He logged onto a shared Facebook page filled with travel shots in Asia and Europe. James Johnson and Jameson Farquahar holding hands, embracing, and in a few pictures kissing. The rest of the photos were the men with two rescue dogs, a huge mastiff-type named Little and a miniature schnauzer named Biggs.
He scrolled. “Don’t care about their taste in music or movies, let’s check out their social life.”
Active social life, a couple dozen male and female friends, plus sibs, nieces, nephews, and a pair of middle-aged mothers.
Jameson R. Farquahar was an associate at a law firm in Encino. James Johnson listed himself as a personal trainer.
That made Johnson more likely but close to a hundred men by that name lived in the Valley, so Milo switched his phone to speaker and tried Farquahar’s office.
Closed on Sunday, nothing beyond general voicemail.
“Okay, tomorrow’s a new day—uh-oh, the optimism flu must be catching. I’ll find him one way or the other, starting with his true love—say ten a.m., here? I’m figuring to leave soon after.”
* * *
—
Monday, I was back in my corner as he sat belly-to-desk and phoned the law firm.
Mr. Farquahar was in a meeting.
Identifying himself, he asked the secretary if she had a number for “Mr. Farquahar’s friend, James Johnson.”
“The police?” said the receptionist. “I can’t believe James is in trouble.”
“He’s not in any sort of trouble but he may have information that can help us.”
“Help you?” said the receptionist.
“A former friend is a victim.”
“A victim?” said the receptionist.
Milo let his mouth go slack and his head go off-kilter. “Of a serious crime, ma’am.”
“Serious?”
“It would be great to talk to James.”
“Talk? I guess I can call him. Then he can decide. Let me call you back.”
Click.
Moments later, Milo’s desk phone rang. A soft, boyish voice said, “This is James.”
“Lieutenant Sturgis, here. Thanks so much for getting back, Mr. Johnson. This is about a woman who danced at a club where you did security.”
“Eileen—my husband’s secretary—said someone’s a victim.”
“Unfortunately the woman was murdered.”
“Oh, my God,” said James Johnson. “Who?”
“A dancer named Kimby.”
Silence.
“Mr. Johnson—”
“I don’t believe I ever worked with someone named Kimmy. I used to do a lot of club security but not for a while.”
“Kim-bee.” Milo described the dead girl.
Johnson said, “What club are we talking about?”
“The Aura.”
“Oh, that one. We’re talking over a year ago, Lieutenant. Year and a half…Kim-bee? There might’ve been someone called Kim-ba.”
“We were told Kimby but maybe.”
“Told by who?”
“The owner of the club.”
“The Egyptian…Ronny Salami,” said James Johnson.
“Salawa.”
“If you say so. He wasn’t around much. I’m surprised he remembered my name.”
“Actually, he wasn’t clear on it.”
“How’d you find me, then?”
“He called you Jimmy and described you as someone who probably lifted weights. Turns out one of our detectives thought he might know you from The Iron Cage.”
“I’m never Jimmy, I’m James. We talking the Viking?”
“Pardon?”
“Moses the Viking,” said Johnson. “Late twenties, blond, humongous lats, bi’s, and tri’s? He’s the only cop I know of at The Cage.”
“That’s him.”
“The Viking is a monster. One-handed pull-ups, when he two-hands he puts like a hundred fifty around his waist. I like him as a spotter because he can lift more than me, I feel safe.”
“I hope you don’t mind him telling us your name. This is an unsolved homicide and we’re still working on identifying the victim.”
“No, it’s fine. The Viking’s cool. The Aura, huh? I thought the place closed down.”
“It did—it’s complicated, sir. Any chance we could meet? At your convenience.”
Silence.
“Sir?”
“Like an interrogation?” said James Johnson.
“Nothing like that, just a brief chat so I can learn as much as possible about my victim.”
“Why would I know about her?”
“We’re looking for everyone who worked with her.”
“Kimba,” said James Johnson. “Maybe Kim-bee but I’m still thinking Kim-ba…what I can tell you…if it’s who I’m thinking of—she always seemed different.”
“How so?”
“Like she felt she shouldn’t have been there. That’s about it.”
“Could we meet anyway, sir?”
“What for?”
“Sometimes people’s memories are jogged.”
“I don’t think mine will be.”
“I’m sure you’re right, Mr. Johnson, but this woman died in a particularly nasty way and unless we can identify her—”
“Fine, okay, if it’s super quick. I just finished a client in Beverly Hills, got one coming up in Brentwood, I can give you a few minutes.”
“If it’s convenient for you to stop by, we’re in West L.A. between Beverly Hills and Brentwood.”
“Come to a police station? No, no, I don’t think so. Last time I experienced a police station was when I was in college and went up to Bakersfield with the strength team for a competition and got picked up for walking while black.”
“Sorry—”
“Not your fault, I’m just saying. You want to talk, you come to me.”
Milo said, “Happy to, sir.”
“Well,” said Johnson, “there’s a little park on the corner of Whittier Drive and Sunset, I was planning to have a snack, anyway. But I can’t stay long.”
“Thanks, sir.”
“Kimba…I’m pretty sure that was her name.”
* * *
—
The park was petite, lush, green, beautifully tended, maybe twice the size of nearby front lawns on Whittier Drive. Traffic on Sunset whizzed by. The air was warm and inviting. As we drove up, two squirrels stopped their frenzied mating and scampered off chittering.
Milo murmured, “Love abounds.”
Several years ago a Hollywood publicist had been gunned down while waiting for a red light at the Whittier–Sunset intersection, the shooter a lunatic on a bicycle who’d botched robbing her and avoided capture by blowing his own brains out.
Other than that, a peaceful spot.
A black Porsche Macan was parked on the west side of Whittier. A huge man in a white tee, shorts, socks, and sneakers sat cross-legged on the grass drinking from a bottle of something opaque and brown. He noticed us right away and gave a hesitant wave. By the time we reached him, he was on his feet, a tower of toned, sculpted muscle. A shadow of dark hair sheathed his head, neat and clipped.
Milo extended his hand. James Johnson regarded it for a second before accepting. My hand is decent-sized, with long guitarist fingers. Johnson’s grip was an enveloping blanket of warm meat that covered it completely. Soft, though. Aware of his own strength.
He settled back down on the grass. The brown stuff in the bottle looked like unfiltered apple juice.
Milo and I settled facing him.
James Johnson said, “Yoga class begins. Namaste. Actually, that’s for the end.”
Milo grinned. “Again, thanks for taking the time, Mr. Johnson.”
“Wait before you thank me, Lieutenant, nothing in my memory has jogged. I didn’t hang with any of the girls, it wasn’t that kind of place. You did your job and went home.”
I said, “As opposed to other clubs.”
“Some places develop a—I guess you’d call it a social system. The ones that seem to last.”
“Not The Aura.”
Massive shoulders rose and fell. “Total dive, the Egyptian wouldn’t spend a penny more than he had to. No benefits, everyone was an IC—independent contractor. You got paid in cash and not always on time. I didn’t stay long. No one did.”
“Including the girls?”
“Especially the girls,” said Johnson. “The clientele was basically shabby old guys who didn’t tip.”
He uncapped his bottle and took a long swig. The look of apple juice but the aroma that filtered out was closer to vegetable soup.
I said, “Were there any problems with specific customers?”
“Nothing beyond a few harmless drunks. Overall boring, it was all I could do to stay awake,” said Johnson. “I stood out in front and another guy did the back door and then we’d reverse. Front was losers arriving drunk, back was losers leaving drunk. If they were obviously impaired—falling over—we’d call them a cab, but mostly Salami told us to mind our own business. The guy just didn’t care.”