Case File #089 White Face. Black Bar. I've Been Made.

When the DC color line exposes my anonymity.

Mar 22, 2026

Washington DC private investigator story — Clues are everywhere.

I’m parked illegally on 13th Street NW at 4:45 PM, watching a parking lot exit. Blue BMW. Virginia plates is what I’m watching for. Probably not more than a dozen in this building. The owner is a high-income Black male, 46, slim, well-dressed. Wife thinks he’s seeing someone on Wednesday nights. She’s hired us to confirm.

His name is John. Works on K Street. Lives in Lake Barcroft. Doesn’t know his wife suspects anything.

The BMW sits there, clean as a whistle.

Time passes. At 5:20, a cop tells me to move along. I pull forward into the alley next to the firehouse, wait a few minutes, circle back to the same spot. Illegal standing is just part of the deal on a follow job.

At 7:10, a blue BMW pulls out. DC plates. Wrong yuppie.

At 7:20, the right BMW turns left, heads north on 13th.

Great.

An illegal U-turn later, I’m about six cars back. Carefully scooching through a red light I catch up to him at Thomas Circle which was always fun at this time of evening, chaotic enough to give cover, tight enough to lose someone if you blink. I end up close behind him through the circle and north on 15th.

So far, nothing out of the ordinary. Except Lake Barcroft is the other direction.

Left on U Street. Right on 18th.

Parking’s tight around here. He’s cruising, looking for a spot. I stay back as much as possible, visors down. Without signaling he parallel parks, I wait passively, then ease past, watching him in the rearview the whole time.

First empty curb space I find, I pull in. Still watching the mirror.

He gets out. Heads north. Toward me.

I get out and lean against my car, curbside, flipping through my map book (yes, a real live map book, yellow cover). I hope there’s no fire around here because this plug is covered. No parking cop either.

He turns into the Ethiopian restaurant.

I’ve heard of this place. Always wanted to try it. Adams Morgan is full of spots like this, immigrant-run, authentic, the kind of place you find by accident and remember forever. I need to see who he is meeting. Now I can have a beer on the client’s bill.

I wait a few minutes to make sure he’s settled, then decide I should move my car before some cop decides to talk with me.

Everything’s going great. Surveillances can go bad fast. You can lose them in traffic, they spot you, whatever. But so far, so good. Gonna be an easy night.

I walk through the door.

And immediately realize I am now seen and easily identified.

The restaurant isn’t dark, but it’s not well-lit either. The smell of peppery lamb hits me first. Then I see my subject sitting with a beautiful woman, wearing a dress from a Chris de Burgh song. Both of them are looking at me.

So is everyone else in the room.

See, here’s the thing: Washington, DC is a majority-Black city. Adams Morgan is a hotspot for immigrant homes and businesses. This bar currently is hosting entirely Black patrons. Black bartender. Black servers.

And me.

White guy. Blue Kansas hat on my head. Standing in the doorway like I just walked into the wrong house party.

Well, he doesn’t know I’m a PI. But he’s seen me up close now. My time following him is done. But my time here? I can stay a little longer.

I play it cool. Walk to the bar. Order a beer.

“You have any African beers?”

The bartender lights up. “Man, I got just the thing.”

He pulls out a bottle I’ve never seen before. Cold. Malty. Sweet.

It’s clear our subject is going to be a while. I can see it in the way he leans in, the way she laughs. You can physically see the connection. These two are comfortable with each other.

There’s a pay phone in the back.

I make the call.

“Stay put,” my boss says. “And don’t follow. I’m sending you Tony.”

Tony’s a good investigator. Ten, maybe twelve years older than me. Properly trained. I learn on the job and use my time watching Columbo and Moonlighting episodes as education. He’s ex-military. And his skin color fits in with this place. He’ll page me when he’s in position on the car. After that, I’m out.

I spend the next 45 minutes at that bar.

Second beer. Different kind, just as good. Order an appetizer. I’m not really crazy about the food. Not my deal. But the beers? Love them.

And that bartender? Fun guy. We talk about Kenya, about DC, about the Redskins. Most of all we talk soccer. I tell him I had found Adams Morgan when I came to the neighborhood in ’86 to watch some World Cup games. The matches weren’t on any television I had, so I found a Brazilian bar there that had a tv and the patrons adopted me. They loved the American who loved futbol.

He never asks why I am there. I never say.

When my pager buzzes, I pay my tab, leave a good tip, and walk out.

John and his girlfriend are still at their table, wrapped up in each other.

Tony picks up the surveillance from there.

I go home, cooler air whipping through the open windows. When I see her, I kiss my wife. I am not the guy I was surveilling.

Before the Clue Game - Let me ask you…

Have you ever been "made?” You know, spotted, identified, or caught in the act when you were trying to stay invisible?
Doesn't have to be PI work. Could be anything.

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The Clue Game

What I Remember About That Day

The BMW had Virginia plates. I remember checking them twice.
The bartender’s name was Kwame. He had a scar above his left eyebrow.
The first beer he gave me was Tusker Lager from Kenya.
The woman with John was wearing a red dress.
I ordered sambusas as my appetizer. They were cold in the middle.
Tony paged me at exactly 8:47 PM.

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