Furies from the ancient Greek myths infest Tom Jurgen’s nightmares, seeking to drive him to suicide. Is it all about a corporate nondisclosure agreement that’s already driven people to suicide—or something worse?
Friday, May 24, 2019
The Gracious Ones, Part One
The three Furies circled overhead, shrieking at me. Chains were locked around my arms and legs as a freezing rain whipped across on my naked body. I screamed back at them, cursing as viciously as I could, struggling with the chains as tears froze on my face.
<Dream of endless pain!>
<Dream of eternal torture!>
<Dream of being ripped apart forever!>
I tried to scream, but the icy rain filled my throat. I closed my eyes and wished for it all to be over.
***
I don’t usually read the obituaries. They remind me too much of my own mortality. But I was skimming through the Chicago Tribunewhile eating my cereal and recognized a name: Mandie Shannon, 27.
A month before I’d been hired by Fort Financial, an investment firm, to tail a woman named Mandie Shannon, an account representative they suspected of giving secrets to a competitor in violation of their strict nondisclosure agreement. There were emails, and their IT software had picked up a download of confidential data. I spent a few days following her to lunch, then after work. Sometimes I rode the bus with her until she got off a block from her building.
Mandie Shannon was in her late twenties, with short blond hair. She usually wore a messenger bag over one slender shoulder, presumably holding her laptop and papers from work. A water bottle dangled from the side.
One night she got off the bus halfway home and headed to a bar. She took a table, so I ordered a beer at the bar, as close to her as I could get without looking like I was stalking her.
After ten minutes, a man sat across from her. Not a boyfriend—no kiss or hug, just a friendly nod. He ordered a beer as Shannon sipped her gin and tonic.
I got a few photos of them, pretending to talk on my phone. After a few minutes Shannon dug into her pocket and dropped a slim black lozenge-shaped item on the table—probably a thumb drive.
The pictures I got were blurry, but they were enough for Brian Alderson at Fort Financial to recognize the guy when we met the next day. “That’s Ralph Pacetta. He works for CX Holdings.” He shook his head. “Okay, thanks.”
I stood up. “What will happen to her?”
Alderson shrugged. “She signed the NDA. Good work. Thanks.” That was it.
So I went home, emailed my invoice, and a few days later cashed the check.
Now Mandie Shannon was dead.
Was it my fault?
Rachel staggered into the kitchen, stretching and yawning in a long T-shirt and shorts. I tried not to stare at her legs. She’s my girlfriend—we live together—with short red hair, hazelnut eyes, and vaguely psychic powers. Which must have told her something about my state of mind. “What’s going on?”
I was on my laptop, looking for more details. “Take a look.”
I’d found a three-paragraph story in the Chicago Tribune from a month ago: WOMAN DIES IN BALCONY DIVE.
An account manager a financial services firm apparently leaped from her 17thfloor condo balcony in what authorities are describing as a suicide. The woman, 32, had exhibited signs of mental illness in recent days, according to family members, including hallucinations and inappropriate behavior, but no issues were reported before then. Streets around the condo building were closed off for several hours during the investigation . . .
The article had a picture. Definitely her.
Rachel peered over my shoulder at the screen. “Right. I remember this one. All you did was take a few pictures.”
“And she got fired. So now she’s dead.”
“Maybe she just broke up with her boyfriend.”
“After getting fired.” I pushed my cereal bowl away. “I have to check into this.”
“You’re not responsible for everyone in the world.” Rachel refilled my coffee and poured her own mug.
“Just my little corner of it.” I sipped my coffee. “Thanks.”
In the office I share with Rachel I called Alderson. “Have you heard about Mandie Shannon?”
“Yeah.” He groaned. “It’s not our fault. Things happen. It’s a high-pressure job.”
“Was she fired?”
“I can’t talk about that. Hell, they didn’t even tell us anything, except for an email that she was no longer with the company. It’s all handled through the lawyers and HR.”
“Has anything like this happened before?”
“I can’t talk about that, okay? Look, I’ve got another case coming up for you, if you’re interested.”
As long as it didn’t lead to any more suicides. “Sure. Call me.”
I’ve killed vampires and other supernatural creatures, including a dragon, and been indirectly responsible for some human deaths. Even if they had it coming, they gave me enough nightmares that I was on medication for a while.
This was different.
Rachel came in as I was doing a search on other Fort Financial employees who’d died recently. “Feeling better?”
“Not really.” I stared at my screen. “Three other Fort Financial employees have committed suicide over the last year.”
“Oh, hell.” She peered over my shoulder.
“There might be more.” I didn’t have a complete list of Fort employees, and the news media doesn’t always indicate that a death is a suicide. So I‘d listed all the suicides I could find—and that was a depressing exercise—and then cross-checked them with LinkedIn profiles, looking for Fort Financial. That’s how I found my three. Two men, one woman, not counting Mandie Shannon.
So what the hell was going on? Demonic possession? Ghosts? Bad coffee?
Maybe I was overthinking this. Bad things happen. Suicides come in waves, although this wasn’t high school. And dealing with clients’ money had to be stressful.
I’m not psychic, like Rachel. But I’ve picked up a certain spidey-sense about the supernatural over the years.
So I sent a few emails. I wasn’t sure they’d even get through. But it seemed worth a shot.
By midafternoon I’d finished all the current work I had—background checks, mostly, and I didn’t have any cheating spouses to tail today. Rachel was trying to fix a website she’d designed that wasn’t working properly, and she was swearing viciously with every click of her mouse.
So I went in the living room and slouched on the sofa, playing Minecraft on my laptop.
At around 3 p.m. my phone buzzed. “Tom Jurgen speaking.”
“Mr. Jurgen? My name is Amy Birks. You emailed me about my husband’s suicide.”
Steve Birks. He’d killed himself three months ago. I saved my game and sat up. “Thanks for contacting me, Ms. Birks. Like I said in my email, I’m not looking for any money, and I’m, uh, terribly sorry for your loss. I’m just on my own here, but I’m looking into the, uh, scattering of suicides that seem to be happening over the last year at—”
“Fort Financial. Yeah, I saw the story in the paper today.” She paused, and I thought I heard her swallowing a drink. “Mandie Shannon? Steve was her—her mentor for a while. She was a nice kid. It sucks. What do you want?”
“Did your husband’s—death—have anything to do with Fort Financial?”
She groaned. “They said he stole $150,000 from his clients. Asshole. They said he was lucky he didn’t go to jail. Instead, the company made up the money to pay off his clients, and then they just—sent him home.”
“They fired him.”
“Suspended without pay.” A bitter laugh. “He spent the first few days getting drunk and watching porn on the computer. He wouldn’t come to bed. Then when he did come to bed, he had nightmares, and he couldn’t sleep. So he got up and drank more, and then he had hallucinations.”
Just like Mandie Shannon. “What kind of hallucinations?”
“He was being chased by angels. Women with wings and claws, shrieking at him. All night. He couldn’t sleep—I couldn’t sleep. All day, he was waving his arms around, like birds or hornets were buzzing around his head. I couldn’t think. He was screeching, and then he was just lying on the couch, moaning like he was too sick to move.”
She took a deep, hoarse breath. “It lasted two days. I almost called an ambulance—twice. I should have.” She sniffed, and then I heard her blow a nose. “I should have. The next morning he wasn’t in the house, and I went out to the garage, and he was . . . hanging from the garage door opener.”
I leaned forward, my guts churning as Amy Birks sobbed.
So two people had broken Fort Financial’s rules, suffered from hallucinations, and killed themselves. I remember Alderson’s words about Mandie Shannon—“She signed the NDA.”
What was in that NDA?
Amy Birks caught her breath. I swallowed and asked, “Again, I’m very sorry for your loss. And for bothering you. I don’t really have an angle here. I’ve done some work for Fort Financial, including something involving Mandie Shannon. Now I just—” I didn’t know what to say without sounding like I was just trying to justify myself. My own guilt. “There’s a nondisclosure agreement that apparently everyone signs, right?”
“Oh, yeah.” She snorted. “Steve stayed up one night looking it over and over again. For a loophole, maybe.”
Wait—I’d signed an NDA myself when I took the Mandie Shannon job. It was fairly standard when working for organizations. Mine was probably different than the one Birks had signed, since I was a contractor and not a fulltime employee.
I asked Amy Birks is she could send me a copy of her husband’s NDA. Then I went looking for my own.
The nondisclosure agreement read like the agreement you have to click to upgrade your software, as long as you sign over your firstborn child in a clause hidden in the seemingly legitimately legal mumbo-jumbo that no one ever looks at. This was only three pages, and basically prohibited me from discussing any of my work for Fort Financial with anyone outside the firm, with the exception of associates of my business, whom I had to name. I put down Rachel’s name because she helps me on my cases, although she didn’t play an active role on the Mandie Shannon surveillance. So talking to her probably didn’t put me in violation of the NDA. Probably.
The consequences of violating the NDA were possible refunding of fees and ending the relationship with regard to any future cases. But there was also a vaguely-worded arbitration clause:
Contractor agrees to arbitration (6) on issues relating to disclosure violations. Arbitration is binding and may not be rescinded, and contractor agrees to abide by its judgment without appeal.
Fine, except I couldn’t find footnote six anywhere. Just four footnotes on the last page, defining the contractee (Fort Financial), the contractor (me), acceptable associates (Rachel), and terms of payment. My actual fee was part of a separate agreement.
Rachel stood up and stretched. She wore a tank top and yoga pants, which distracted me for a moment. “You want a cup of coffee?”
“Do you speak lawyerese?” I held up the NDA.
“I took French in high school. But I get these in my work.” She hunched over. “I think it all basically means ‘You will be thrown into the pit of Hell to be consumed by dragons if you steal a co-worker’s lunch.’ Which will also happen if you don’t stop checking out my butt.”
Oops. I looked up. “What about the arbitration? And the missing footnote?”
“Arbitration is a bitch.” Rachel stood behind my chair. “I had to go through it twice. I got paid the one time because I could show I actually did the work, but the other time they ruled against me because the guy harassing me was the CEO’s nephew—”
“Wait, what?” My spine stiffened. “Someone tried to—”
She slugged my arm again. Hard. “Shut up. You don’t need to go full vigilante on me. It was a long time ago, and I got through it. End of story.”
“Sorry.” I was angry at the thought that someone had harassed Rachel, but I couldn’t do anything about it now.
“It’s sweet that you care.” She rubbed my arm. “Coffee?”
I grinned. “I’m going to check out your butt again.”
She stuck out her tongue, then swung her hips as she headed for the kitchen. “Da-da-da-da, da-da-da-da-dum . . .” She winked over her shoulder.
My phone buzzed again. “Tom? Brian Alderson? Are you up for another job?”
“Sure.” It was an automatic response. “Uh, I’d like to talk to you about this NDA.”
“We all sign them. There’s nothing to worry about. Look, I’ll send you the details and the contract. Are you in?”
This might be a way to figure out what was going on. “Yeah. Okay. Send it to me.”
Rachel set a fresh mug of coffee in front of my computer screen. “Good news?”
“Maybe. Another case.”
“Same place?”
I sipped. “Uh-huh.”
She groaned. “Just be careful.”
“Always.”
She didn’t slug my shoulder, but only because I had hot coffee in my hand.
The Gracious One, Part Two
It was a sting operation against Ralph Pacetta, the CX Holdings guy that Mandie Shannon had delivered the thumb drive to. The catch was that the Fort Financial employee wasn’t in on it. The IT team had flagged some emails from Pacetta with a cxholdings.com suffix, sent to an employee named Lisa McHugh. No reply, but after the Mandie Shannon affair, they’d instructed all employees to report any contacts from Pacetta or CX Holdings. McHugh didn’t.
So they put her on a new account—a current client looking to invest $700,000. The idea was that McHugh would share information that would help Pacetta approach the client with a better deal, and the maybe steal the client away altogether. With that, Fort could go to the FTC and charge CX with various kinds of financial crime.
My job was to follow her at lunchtime and going home, maybe a little later—just like Mandie Shannon.
The schedule was tricky. I had to get downtown by 11:30 a.m. and wait in front of the building where Fort Financial had its offices. I’d been sent Lisa McHugh’s ID photo—a short woman with long black eyelashes and a sharp, pointed chin.
The first day she never came out, so probably she ate at her desk or had her lunch ordered in.
The good thing was that I could charge for the time. The bad thing was that it was boring work—and I was worried about triggering another round of suicides.
I went back home for my own lunch. Rachel out, meeting with the owners of a Thai restaurant down the street for a website project. I hoped we’d get free pad Thai for life, or at least a discount on delivery. I worked on other cases—background checks and reference calls—until it was time to head back downtown to tag McHugh again.
I got there at 6 p.m., even though nobody left the office before 7 p.m. or later. Standing around a street corner in the Loop isn’t very exciting. At least I could sit at a bus stop across the street with a good look at the door, watching people rush in and out—mostly out—while I played with my phone.
McHugh emerged at 7:32, but she only headed toward the subway station and went right home. I waited outside her apartment building for 30 minutes until I figured she was probably in for the night, Then I went back home for a late dinner.
“Anything happening?” Rachel was watching one of the “Real Housewives” shows while I made a sandwich.
“Not tonight.” I slumped down next to her and opened a beer. “Which version is this? I can’t keep up.”
“I keep hoping they’ll make a Chicago version. It’s Long Island. I could totally rule these bitches.” She pointed a finger. “Look at her!”
“You’d be great.” I kissed her cheek.
“Shut up.” She kissed me back. “You have to do the same routine tomorrow?”
“Until I get something. Wait, the commercial’s over.”
“Oh, who cares?” Rachel tossed the remote on the floor. “Let’s get some sleep. In a while.”
The next afternoon I sipped coffee at the bus stop, waiting for Lisa McHugh. I dropped it into a garbage can when I saw her swing through the revolving doors, and headed after her, trying not to look too obvious.
McHugh stood in line at a fast-food place. At 2:15, it wasn’t as crowded as it could have been. I joined the procession, and ordered a salad and a Coke.
She stood next to the register with her tray, looking around for an empty table. A customer jostled her elbow with a glare. She slunk forward and set her tray down on the nearest table, then carefully unwrapped her sandwich, keeping an eye on the door.
A few customers later, I carried my own tray to a table close to the corner, popped a straw into my soda, and opened my salad container. I set my phone next to the tray, ready to snatch a photo or video.
After five minutes, McHugh’s head rose up as a man pushed through the revolving door. She looked down again as he headed for the line. He only bought a soda. Then he sat down across from McHugh.
Not Pacetta. He was in his sixties, with thin gray hair and thick eyeglasses. He wore a blazer that needed a good dry cleaning, and thin red suspenders underneath
And I knew him.
Joe Rossetti. Multiple award-winning reporter, two-time Pulitzer finalist. I still read his articles, even though business was never my beat.
I leaned down, picking at my salad., even though he probably wouldn’t recognize me. He’d been at the Trib for a decade or more when I got fired for reporting on supernatural stories that my editors didn’t want to hear about. He’d been a top business reporter, and I was only a lowly crime guy. We’d never been pals at the Trib—I’m not sure I’d ever said more than “Hi, Joe!” to him. But he was a legend.
So why was McHugh meeting with him? Not Pacetta?
I didn’t even try to take pictures. I made notes on my phone, including the exact time that McHugh shoved a black thumb drive across the table and he pocketed it. Then Rossetti stood up, hitched up his pants, and made his way to the door, dropping his soda cup into the garbage bin.
Lisa McHugh picked at her sandwich, sighing. Then she stood up, dumped the contents of her tray into the garbage bin next to the door, and left.
My stomach churned. I could either do my job for Fort Financial and collect my check, or risk my sanity by violating the NDA.
Instead I watched her head up the street and finished my salad. Then I dumped my own tray and walked back to the Fort Financial office.
I had to wait fifteen minutes while Alderson finished up a phone call. In his office he looked harried. “Anything?”
I sat down. “What happens if it turns out that Lisa McHugh is passing along information?”
He shrugged. “She’s subject to the NDA. Suspension, arbitration, termination. Are you still worried about Mandie Shannon?”
More than her. “What’s in footnote six of the NDA? I looked at my copy, and couldn’t find it.”
Alderson slid his chair back. “You’d have to take that up with Alan. Now, do you have anything to report, or not?”
I stood up. “McHugh hasn’t met with Pacetta. I’ll keep after her.” I crossed my fingers behind my back, desperately hoping that would save me from the NDA—probably not—and also Alderson wouldn’t ask the obvious question—had she met with anyone else?
Instead he just turned back to his computer. “Maybe she decided not to. Stay on it for another day or so. Keep in touch.”
I unclenched my fingers. “Sure thing.”
So that night I was stationed outside the office building at 6:30. I got lucky—Lisa McHugh left at 6:37. Just like before, she headed down to the subway, and I followed.
That crowded platform smelled like stale coffee and bad perfume. I got close and cleared my throat. “Ms. McHugh?”
She glanced without making eye contact. “Yes?”
I held out my business card. “Tom Jurgen. I’m a private detective, Fort Financial hired me to find out if you were sharing confidential information with Ralph Pacetta of CX Holdings.”
She blinked, then shook her head. “Go away.”
“I don’t want what happened to Mandie Shannon to happen to you.”
McHugh took a step back. “Mandie’s—she’s dead. What are you saying?”
I sighed. “Something happens to people who violate the NDA. They develop hallucinations, and they kill themselves. At least, two of them that I know of. I haven’t reported your meeting with Joe Rosetti today, and I won’t. But I wanted you to be careful.”
The train rumbled in the distance, shooting a shaft of light through the tunnel. McHugh looked toward it. Then she looked me over.
“Not here.” She motioned down the tunnel. “It’s too close. A couple of stops.”
I nodded. “Thank you.”
We got off at Fullerton and walked down the block to a small bar. McHugh walked fast and didn’t talk.
I sent a quick text to Rachel, letting her know where I was. She texted. “Do TRY not to do anything stupid,” with a heart emoji.
McHugh ordered a glass of wine, and I got a beer. Then she set her arms on the table. “What’s going on? Should I trust you? What do you want?”
“I just want to know what’s in that NDA that’s making people kill themselves. I signed one too, so I might be in trouble too.”
She gulped her wine. “Mandie and I—we weren’t friends, but she was okay. I was—upset when I heard . . .” More wine.
“I don’t know what’s going on.” I sipped me beer. “I might be completely off base. It’s just that sometimes on my cases I find things out that aren’t exactly, you know, normal.” Like vampires and demons, but I didn’t want to, uh, spook her.
“Okay.” She spread her hands, as if putting her cards on the table. “I got some emails from Pacetta. I ignored it. Then they put me on this new account, but it didn’t make sense—that amount of money is out of my range. Plus, I could never get the client on the phone, everything was with emails. I can’t do much unless I have actual contact. So I put it off.”
“You were instructed to report any contact with Pacetta, though, right?”
“Y-yeah.” She pounded the table. Lightly. “But that doesn’t violate the NDA! Did they tell you I deleted them unopened? I shouldn’t have to report every email I get!”
They’d left out the part about deleting Pacetta’s message. But I had another question. “So why were you meeting with a Chicago Tribune reporter today?”
She leaned back, crossing her arms. “I can’t tell you. That would violate the NDA.”
But meeting with a reporter wouldn’t? Still, I was more interested in something else. “What’s in footnote six?”
“What?” She cocked her head. “I don’t remember all the details. I just signed it.”
“Me too. But my copy has a footnote that isn’t in the document.”
She finished her wine. “I don’t know. I can dig mine out at home and check it out. Are we done here? My girlfriend’s going to wonder why I’m late.”
Apparently. “Thanks.” I gave her another card, in case she’d lost the first one. “Just—be careful.”
She smirked. “Sure.”
At home Rachel and I ate dinner—spaghetti with pesto sauce. “So how’d it go? No, wait—was she cute?” Even after all this time dating and then living together, it was still comforting to know that Rachel could get territorial about me.
“She mentioned a girlfriend. And she promised to send me her copy of the NDA.” I sipped another beer. “And yeah, kind of. Did I say she has a girlfriend?”
Rachel chuckled. “So does Georgeanne. And I’m not sure I trust her around you.”
Georgeanne was a friend who’d been involved in some of our cases. Sometimes I didn’t know if she was flirting with me or Rachel. “Good pesto.”
Rachel snorted. “Nice deflection.”
After washing the dishes, I went into the office to check my email. I had a few new cases coming up—but then I found Lisa McHugh’s message, with her scanned copy of the NDA attached.
I downloaded it onto my laptop and scrolled down to the last page. There it was:
(6) Arbitration will be handled at the discretion of senior management and senior legal counsel. Employees have the right to request a neutral arbitrator, but management is not required to agree. Unsuccessful arbitration may result in suspension and/or termination, and is subject to the judgment of the Gracious Ones.
The Gracious Ones? I sent McHugh an email back. Her response, five minutes later: “No one knows. I asked around. They told me to shut up about it.”
So I searched the internet. Honestly, I don’t know how private detectives figured out anything before the World Wide Web.
A few minutes later Rachel came in, yawning. “You almost done? We could watch ‘Infinity War’ again. Or a random episode of ‘Friends.’ As long as Ross isn’t whining all the time.”
I looked up. “Ever heard of the Eumenides?”
She grinned. “Just that old joke. A Greek playwright walks into a tailor shop with a pair of ripped pants, and the tailor says, ‘Euripides?’ And the playwright says, ‘Yes, Eumenides?’” She giggled. “It’s probably funnier in the original. I took a class on Greek drama in college.”
“Ha-ha.” I pointed at the Wikipedia page. “Did you ever read something called the Oresteia?”
Orestes is hunted down and tormented by the Furies, a trio of goddesses known to be the instruments of justice, who are also euphemistically referred to as the "Gracious Ones" (Eumenides). They relentlessly pursue Orestes for the killing of his mother.
“Oh, yeah, I remember this. Wait . . .” Rachel closed her eyes. “Aeschylus. Not as popular as Sophocles, thanks to Oedipus and Sigmund Freud. There is the whole Electra thing. But this, the Furies, and Orestes going mad—wait, what are you thinking?”
I showed her footnote six. “I think somehow they’re sending the Furies after anyone who’s violated the NDA.”
“Whoa.” She pointed her hazelnut eyes at me. “Have YOU violated the agreement?”
“I don’t think so.” I hadn’t shared proprietary information without anyone outside the company. But I pulled out my copy of the NDA to make sure.
Uh-oh. “’Sharing details of the work with unauthorized personnel constitutes violation of the NDA. The designation of unauthorized personnel is at the discretion of the CONTRACTEE.’” My stomach churned. “I doubt if Lisa McHugh would be considered ‘authorized personnel,’ considering she’s the target of the case.”
Rachel slugged my arm. “You idiot.”
“Ow.” But she was right. “Let’s watch TV. You pick.”
The Gracious Ones, Part Three
Rachel shook me. Hard. “Wake up! Wake up!”
I lurched upright, panting and sweating, and stared around the bedroom, my heart racing. Was that—no, nothing. Nothing there. Just Rachel and me. I lunged for a bottle of water and chugged it down.
She squeezed my shoulder. “It happened, didn’t it?”
“Y-yeah.”
I was buried up to my neck in burning sand. Surrounded by scorpions, flicking their stinging tails at my face. Angels—not angels, but creepy-looking women with wings—flew around me, shrieking, clutching at my eyes. It went on forever.
Then the sand changed to water. Freezing water. My arms were chained to rocks under the surface, and I was kicking frantically to keep my face above the waves. Fish—or something—were biting my body all over. All over. And the Furies were flapping overhead, howling my name, slapping at my face.
It went on like that. I was staked out in the desert with ants chewing on my skin. I was falling thousands of feet from the top of a mountain, watching the ground rush up to kill me, while the Furies circled me, laughing. I was lashed to the top of a skyscraper during a thunderstorm, getting struck by lightning every few seconds.
And all the time the Furies—the “gracious ones”—sailed around me, laughing, screaming, taunting me—
Until Rachel woke me up.
I huddled in her arms. I knew she wanted to hit me, yell at me, tell me how stupid I’d been. But she just held me quietly as I struggled to stop shaking.
Finally I caught my breath. She slugged my arm—gently. “Now what do we do?”
“I’m not going back to sleep, that’s for sure.” I swung my legs out of the bed. “Coffee.”
“Good. You’ll be wide awake when the hallucinations kick in.” She stood up. “Am I going to have to tie you up to keep you from killing yourself? I mean, I enjoy a little bondage from time to time, but . . .”
She walked with me to the kitchen, where I made coffee. “I don’t know. In the Wikipedia article it said Orestes got out of it by holding a trial. I don’t know how I could do that.”
“What about Lisa McHugh?”
Oh my god. I didn’t have my phone. But I couldn’t call her at—I looked at the clock—4:30 in the morning. Or should I? No, she had a girlfriend who’d probably wake her up and keep her from doing anything stupid. I could wait for the morning.
But what could I do until then?
Rachel refused to let me sit in the office alone, so I brought my laptop into bed while she went back to sleep. I spent an hour researching the Furies, Eumenides, Gracious Ones, or whatever they were called, looking for a loophole. That took me down several rabbit holes of Greek drama, various mythologies, and a few porn videos, none of which had much relevance to my current situation. What was Aeschylus thinking?
So I plugged my earphones in to listen to some music while Rachel slept.
Of course I fell asleep again.
Rachel rolled over, rubbed her eyes, and sat up. “Who are you talking to?”
I pointed. “Her.”
I’d been calling her Fury Two. She had long blond hair, white wings, fangs, and blood-red eyes. She was naked. I hoped Rachel wouldn’t get too upset about that. Her two sisters had been naked too—one with long black hair, and one completely bald. They’d left, presumably to torture someone else.
<You should kill yourself> Fury Two said.
I shook my head. “Because of a stupid NDA agreement? Whatever happened to punishing kids who murdered their mothers?”
<You broke the rules you agreed on. I can help you end your torture>
“How can I make you go away?”
Rachel slugged me. I was going to get a permanent bruise soon. “Are you hallucinating now?”
“No. She’s right here. Can’t you—" I stopped. Maybe it was better if Rachel couldn’t see her. “How do I make you go away?”
“I’m not going anywhere, asshole.” She shook my arm.
“Not you, her. How do I make you—”
<Your torment will last forever as long as you walk the Earth. You know how to stop it>
I stood up and pulled my T-shirt off. “I’m going to take a shower. You’re welcome to join me.”
“You bet I’m going to join you, jerk.” Rachel hopped up. “And not for fun, either. I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
I sighed. “I’m talking to one of the Furies. It’s going to get awfully crowded with the three of us in there.”
“I don’t care.”
We showered together, which would have been more interesting if Fury Two hadn’t kept up her harangue. I tried repeating what she said so Rachel could keep up with the conversation, but it got too repetitive and she told me to shut up.
The Fury kept talking during breakfast. I couldn’t exactly ignore her, but I gave up arguing. In the middle of her monolog and my cereal, my phone buzzed.
“Mr. Jurgen? This is Lisa McHugh’s roommate, Sandra. She’s going crazy here. What do I do?”
I plugged a finger into my ear. It didn’t help much. “Is she seeing things? Talking to people who aren’t there?”
“Yes! She had nightmares all night. Now she’d got her hands over her ears and she’s down on the floor. She told me what you said about that stupid piece of paper—what do I do?”
I wondered if it was Fury One or the bald-headed one. Fury Two floated just under my ceiling, shrieking like a dying cat.
I leaned my head down. “Call an ambulance. Tell them she’s a suicide risk. Let her talk to them. They’ll make sure she’s safe while I figure this out.”
“All right.” She sounded doubtful. I didn’t blame her.
<You can’t escape!> Fury Two howled. <We will follow you to the end of your days! We’ll be in your dreams! Everywhere!>
“Shut up!” I wanted to hurl my phone at her, but I was pretty sure that would only mean I’d have to buy a new phone.
Rachel grabbed my arm. “Lisa McHugh?”
“Yeah.” I gulped some coffee and checked the time—6:37. I wondered how early people showed up at Fort Financial. And how long I could last.
The Gracious Ones, Part Four
Rachel and I marched through the doors at Fort Financial at 9:02 a.m. The guy at the front desk tried to stop us, but Rachel can be pretty intimidating when she’s mad, and I was busy arguing with Fury Two, flying overhead. <You will never be free! The only silence is death! You have been judged!>
Brian Alderson looked through his doorway as we headed to the corner office. A nameplate hung on the wall: RANDALL FORTNER CEO. The door was ajar. Rachel pushed through.
Fortner was in his 40s, a little younger than me, but his hair was already steel gray. He stood up behind his curved desk and stared at us. Mostly Rachel, in her skinny jeans and black boots, a messenger bag over her shoulder. “Hello?”
I flung my card on his desk. “I work for your company, Mr. Fortner. I signed your NDA. And now the Furies are driving me crazy—your ‘Gracious Ones.’” I managed a breath while the Fury screeched in my ear. “Your people are killing themselves. Mandie Shannon, Steve Birks, the other two—and now Lisa McHugh. She’s in the hospital—”
The assistant at the front door ran in. “I’m sorry, Mr. Fort! Do you want me to call the police?”
Fortner held up a hand. “Hold on a moment, Ahmed. Leave us alone. I’ll call you if I need help.”
Ahmed glared at us, but he stepped out, leaving the door open.
Fortner dropped into his chair. “I don’t like arguments or disturbances in my workplace. Now why don’t you tell me what this is all about? Coffee?” He waved to a high-tech Krups machine near his desk.
“I don’t want any more goddamn coffee!” I planted a fist on his desk. “I want this thing gone!” I pointed at Fury Two, hovering in the corner, taunting me. I knew I looked and sounded crazy.
“Tom.” Rachel put a hand on my arm. “Inside voice usually works better.”
Yeah, I wasn’t helping my case by ranting at the top of my lungs. “Sorry.” I slumped in a chair. “Mr. Fortner . . .” I bit my lip. “Firing people is one thing. Driving them to suicide by sending the Furies, the Gracious Ones? Your NDA is killing people. Steve Birks, Mandie Shannon—and now they’re trying to kill Lisa McHugh. And me.” I glared up at the ceiling, where Fury Two waved her wings and stuck out a black, curly tongue as she laughed.
Fortner shook his head. “We offer a very robust benefits plan, which includes mental health coverage. As a contractor, I could see about extending it to you—”
“No!” I tried to keep my voice steady—and my eyes away from Fury Two as she kept mocking me. “Just tell me, where did the Gracious Ones come from? How on earth do you put a trio of Furies from Greek mythology on your payroll?”
He blinked. “I don’t—”
“Who drew up the NDA?” Rachel yanked open her messenger bag. “Take a look.” She’d printed Lisa McHugh’s copy, complete with the last page, and dropped the document on his desk. “This is your letterhead on top, right? So what’s this?” She turned to footnote six. “Right there.”
He skimmed the paragraph. “Alan drew it up. Alan Anagnos, our corporate counsel.”
“Then let’s talk to him.”
The Fury flapped her wings, laughing maniacally.
Fortner picked up his phone. “Alan? Could I see you in my office, please?” He sat back and folded his arms. “Coffee?—Wait, no, sorry. He’ll be just a minute.”
Two minutes later the door opened. Alan Anagnos had dark hair, a thin face, and a red necktie tight enough to choke someone. “Yes, Randy? What’s up?”
“This is Tom Jurgen and his associate, uh, Rachel?” Rachel nodded. “They’ve got some questions about the NDA.”
I restrained my impulse to shout at least as loud as Fury Two. “How the hell are you able to unleash Furies on people who violate your NDA?”
“We take compliance very seriously at Fort Financial, Mr. Jurgen.” He checked Rachel’s slim figure out as he spoke. “We deal with millions of dollars every day. Accountability is critical.”
“Your employees are killing themselves. Lisa McHugh is in the hospital. Steve Birks hung himself in his garage. And that thing up there—” I pointed at the Fury, hovering in the upper corner—“is shrieking in my ears right now. Are you accountable for that?”
Anagnos looked toward the ceiling. I expected him to deny it. Instead he nodded.
And Fury Two went silent.
It was still there, its wings gyrating, mouth moving, but for the first time in hours I could hear myself think. I slumped in the chair.
Rachel put a hand on my shoulder. “You okay?”
“Y-yeah.” I rubbed my eyes. “Thanks.” To her, not Anagnos.
“I’m going to recommend not hiring Mr. Jurgen for any future work.” The lawyer turned. “Are we done here?”
“Wait.” I held up a hand. “What about Lisa McHugh?”
“I’ll recall the Gracious Ones.” He shrugged. “Then I’ll have to review the case with Brian. Probably she’ll be terminated, depending on who she met with and what information she passed.”
“I haven’t reported that she met with anyone.”
He smiled. “The Gracious Ones don’t just talk. They listen.”
“Then what do you need me for?” I was growing angry again.
“To provide the right foundation.” Anagnos left.
I turned back to Fortner. “Are you letting him get away with that? Driving your employees to suicide?”
He leaned back in his chair, arms at his sides. “I don’t know what to think.”
“You ought to think about your employees.” Rachel stepped forward and held out a hand. “Thanks for your time.”
They shook hands. Rachel helped me stand up.
I looked up at the ceiling. Fury Two had vanished.
“He’s lying.” Rachel sat back in the cab.
“About what?”
“Everything.” She shrugged. “He did know about the Gracious Ones. He’s pretending to be innocent.”
“And letting Anagnos take the hit?”
She rolled her eyes. “That’s what lawyers do.”
So I wasn’t necessarily safe. The prospect of the Furies coming back made my shoulders shake.
Back home, I grabbed a Coke and called Lisa McHugh’s girlfriend, Sandra. “How’s she doing?”
“Better.” But her voice still quivered. “No more hallucinations. She’s sleeping now. They say they’ll let her go home later.”
“I need to talk to her.”
She hesitated. “I don’t think she wants to talk to you.”
“Yeah, but—” No, she was right. Anagnos could set the Furies back on her again at any time. “I understand. Hope she’s better.”
We hung up. I rubbed my forehead, trying to think. I needed more information.
I started tapping at my computer.
“What are you doing?” Rachel looked ready to slug me again.
“She met with a reporter. Not a competitor. That might mean she found something about Fort that wasn’t just proprietary information. Maybe . . .”
I’d only checked out the Fort Financial website. Maybe it was time to dig deeper.
Randall Fort. B.A. from the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign in English; M.A. from the University of Chicago in finance. Son of a schoolteacher (father) and a lawyer (mother). He’d worked at Goldman Sachs and JP MorganChase before starting his own investment company, RFort Investments, right before the recession that started in 2007. The firm went belly-up in 2009, but he started a new company, Fort Financial, as the recession eased.
The company reported handling some $90 million or so in investments, but details were confidential to clients.
Alan Anagnos. B.A. from Michigan State University, law degree from John Marshall Law School here in Chicago. Son of an English professor (mother) and an antiquities dealer (father). Specialized in employment and securities law at various small firms, opened up his own practice, then joined Fort Financial as senior counsel two years ago
None of that answered any questions, but it gave me more data to work with. I called Amy Birks. “I’m sorry to bother you again, Ms. Birks, but I have one question.”
She sighed. “Okay.”
“Is it possible that your husband didn’t actually embezzle that money from Fort? That he was framed for it?”
She took a long time answering. “I always thought it was stupid. We weren’t doing that bad, you know? And he never actually admitted it to me. Just said that’s what the company found. But the way he acted—I guess I just thought it had to be true.”
I thanked her and hung up.
I wanted a nap. But I was still afraid to go to sleep. And my mind was churning.
“What are you thinking?” Rachel leaned behind me.
“How much I love you.” I clicked my computer.
“Jerk.” But she kissed me instead of hitting me. That was an improvement. “Now what?”
“I maybe should have done this earlier.” I went to the Chicago Tribune website and found a phone number.
“Joe Rosetti, Chicago Trib.” His voice was hoarse, like the stereotype of a gruff, tough reporter.
“Hi, Joe. My name’s Tom Jurgen. I’m a private detective, but I used to be a crime reporter at the Trib—”
“Jurgen?” He chuckled. “Yeah. I’ve heard of you. What do you want?”
Nice to know people still remembered me there. “You met with a woman named Lisa McHugh from Fort Financial yesterday. She passed you some information.”
“Ye-eah. Maybe. What’s your question?”
I knew he wouldn’t tell me what she’d given him. So I asked the only question I could think of: “Is there a story there?”
He laughed again. “Maybe.”
“Coming soon?”
No laugh this time. “Maybe. I have to check a few things out.”
Of course. “Okay. Thanks for your time.”
“Hold on, Jurgen.” He lowered his voice. “I said I remember you. Is this another one of your crazy vampire stories?”
“The ones that got me fired?” I chuckled back at him. “I wouldn’t do that to you, Joe. If you want to talk to McHugh, she was in the hospital today—but you didn’t hear that from me. She might have something more to tell you. But you probably won’t believe it. Nobody ever does.”
He snorted. “You’d be surprised by what I’m willing to believe these days.”
“Thanks. Keep up the good work.”
“You too.”
“Anything?” Rachel turned in her chair across the room.
“There’s a story coming about Fort Financial. Let me try one more thing . . .”
Lee Pacetta of CX Holdings agreed to talk, but not on the phone. We met at a Lincoln Park bar at 3:30.
I recognized him from the pictures I’d taken—young, blond hair, in a blue blazer and jeans. I sat down at his table and gave him my card.
He looked me over. “Okay. Mandie Shannon.”
“Yeah.” I ordered a beer from the waitress.
Pacetta shrugged. “I feel—I don’t know. We only met that once. She seemed like a nice kid. Don’t get me wrong—I’m married, two kids. But when I read what happened to her—”
“You emailed her for confidential information.”
“No.” He shook his head. “She emailed me. I sent one email to her work address, by accident. After that we did everything privately.”
“So what did she give you? Thanks.” I nodded to the waiter and sipped my beer.
Pacetta hesitated. “I can’t give you details. But she had some evidence that Fort was embezzling money from their customers. I’m not sure what she expected me to do with it—call them and tell them to come over to us? But she was upset, and she didn’t want to go along with it, but she was scared, because she’d signed some kind of nondisclosure.”
I nodded. The beer was already making me sleepier than before. “What happened after that?”
“Nothing.” He shrugged. “I looked over the files. Yeah, Fort’s screwing their customers. We could go to the feds, but we’d have to explain how we got the info. That opens us up to a lawsuit or three. Right now we’re just sitting on them.”
And for him. But I didn’t say that. “Can you send the files to me?”
He blinked. “What for?”
I honestly didn’t know. I doubted I’d be able to understand what was in them anyway. “I’m curious. I won’t use them again Fortner, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Pacetta gulped his beer. “I guess. As long as you don’t tell anyone you got them from me.”
“So now what?” Rachel stood behind me, her arms crossed.
I shook my head. It was clear that the Furies weren’t about enforcing the NDA—they were protecting Fortner by driving anyone who found out about his business practices crazy.
That meant Anagnos could send them after me again—or Lisa McHugh—at any time.
I dreaded going to bed.
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