It was well after lunch and Treadwell usually had a coffee at this time of the afternoon, but at the moment he was in absolutely no mood for anything. Ashley had asked if he wanted something brought up from the cafeteria, but he’d declined with a shrug.
And sitting now in full view of anyone walking past his glass-walled office, he was trying to pretend that he was busy scanning the trade data on his machine, watching the financial news feeds, and answering emails. But the missing flash drive stabbed deep into his brain, and for now he could concentrate on nothing else.
If Abacus were to fail, or worse yet, be revealed, he would be done. Maybe even have to do some jail time, a thought that was impossible to conceive. How the mighty have fallen, the unbidden thought came into his head. Maybe from the Bible his dad read to him when he was a kid.
His phone chimed with an incoming text. It was from his wife, Bernice, once again reminding him about the Spring Gala tonight at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
It was something he definitely didn’t want to do, especially not tonight of all times. But then again, this was another chance, like this morning’s visit to the NYSE floor, to show that nothing was out of the ordinary with him or with the firm.
And he loved being noticed in public.
For Bernice, though, the season was the lifeblood of her existence. She loved the arts and arty people, and she loved the pomp and circumstance of the parties. Be seen or be forgotten; it was as simple as that for her.
Burnham Pike and Mr. and Mrs. Reid Treadwell were significant donors to most of the city’s cultural institutions, and just like Reid, she loved being noticed by the glitterati.
Ashley buzzed him. “Mr. Dammerman on one.”
Treadwell took the call. “What?”
“I’m coming up,” the COO said.
“A problem?”
“Looks that way,” Dammerman said and hung up.
Ashley was on again. “Mrs. Treadwell on two.”
Treadwell picked up. “I just now got your text, Bernice.”
“I don’t care if the market is melting down or the sun is swallowing Wall Street,” she said, a sharp edge to her voice. “You will show up at the Met tonight. Clear?”
“We’re in the middle of something I can’t leave.”
“At the Met. Tonight at eight.” She hung up.
His wife didn’t have to remind him that despite his substantial Wall Street compensation package, she had a lot more money than he had. Or that he owed his career to her father, Thatcher Pike, whose ancestors had founded BP.
Once he had tried to disagree with her whether to fire their live-in chef, a French-Algerian from Marseille. The man’s haute cuisine was too exotic for his tastes: Uzbek pickled vegetables, Laotian bamboo ginger quail, Ethiopian kitfo.
“Is it too much to want a simpler dish from time to time?” he’d asked.
Bernice had arched her left eyebrow. “You can take the boy out of Ohio, but you can’t take Ohio out of the boy,” she’d said.
They had an ironclad prenuptial agreement, and they kept the chef.
Dammerman showed up a couple minutes later, and he was obviously troubled.
“What’s the issue?” Treadwell asked.
“Some guy named Ben Whalen called Butch, claimed he’s a former Navy SEAL tough guy, and says he’s looking for Cassy Levin.”
“What’d Butch tell him?”
“Nothing.”
Hardy got off the elevator and walked across the hall into Treadwell’s office, closing the door behind him. “We may have an issue, Mr. Treadwell,” he said. “I got a call from someone claiming to be Levin’s live-in or something.”
“Clyde was just telling me about it,” Treadwell said. “What’d he say, exactly?”
“Said that two Russians driving a Caddy kidnapped her right off the street. And says he’s on the way from somewhere, and he’ll be landing at LaGuardia. Says he’s coming to see me.”
“Jesus, what the hell is going on?”
“I don’t know how he’s getting his information, but what the hell do you want me to do if he actually shows up here?”
“Have him arrested,” Treadwell said. “Just get him out of our hair.”
“On what charge?”
“I don’t give a fuck. Trespassing. The son of a bitch threatened you.”
“How far do you want me to take it?”
“I don’t care. Kill him if you have to.”
“I’m on it,” Hardy said, and he left.
“We just need to get past opening bell in the morning, and nothing will touch us,” Treadwell said. He opened a drawer, took out a .45-caliber pistol, and placed it on his desk. “Maybe he’ll show up here and threaten me. The only thing I could do is shoot the bastard in self-defense.”
“I didn’t know you were packing,” Dammerman said, a slight smile at the corners of his thick lips.
“It was my dad’s gun from ’Nam, and he gave it to me when I went to college at Brown. Providence had a reputation as Rhode Island’s toughest town.”
“Did you ever have to use it?”
Treadwell hesitated for a moment, thinking back to that other time. “Almost,” he said. “My father always said that if the VC ever overran their position, and he was about to be captured, he’d blow out his brains first.”