break.”
“Happy to distract you when there’s something to do.”
“Bring it on, you know how I feel about robbery,” said Reed. “Assault I can deal with but the assault part on this one’s wimpy—someone got slapped.” Shaking his head and rolling massive back muscles, he trotted away.
Milo and I stepped back into the office, where he squeezed into his rolling desk chair and I stuck myself in my usual corner.
We examined the stats on both men. Johnson was six-four, two eighty-three, Farquahar six-five, two seventy-nine. The similarity ran beyond dimension: Birth dates put them a year apart—thirty-three and thirty-four—and they bore enough facial similarity to be fraternal twins.
I said so.
Milo said, “Brothers not boyfriends? You think Moe’s gaydar’s out of tune?”
“I think they look alike.”
He grunted. “Whatever the story, they live together in Studio City.”
He ran criminal searches, came up empty, checked vehicle regs and found a white Jag and a black Porsche Macan.
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