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out something in Katherine that only Freud could explain.
    And now, here she was unexpectedly reappearing in my life again. And no, I did not for a minute believe she was seeking my legal talents, my military credentials, or my charming company.
    I’m not that charming, for one thing.
    Anyway, she was laughing, as though this was a big joke. I said, “It’s not funny.”
    “Well . . . I’m sorry if . . . if I maybe mishandled you.”
    “No ifs about it, sister.”
    “I really do want to work with you.” She stuck out her hand. “Come on, shake.”
    We sat for a moment staring at each other.
    With her hand still out, Katherine glanced at the watch on her other wrist. “Our client’s waiting, so let’s get this over with. Come on, shake.”
    We shook, and she stood up and excused herself to go to the ladies’ room. Instead she headed straight for the stairs and stuck me with the bar bill.

Chapter Three
    We walked out of the officers’ club main entrance and in the direction of the military police station at Fort Myer, which, conveniently, is only a five-minute walk from the officers’ club, via a short connecting sidewalk.
    The night was cold and dark, but army posts tend to be overorganized and anal about everything, including lighting. To our right was a fenced-in, outdoor tennis court and just beyond that, the stately quarters of the military’s most senior officers, the army Chief of Staff, and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, and to our rear, homes for enough two- and three-star generals to lead another invasion of Europe.
    Quartered in one of those houses was Major General Fister, the JAG chief who assigned me this gig. I made a mental note to myself to leave a sack of burning dog poop on his doorstep.
    I should grow up and rise above such puerile gestures; then again, he started it.
    In case you’re interested, Fort Myer is one of the older army bases, established in the early years of the Civil War on a hill with a commanding view of the capital across the river, from which large batteries of artillery could rain death and destruction on any rebels attempting to snatch the northern capital. That war is long over, its dead and survivors alike long since buried, and the once imposing rows of batteries have dwindled to a few lonely cannons, rusted evidence of the noble mission this post once served. None of our recent wars have required defenses for our national capital, though September 11th came pretty close.
    So, these days, Fort Myer’s purpose is mostly pomp and ceremonies; it has a spit-and-polish parade-ground unit appropriate to that mission, a large parade ground for them to march around, a lovely chapel, and is adjoined to the military’s most hallowed ground, Arlington National Cemetery.
    Though I’ve been stationed in Washington for years, I don’t come here often, and when I do, it always brings back memories, some warm, some otherwise. As a kid, when Pop was stationed at the Pentagon, like most military families in DC, we rented a small bungalow on the economy—a term that betrays everything about how military people view the civilian world. During Washington’s long, torrid summers, Mom used to pack big brother Johnny and little Sean into our Country Squire wagon, and we’d race here, frolic in the o-club pool, get our weekly army butch cuts, load up the back of the wagon with inexpensive commissary groceries, top off with cheap gas, and then return to the land of the taxpayers who made all this largesse possible.
    The Vietnam War was in its final throes then, and Pop already had orders for his second and ultimately, his final tour in Vietnam, and, as it turned out, in the army. While we frolicked and eyed the good-looking general’s daughters in their skimpy bikinis, in the distance you could hear the frequent drone of the bugle and rifle pops from funeral details rendering the final salute to another fallen soldier—somebody’s dad, son, or husband. When your own dad is a