T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 01 - Southern Fatality by T. Lynn Ocean Page B
Authors: T. Lynn Ocean
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line.”
“Overnight, the bad guys will skim a big chunk of change from new SIPAs coming into Chesterfield Financial,” Soup said. “My guess is they’ll skip town before the individual statements arrive by mail, so nobody will even realize that their balance is off, unless the SIPAs are Internet-enabled.”
“They’re not,” I told him. I’d done some research and quizzed Chesterfield on the entire process. “Not at first anyway. SIPA applications are processed as they come in, but the money isn’t transferred from Uncle Sam to the individual brokerage accounts until the first day of each quarter. Then, all verifications of transactions are by mail. The government bean counters decided that SIPAs can’t be accessed via the Internet until next year. That’s to ensure the program is operating smoothly before they add a new element.”
“Deposits are only made once a quarter?”
“To cut administrative costs,” I said. “Same with the paper statements.” That meant three months’ worth of new account applications, multiplied by a thousand dollars each, stolen in one night.
“This is bad freakin’ news, isn’t it?”
“Worse,” I said. “I’m on my way over to your place.”
I fed Cracker a breakfast of dry food and threw in a remnant of leftover pizza crust from Spud’s plate. He gobbled the crust first, as though it were a morsel of prime rib.
I wanted Ox to hear everything firsthand from Soup because I could use the insight, so I called and told him I’d be by to pick him up in ten minutes. Being his good-natured self, he didn’t askwhy and cheerfully agreed to go. After pouring my coffee into a travel mug, I pointed the Benz toward Ox’s house, leaving my uneaten cereal behind.
Ox
and I sat in Soup’s efficiency apartment, on opposite ends of a white leather sofa. The place was sparsely furnished, except for an overwhelmingly large flat-screen plasma television, an entertainment center loaded with stereo components that were probably worth more than Soup’s vehicle, and loads of computer equipment and electronics that were alien to me.
Like a veteran pilot in a familiar cockpit, Soup sat at a U-shaped table, simultaneously operating the controls of what appeared to be three separate computers. He did so in the well-orchestrated and effortless manner of a concert pianist. The lettered keyboards were his grand piano and the tiny apartment was his Carnegie Hall. Grinning at each other, Ox and I had the same thought: we were the audience witnessing a master at work.
“Only accounts processed through the new Wilmington branch office will be affected,” Soup told us, then dropped a bombshell. “Unfortunately, Chesterfield has designated Wilmington to handle all their SIPAs for the eastern half of the country. Say for instance, a SIPA customer walks into a branch office in Pittsburgh, their account is still earmarked for Wilmington processing.”
“Even though the Wilmington branch is brand new?”
Soup nodded.
It was astonishing to contemplate a thief stealing so much money from the helm of a computer. Robbing a bank at gunpoint was physical and real. Burglarizing a jewelry store was tangible. Operating a telemarketing scam was comprehensible. But a computer virus that stole money in cyberspace opened the door to limitless possibilities.
“So you’ve just been waltzing around in Chesterfield Financial’s system without so much as a hall pass?” Ox asked.
“Yeah,” Soup answered, slurping what appeared to be tomato-with-rice soup from a coffee cup. “You need to tell your Samuel chap that his company has the security of a corner hot dog stand,” he said, not taking his eyes from a printed readout that was being sporadically spitted out from the bowels of a computer table. “And that he’s got a major problem with the Chesterfield Innovative Technology no-load fund. The manager for that fund is funneling everything through Chicago. Problem is, there’s a five-day delay
“Overnight, the bad guys will skim a big chunk of change from new SIPAs coming into Chesterfield Financial,” Soup said. “My guess is they’ll skip town before the individual statements arrive by mail, so nobody will even realize that their balance is off, unless the SIPAs are Internet-enabled.”
“They’re not,” I told him. I’d done some research and quizzed Chesterfield on the entire process. “Not at first anyway. SIPA applications are processed as they come in, but the money isn’t transferred from Uncle Sam to the individual brokerage accounts until the first day of each quarter. Then, all verifications of transactions are by mail. The government bean counters decided that SIPAs can’t be accessed via the Internet until next year. That’s to ensure the program is operating smoothly before they add a new element.”
“Deposits are only made once a quarter?”
“To cut administrative costs,” I said. “Same with the paper statements.” That meant three months’ worth of new account applications, multiplied by a thousand dollars each, stolen in one night.
“This is bad freakin’ news, isn’t it?”
“Worse,” I said. “I’m on my way over to your place.”
I fed Cracker a breakfast of dry food and threw in a remnant of leftover pizza crust from Spud’s plate. He gobbled the crust first, as though it were a morsel of prime rib.
I wanted Ox to hear everything firsthand from Soup because I could use the insight, so I called and told him I’d be by to pick him up in ten minutes. Being his good-natured self, he didn’t askwhy and cheerfully agreed to go. After pouring my coffee into a travel mug, I pointed the Benz toward Ox’s house, leaving my uneaten cereal behind.
Ox
and I sat in Soup’s efficiency apartment, on opposite ends of a white leather sofa. The place was sparsely furnished, except for an overwhelmingly large flat-screen plasma television, an entertainment center loaded with stereo components that were probably worth more than Soup’s vehicle, and loads of computer equipment and electronics that were alien to me.
Like a veteran pilot in a familiar cockpit, Soup sat at a U-shaped table, simultaneously operating the controls of what appeared to be three separate computers. He did so in the well-orchestrated and effortless manner of a concert pianist. The lettered keyboards were his grand piano and the tiny apartment was his Carnegie Hall. Grinning at each other, Ox and I had the same thought: we were the audience witnessing a master at work.
“Only accounts processed through the new Wilmington branch office will be affected,” Soup told us, then dropped a bombshell. “Unfortunately, Chesterfield has designated Wilmington to handle all their SIPAs for the eastern half of the country. Say for instance, a SIPA customer walks into a branch office in Pittsburgh, their account is still earmarked for Wilmington processing.”
“Even though the Wilmington branch is brand new?”
Soup nodded.
It was astonishing to contemplate a thief stealing so much money from the helm of a computer. Robbing a bank at gunpoint was physical and real. Burglarizing a jewelry store was tangible. Operating a telemarketing scam was comprehensible. But a computer virus that stole money in cyberspace opened the door to limitless possibilities.
“So you’ve just been waltzing around in Chesterfield Financial’s system without so much as a hall pass?” Ox asked.
“Yeah,” Soup answered, slurping what appeared to be tomato-with-rice soup from a coffee cup. “You need to tell your Samuel chap that his company has the security of a corner hot dog stand,” he said, not taking his eyes from a printed readout that was being sporadically spitted out from the bowels of a computer table. “And that he’s got a major problem with the Chesterfield Innovative Technology no-load fund. The manager for that fund is funneling everything through Chicago. Problem is, there’s a five-day delay
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