It was just coming up on 6:00 A.M., and Treadwell was sitting at his desk trying to figure a way out of the mess that was growing around him when Ashley arrived. She was a full two hours early, and when she came to his open door she looked concerned.
He looked up. “You’re early,” he said.
“I didn’t get much sleep last night after all the hubbub around here yesterday,” she said. “You okay, Reid?”
“A lot on my mind and a lot to do before opening bell.”
“The market was down twenty percent near the close yesterday; what do you think will happen today?”
“Asia is worse. But that’s no surprise with the Chinese commercial banks still in trouble. Plus the failure of our T-bond sale. Something that’s never happened before. And given the mountain of debt that every country, including ours, is facing, it’s a wonder how we’ll ever dig ourselves out.”
Ashley offered him a tentative smile. “If anyone can figure a way out of the mess, it’s you,” she said.
He returned her smile. There was no way he could tell her the real problems he was facing. Cassy Levin on the loose, Julia O’Connell talking to Betty, Spencer Nast fired from his White House post, and the cops wanting to question him about Heather’s death.
The only good things were the flash drive he had in his desk, and Whalen back in custody. Plus Abacus was set to go off when trading started in less than three and a half hours.
That is if nothing went wrong with the program, or if the Russians succeeded in taking out the NYSE’s backup computer in Jersey, which would shift the blame for the crashed market on to terrorism.
He glanced out the window. The sun was just coming up, and it promised to be a beautiful day. All he had to do was somehow get through it.
Ashley had turned to go to her desk, but she came back. “By the way, I think there must have been a bad accident or something right in front of our building.”
“What do you mean?” Treadwell asked, something clutching at his heart.
“There are a lot of cop cars with their lights flashing blocking off the street.”
Treadwell got up and went to the window. It was still dark fifty-four stories down, and the flashing lights reflected off the buildings across Nassau Street. There were a lot of cop cars, maybe eight or ten. But no ambulances. It wasn’t an accident.
Treadwell turned around as Dammerman came to his office door, shoving Ashley aside. He didn’t look happy. “Do you see what the hell is going on downstairs?”
“Yes, but where is Butch?” Treadwell demanded.
“I can’t raise him. But Duke Lawson was downstairs when he says the cops appeared from all over the place, pulling our security people away from every entry to the building, including the loading dock and the side door down to DCSS.”
“They can’t do that to us,” Treadwell said. He was on the verge of panic.
“I don’t know what kind of show Butch is running, but it sure the hell looks to me like a royal clusterfuck!” Dammerman said, then noticed Ashley standing next to him. “Get the fuck out of here.”
“What’s happening?” Ashley said, confused.
Dammerman shoved her out the door and closed it when she was clear.
“I’ll call Hank Serling and get him over here right now,” Treadwell said.
“Not a chance in hell I’m going down for this. It’s on you, you slippery son of a bitch. Every last bit of it.”
“We’ll see how that turns out, you fat fuck,” Treadwell said, finally getting his back up. “This is Burnham Pike, one of the largest investment banks in the world, and I’m the chief executive officer.”
“I made you, starting when you had to cheat on that college exam. And I’ve been doing your dirty laundry ever since. But now you’re Mr. High and Mighty, strutting his stuff with the bigwigs. High society hot shit. The toast of the town. The great Casanova who wouldn’t be shit without me and without his wife’s money and position.”
“Let me remind you of something, Clyde. Abacus was your idea in the first place. You and Butch hired the Russians, and Julia designed the worm with help from her pals in Amsterdam. And you guys told me nothing about it.”
Ashley, her eyes wide, opened the door.
“Not now, Ash,” Treadwell said.
“The front desk just called and said some police officers and FBI agents are on their way up. Betty Ladd and Ms. O’Connell are with them.”
Dammerman turned without a word, bolted out of the office, and disappeared down the stairs as the elevator opened.
Several men, some of them in police uniforms, others in plain business suits, a couple of whom Treadwell recognized, emerged and headed down the corridor. Trailing them were Betty Ladd in a stylish suit and trademark pearl earrings, and Julia O’Connell in a wrinkled white blouse and jeans.
“I’ll take care of this, Ash,” Treadwell said. “Just sit at your desk.”
She was frightened, but she did as she was told.
The lead plainclothes, his badge held up, came into Treadwell’s outer office. “Captain Harold Cohen,” he said.
“I know who you are, Harry. In fact, BP and I personally give generously to the First Precinct’s charity drives every year.”
The FBI agent held up his credentials. “I’m Richard Mendoza, assistant agent in charge of the New York Division.”
Treadwell forced a smile, even though he was bleeding inside. “I know you too, Richie. We’ve played golf a couple of times at Burning Tree.”
Betty Ladd stepped forward. “I don’t need an introduction either, Reid,” she said. “I’m here in my capacity as a regulator of Burnham Pike. And because I want to see you led away in handcuffs, I’ve called the news media, who are waiting downstairs on the street.”
“Mr. Treadwell, things will go much better for you if you volunteer to stop Abacus before the opening bell,” Mendoza said. “I’ve been given reliable evidence that it could cause irreparable damage to the stock market if it’s implemented.”
“Never heard of it, Richie.”
“You’re lying,” Julia shouted.
“Why on earth would I want to sabotage the market?” Treadwell said. His heart was hammering. “Burnham Pike’s bread and butter is the stock market. So what you’re saying makes no sense.”
Betty broke in. “For one thing you shorted the S&P in a ten-million-dollar off-market trade in Hong Kong. You knew what was coming. Front-running. I’ve heard that you were using Rupert Leland for your sleazy trades. We had the Hong Kong authorities lean on him, and he gave you up like yesterday’s garbage.”
“Sounds like a frame-up to me,” Treadwell said. Sweat was forming on his upper lip, something that never happened.
“The first priority is stopping Abacus,” the FBI agent said.
“What exactly am I being charged with here?” Treadwell asked, working hard to maintain his composure.
“How about the murder of Heather Rockingham?” Betty said. “You shot her in a stairwell outside the gala last night.”
Treadwell held out his hands. “You may have me tested for powder residue, if you’d like. But you’ll find none.”
“They found a pair of white gloves in the trash,” Betty said. “I was there. You showed up wearing them, but left without.”
Mendoza tried to interrupt her, but Cohen held him off. “Let her continue.”
“By all means,” Treadwell said.
“I gave Heather a recorder, which was keyed to my cell phone and hidden in her clutch,” Betty said. “You thought that you were clever removing the battery in her phone.” She pulled her own phone out and hit play.
They all heard Treadwell trying to bribe Heather by cutting her in on the deal. Then they talked about Abacus. No trading anywhere for at least a week, maybe longer, he said. Systems would be fried. The financial world would be on its knees. But Burnham Pike would be standing tall, helping society recover.
And trust me, my dear, it’ll be a gold mine.
There were sounds of a scuffle, and then a single pistol shot.
Treadwell was staggered. It was over. Everything he’d ever worked for was done. His life, his position, all because of some little greedy bitch. It wasn’t fair.
“Julia has agreed to testify that she was a part of the Abacus scheme, but so were you. Right in the middle of it. Plus you gave the order to have Cassy Levin kidnapped and killed.”
Treadwell stepped back.
“You’re nothing but scum, Reid,” Betty said.
Treadwell swiveled on his heel, and before anyone could stop him, got into his office and closed and locked the heavy, shatterproof-glass door.
Mendoza and Cohen were at the door, pounding.
Treadwell opened his desk drawer, took out the flash drive, and threw it, sending the thing bouncing off the glass.
Nothing was fair.
He pulled out his father’s .45. Maybe it would have been better if he’d used it that day in college.
Cohen had pulled out his pistol and was aiming it at the door.
Treadwell locked eyes with Betty, brought the muzzle to his temple, and pulled the trigger.