Boston—the next day
If there was one way to get Louis Massina interested in something, it was by telling him it was impossible. And while Agent Jenkins hadn’t used that word exactly, everything he had said about the ATM card thieves made it sound like catching them would be very difficult without some sort of lucky break.
That was a challenge.
Still, Massina never would have pursued the matter had the bank’s manager not called him a short while later to tell him that the bank had reversed its decision to reimburse him.
“Why?” Massina asked.
“You must have used your PIN,” said the manager apologetically. “The regional office told me that I have to follow the rules.”
“This is part of a skimmer operation,” said Massina. “I’ve already spoken to the FBI.”
“I’m sorry, but there’s no evidence that there was a skimmer. We checked the tapes, and there was no physical alteration at the machine.”
“Why would I have used an ATM to make a transfer,” said Massina, not even bothering to make it sound like a question. “And from that account?”
“I can’t explain that,” said the bank manager.
“If you look at the way that account is used—”
“I’ve been all through it with my bank’s security VP,” she said. “If they credit your account, they’ll have to credit everyone’s.”
“As they should.”
“You can take it up with regional,” said the manager. “My hands are tied.”
“You realize I have other accounts with you.”
“I told them that. Several times.”
He hung up. Chelsea Goodman was standing at his door; she’d heard his side of the conversation.
“The ATM theft?” she asked.
“They think I did it.” Massina suppressed a growl. The unfairness angered him. While he could easily afford the loss, the idea of being ripped off annoyed him beyond proportion. Part of Massina realized he should be spending his time on something more productive, but it was overwhelmed by a simmering rage and a desire for revenge, however irrational it might be. He was angry at the thieves, but nearly as mad at the bank; he had to struggle to maintain his outward calm.
“Why don’t you just hack into their system and see where the transfer went?” asked Chelsea.
“If I do that, I might just as well reverse the transaction,” said Massina.
“That’s a thought.”
“An illegal one.”
“It’s your money.”
“Tell me how Peter did,” he said, changing the subject.
Though Massina cut her off, Chelsea’s suggestion started a chain of thoughts that led him to call Jenkins later that day.
Much later. It was a few minutes past midnight.
“I have a proposition,” he told the FBI agent. “I’d like to help you and your case.”
“Really?”
“We’ll do anything short of hacking into the banking system. Though if you want us to—”
“No, no, uh, we, uh, I wouldn’t want . . .”
“How can we help?” insisted Massina.
“Uh . . .”
“You don’t have the resources to watch every ATM, is that your problem?” asked Massina.
Jenkins didn’t answer. Massina finally realized he had woken him up.
Not that it mattered.
“The first thing we have to do is analyze the location of the ATMs that have been hit already,” said Massina. “I can supply surveillance equipment to watch a hundred units at a time. Analyze the theft patterns and we’ll stake out the likely ones. We can use a remote system. We’ll train the computer coordinating it to alert you to suspicious activity. We can then track the suspect, and you take it from there.”
“Track them how?”
“We have UAVs,” said Massina. “Small ones.”
“Drones?” asked Jenkins.
“Depending on the geographical spread, you should only need six or seven.”
“Well, I, um,” Jenkins stuttered. “B-But . . .”
“What?”
“Well, for five thousand dollars—you’d be going through a lot of trouble.”
“You have dozens of cases like this?”
“Over a hundred.”
“Do you want to solve this or not?”
“I’ll have to talk to my boss.”
“Two of my people will be at your office at nine a.m. tomorrow. I’ll call them now.”
“Um, Mr. Massina, it’s after midnight.”
“They’ll be at work. It’s not a problem. What’s the address?”
“Who were you talking to?” asked Jenkins’s wife as he slipped his cell phone back onto the nightstand.
“Mr. Massina.”
“Louis Massina? Who helped Deidre? Is he in trouble?”
“No, not exactly.”
“Why is he calling this late?”
Jenkins pulled the covers up to his neck, then rolled toward his wife. “He wants to help an investigation I’m involved in.”
“Couldn’t it have waited?”
“Just be thankful I don’t work for him,” he said, closing his eyes.