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.”
