Hardy stalked into Dammerman’s office, and he didn’t look happy. “They said downstairs that both of you were here,” he said. “What’s going on?”
“I need you to add two people to the Levin list,” Treadwell said.
“People you want dead.”
“Levin’s a done deal, but we need Nast and O’Connell gone. I don’t want them testifying against us.”
“That’s not going to be so easy.”
“What are you talking about?” Treadwell demanded. “I want it done.”
“That won’t look good, Mr. Treadwell,” Hardy said. “One BP executive plus the president’s economic adviser—himself a former BP exec—suddenly go down. The cops would come snooping around, and so would the FBI.”
“Nast lost his job today because he’s an idiot, and no one would care if he got run over by a bus. And we’re staring down the barrel of a possible catastrophe to our entire computer system that Julia was supposed to prevent. It could cost this firm million, perhaps even billions. Not to mention our good name.”
Hardy shook his head. “Why bother to off them? Nast has been fired, so go ahead and fire O’Connell. Two unemployed bozos.”
“Maybe we’ll just fire your ass, and hire someone who knows how to follow orders,” Dammerman shouted.
Hardy was angry, but he held his silence.
“Leave it like this, Butch,” Treadwell said. “They can make allegations about us that we don’t want people with badges to hear.”
“Well, I came up here to tell you something else that you’re not going to like,” Hardy said. “My friends downtown said there was a big shootout in Brighton Beach a few hours ago. A lot of Russians with criminal associations are dead.”
“The guys you hired,” Treadwell asked.
Hardy nodded. “The ones who took Levin. A witness supposedly told the badges investigating that they saw a man and woman leaving the house and driving off.” He glanced at Dammerman. “Could be Levin and her boyfriend—the ex-SEAL.”
Treadwell sat down heavily in the chair in front of Dammerman’s desk. It felt as if the bottom had just dropped out.
“If you’re worried about them coming back here, don’t,” Hardy said. “My security is tight.”
“You damn well better have it right this time,” Dammerman shouted. “You chose the Russians. Sounds like it was Whalen, Levin’s SEAL boyfriend, who slaughtered your pals. One guy offed them all? Christ, how incompetent can you get?”
Hardy made a fist. “Tell you what, fat boy, one more out of you and I’ll cave in your fucking face!”
Dammerman jumped up. “You’re fired, asshole! I want you out of here now!”
Treadwell had been staring out the window at the Empire State Building all lit up, but he pulled himself out of his funk. “I want both of you to calm down. Butch is going nowhere, because we need him. Some big stuff is coming down the road this morning, and we need to circle the wagons.”
Dammerman sat down.
“There’s more,” Hardy said.
“Go ahead,” Treadwell said.
“My friends uptown told me that a woman named Heather Rockingham was found shot to death in a stairwell at the Metropolitan Museum earlier this morning. Some preliminary testimony from witnesses had you and her having an argument before she disappeared, and you left.”
“Who knows how many people she’s slept with,” Treadwell said. “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if some jealous wife murdered her.”
“Possibly. But they want to interview you ASAP.”
“Maybe later, after the opening bell,” Treadwell said, rising. “I’m going to my office now.”
“Duke told me to ask you if you disposed of the gloves.”
Treadwell missed a step, but continued out the door and down the hall.