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.”
“No fights to break up?” said Milo.
“None that I had to deal with. We’re talking sad wimpy guys who didn’t even catch on to watered-down booze. It was depressing.”
Milo said, “Who was the other bouncer?”
“I worked with a bunch of them,” said James Johnson. “Like I said, people came and went. Good security’s in demand, at solid places you get full benefits plus serious gratuity potential if there’s people wanting