He strolled back to the car, puffs of exhaust in the cold winter night. Opened the trunk. Tossed in the screwdriver, got out a pink shop rag near the spare tire, wrapped it around his hand. He still had work to do.

The movement of a figure threw a shadow across the entrance of the lot.

Ray stood back behind the trunk. His blazing headlights helped mask him from view.

It was a security guard, staring into the parking lot from California Street. An old Mexican dude with a weather-beaten face, ’50s ducktail, in a polyester jacket with one of those big clocks hanging over his shoulder, the ones where they punched keys hanging on chains for their patrols. A guard at the hospital. The tranny had mentioned they patrolled this lot, that she had one looking out for her. Him. Whatever.

He’d been watching. But for how long?

Did he see the body?

Damn.

Ray reached into the trunk, pulled the screwdriver. He stuck his arm out of the shadows, held the screwdriver up, showed it to the guard.

“Speedy Gonzales,” Ray sang mockingly in a low voice, along with the old song, “why don’t ‘cha go home?”

The guard’s face dropped. He turned. Took off.

Ray tossed the screwdriver back into the trunk, slammed it shut, got back in the car,

threw the car into Drive, hit the gas.

Flipped the headlights off as he swerved out onto California, the car bouncing.

He disliked unfinished business. But these things happened.

Supertramp were on the radio, singing about taking the long way home. But Ray wasn’t going home. There was no time like the present. He still needed the real thing.

CHAPTER THREE

Less than an hour later, Ray turned a corner, heading up Leavenworth for the umpteenth time. It was late, well past midnight. And it seemed colder—if that was possible. The car heater was blowing on high. The back of his hand was bandaged—he’d dashed into a late-night store to buy Band-Aids after the transvestite got him with the screwdriver. Soon to be something that never happened. It wasn’t Ray’s fault the tranny picked the wrong person to mess with. Unfortunate, yes, but he—she—it—should have known better. The way of the world.

But there she was now—a real she—coming out of a corner liquor store in her boots and miniskirt, long white legs, thin. He needed her thin. She was wearing a big black Giants jacket and a retro black mod hat over her long blonde hair. A real blonde. Perfect. Prominent nose, but that worked too.

Close to Alice.

Definitely female. It showed in her walk. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

She was on her own, good. Her two friends—the little Asian one with the chunky legs, and the Black chick with the Afro, looked like she’d chew you up and spit you out—were either with customers or had gone home.

The blonde took her position on the corner, opening up a pack of smokes. She lit one, stamping her platformed feet while she puffed.

He put the Riviera into Drive, drove up, pulled over to the curb, rolled down the window.

Gave her a big smile, the kind women liked.

She returned it, along with a squint. She puffed on her smoke, came sauntering over to the car, hip movement galore. Putting on a show.

“You look like you like to live life on the edge,” she said.

“You got that right,” he said.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE NEXT DAY, SATURDAY, DECEMBER 1ST

Owens pulled up in front of the white stucco house with the pink trim on Wawona, the house he had paid for. Was still paying for, to be more precise. And hadn’t lived in for over a year.

It was late afternoon, and the early fog was pulling into West Portal from the ocean.

He wouldn’t go up, ring the doorbell. It didn’t feel right, no longer living there. Up until recently Alice had had that restraining order out against him.

He honked the horn, two light taps.

The porch light went on upstairs, and the door opened and out she came, blonde hair flipping.

And there she was, Alice, wearing a light coat, one he didn’t recognize, but, as always, a glimpse of her was enough to soften him. It was impossible to hate her even though she’d done a pretty good job on him and he’d managed a reasonable facsimile on occasion. But never for long.

She came down the stairs, high heels, long willowy legs. She was carrying her overnight bag. Hope welled.

She gave him a cool smile, but it was a smile. First one he believed he’d seen since the divorce.

She came across the street as he got out and hurried around the car to open the passenger door, take her bag.

He put her bag in the trunk next to his, and the gift he had ready, and went back, got in. The car was full of her. Not just her fragrance. But her. Her.

“It’s cold out there,” he said.

Small talk. Something he was lousy at.

“It is December.”

“You look nice,” he said.

Another smile, polite. Distant? Well, they’d been through hell in the last year. He reminded himself not to push things. He had gotten this far, beaten the odds. Was he a fool? Maybe he was a lucky one.

She blinked as she looked him over. They didn’t touch. A kiss would have been out of the question, even a peck.

“Nice jacket,” she said. “Blue always suited you.”

“Thanks.”

“You’ve lost weight.”

“Twenty-two pounds.” Maybe he should have just said thanks again.

Don’t get your hopes up.

“But you look tired,” she said, pulling down the visor, primping, not looking at him.

He’d been up since the wee hours, investigating a 187 out by St. Francis Memorial. A dead transvestite. But he never brought work home when they were married, and he wasn’t about to start now.

“Just the same old grind."

” he said, pushing a smile. “Are we all set?”

“Reservation at the Joshua Inn,” she said. “The Redwood.”

The cabin where they had spent their honeymoon. She liked the llamas on the property, farther up the hill. He liked the idea that he might be getting a second chance. As an inspector with SFPD, he thought about the old saw, returning to the scene of the crime.

He almost asked, Are you sure about this, Alice? But caught himself.

“Great,” was all he said, putting the car into gear. “I made a dinner res at Triple S.” Where they had eaten more than once on their honeymoon. Steaks and a salad bar.

He wanted to ask her so many things. Say so many things. But he didn’t.

In a relationship, the one who cared the least had the most power. And that was Alice.

“Let’s try to beat traffic,” she said. “Berkeley will be a parking lot already.”

CHAPTER FIVE

MONDAY MORNING, DECEMBER 3

NIGHT CANDY STRIKES AGAIN

The newspaper in front of Colleen’s office door on Pier 26 was folded up with a rubber band around it. Even so, the headline was clearly visible along the top.

Colleen picked up the Chronicle, found herself reading it right there in front of her office, formerly a marine maintenance shop. The sounds of the bay sloshing beneath the thick boards of the pier below punctuated her thoughts.

“The suspected killer who goes by the name of ‘Night Candy’ may have struck again after a three-month hiatus as a fourth victim was found, this time in the doctors’ parking lot of Saint Francis Memorial Hospital early Saturday morning.

SFPD were alerted to the body of a man apparently found posed in the crucifixion position characteristic to previous Night Candy murders. The man, whose details are being withheld pending further investigation and notification of kin, is reported to be of a similar background to other victims.”

Meaning he was a prostitute, Colleen concluded.

“The body was found in the rear of a parking lot by a security guard from Saint Francis Memorial Hospital on patrol. A positive identification will not be confirmed until an autopsy is performed. Until the autopsy, no further details on the condition of the body, or speculations on the cause of death, will be released. Any new information should still be directed to Inspector Owens of SFPD.”

Colleen realized she needed to touch base with Owens. It had been a while. Too long. But he would ask her about Pam, and she wasn’t ready to talk about that.

She let herself into her office. Turned on the overhead, filling the tall, dark room with harsh fluorescence from high in the unfinished ceiling. Colleen went around and sat at her battered green metal desk, appropriated from her stint guarding an empty paint factory in Hunter’s Point. The San Francisco Bay was choppy and grey through the window behind her.

Over the last year, three other victims had been killed in ceremonial fashion until the killings had seemingly stopped: a woman in St. Cecilia’s church out in the Sunset, found in front of the confessional booth with her hands spread out crucifixion style; the second, a transvestite splayed before the cement cross on Mt. Davidson, a rosary in one hand; and a third, a woman on Baker Beach, posed in a snow angel position in the sand.

The three had been sprayed with a teen fragrance known as Night Candy. None of them had been sexually violated.

Colleen couldn’t help but think about Traci with an “i” and her two partners in the Tenderloin, and the risk they were taking.

Meanwhile, she had a divorce case to get started on. Yet another divorce case. Staying busy was the only way she could see to getting past life without Pam and the grandson that might have been.