The social security number generated by the machine was for Billy Robinson. A quick internet search revealed that he was thirty years old and had no prior criminal record.
Harold Finch removed his glasses and rubbed his weary eyes. It seemed as if he never slept anymore. When he was able to succumb to the exhaustion, he always awoke with an unshakeable sense of guilt. His machine never slept; the numbers kept coming. It pained him to think that someone could have died during those hours that he had been dead to the world.
He put on his glasses and checked the time. It was two in the morning. He pulled the cell phone from his pocket. He had a moment's pause before he dialing. Reese was probably asleep. He had a mental shrug and dialed anyway. It didn't matter what time the numbers appeared. What did matter was the person being represented by those nine digits. The phone only rang twice before he heard Reese pick up.
"Hello, Finch," came the low voice. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"
Harold smiled. He admired the man's sense of humor. Reese knew that the only reason Finch ever called was to give him a job.
"We have another number," Finch said. "It just came in."
A few moments pause on Reese's end.
"I'll be right there."
Harold pushed away from the computer and stood to stretch. He walked over to the coffee pot and poured himself a cup. Stifling a yawn, he took a tiny sip to gauge the temperature. It was just right. He quickly downed the coffee, needing the caffeine to help him keep his eyes open and his brain functioning.
He again returned to the computer. He needed as much information as possible so that Reese would be better equipped to track down their newest person of interest. Within three minutes, he knew Billy Robinson's address, place of employment, and the make and model of his vehicle.
Harold was just printing out a recent photograph taken by an atm machine when Reese silently appeared in front of him.
"I'm sure glad you're on my side, Mr. Reese," Harold remarked, the slightest hint of amusement in his voice.
"You should be." Reese gave a half smile. "I could have very easily killed you. You wouldn't have had time to move."
Harold stood and handed Reese the photograph of Robinson. Reese stood silently as he studied the picture.
"It goes unsaid that time is of the utmost importance," Harold said.
Reese looked up, breaking out into a grin. "Yet you said it anyway." He folded the picture and placed it inside the pocket of his suit. He was then turning away and walking for the door, feeling the reassuring weight of his pistol against his ribs.
"I'll be keeping in touch, Mr. Reese."
"I wouldn't have it any other way," Reese murmured.