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CHEVY CHASE, WASHINGTON, D.C.—St. John’s College High School
Football practice had ended some hours ago, but the Thursday night lights still shined over the field at St. John’s. The lights stayed on until five a.m. as a deterrent for people searching for a place to make out late night behind the bleachers. What about clandestine meetings between a defense attorney and his private investigator? The Christian military high school was the perfect place for this sort of get together.
Naim Butler stood in the entryway, waiting for Jason Porter. He’d driven around the affluent Chevy Chase neighborhood of Washington, D.C. for a half-hour, assuring that no one-tailed them from the hotel, before Porter dropped Naim at the field’s gates to find parking. It was eleven p.m. and they were trespassing, but as Porter’s alma mater, where he was a star tight-end, he could explain the late-night visit.
Porter walked up to Naim, carrying a six-pack of beer.
“Sam Adams? You think we need cold-ones for this?” Naim asked, walking towards the bleachers. He couldn’t help but laugh.
“Cover, my friend,” he said, revealing a book in his other hand. “Also for our cover my yearbook. Class of 1992. This is Washington. You have to use CIA operative tactics to survive the city’s treachery. This isn’t New York. It’s worse.”
“Indeed,” Naim said, copping a squat in the stands on the ten-yard line. He wanted to be close to the exit in the event he had to make a hasty exit. His mood was clearer after reaching out to his college pal. He hoped porter could he help him see the world in a different light.
Investigator Jason Porter was born into an Irish family in Boston, Massachusetts with spicy mustard color hair, green eyes, and a solid physique. A forty-two, he had sixteen years of helping lawyers solve crimes, starting with the Washington U.S. Attorney’s office, later a CIA analyst, both after graduating from Tulane University a few years before Naim.
“I think there’s a leak coming from my camp at the Baker and Keefe Washington Office.”
“Could you run that by me again?” Porter asked, popping the top off of a beer bottle, taking a swig. “In English this time ‘round, mate.”
“I had been scheduled to meet with my client’s wife at the women’s prison in West Virginia. It was mysteriously canceled. And I was blocked from visiting her.” Naim looked at Porter. “The only people with knowledge of my appearance were my D.C. B and K team. Two paralegals and secretary.” Naim pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and passed it to Porter. “Their names.”
“These sort of intelligence investigations have consequences,” Porter said, remembering the years he’s spent in the prosecutor’s office. “You’re looking to call someone out for being a traitor. And I am assuming you’ve asked no one about the leak idea. If you’re wrong and it’s not them, you lose your team. And respect. Such a Catch-22.”
Naim rubbed his temples. The Samuel Adams suddenly looked appealing, though he hated the taste of beer.
Over the next fifteen-minutes, Naim filled him in on his mission and expressed how critical it was for it to succeed.
“I can see this being effective.” Another swig. He stood.
“Sit. There’s more.”
“Ah, an encore.”
“I was headed to New York tonight to meet with a psyche tomorrow, but I’ve secretly invited the doctor to D.C. without telling my team. Subterfuge feels horrible.”
“It’s not. But this ruins your shot to check up on Marco.”
“Not quite. Him, his girlfriend, and my New York secretary are clandestinely headed here as we speak.”
“Clever.”
“I need you to investigate David Thurman, also. I want his military record, domestic and foreign travel, family, friends, favorite channel, favorite type of drawers. I want everything.”
“I can do that.”
“Can you get the owner of an IP address?”
“I can do that, too.”
“What can’t you do?”
“Golf.”
Chuckling, Naim passed along another slip of paper. A check.
Porter looked at it. “You knew I’d say ‘yes’?”
“Come on, mate. Do you think you’d be here if I thought otherwise.”