Chapter Six – The China Play

 The green dot blinked alive on Janet’s burner phone just after midnight. She had half expected silence, but the messages poured in rapidly, as though Unknown had been waiting for her.

Unknown: You know what happens once you start talking? You remember just how good you really were.

Janet Brown: Go on.

Unknown: By 2012, I was sharper. Two years in, I wanted something bigger than the grandparent routine. That one was too easy. I perfected the credit-card scam.

Janet lit a cigarette and kept her tone flat.

Janet Brown: Walk me through it.

Unknown: Simple. I’d call a senior, sound official, sound urgent. “There’s been an illegal charge on your credit card, ma’am. Someone in China. We’re working with the RCMP to catch them, but we need your cooperation.” That word — RCMP — was magic. It turned fear into obedience.

Janet Brown: And they believed you?

Unknown: More than believed. They handed me the keys. Remote access to their computer, their bank account. They thought they were helping. One woman was perfect. I told her she had to wire money to China so the RCMP could trace the transfer. Made it sound like a sting. She nodded along like I was a sergeant on the force.

Unknown: She went to four Money Marts in her city, four separate wire transfers. Nine thousand dollars. Every penny moved on my say-so.

Janet imagined the woman shuffling into strip-mall Money Marts, clutching her purse, convinced she was helping catch a criminal. She typed carefully, burying the disgust.

Janet Brown: How did you choose her?

Unknown: You don’t just spin a wheel, Brown. You look for the soft ones.

Janet Brown: Soft how?

Unknown: Mailing lists, first of all. Seniors sign up for sweepstakes, charities, newsletters. Companies sell those lists; once they hit the black market, they’re gold — names, addresses, phone numbers, sometimes age brackets. Cross-reference that with data leaks and sometimes you even get the last four digits of a card. That’s all you need to sound legit.

Unknown: Then you filter. I checked property records—she owned her home outright. No husband listed. Lived alone. Easy to confirm with a little digging.

Unknown: And here’s the real trick — I only called numbers still on long-distance plans. Old landlines. They still answered the phone and trusted a voice.

Janet tapped ash into the tray. Mailing lists. Property records. Long-distance plans. Unknown’s methods reached beyond the usual street-level grifts.

Janet Brown: So she wasn’t random.

Unknown: Never random. Lonely, isolated, still sharp enough to follow orders, proud to be “helping the police.” That’s why she walked to four Money Marts without blinking.

Janet Brown: And when she wired the money to China… how did it come back to you?

Unknown: Maybe I was living in China.

Janet Brown: You told me you worked in a Canadian bank before this. Unless you commuted by plane, you weren’t in China.

A pause. Then:

Unknown: You catch on quick. Fine. I was in Canada. Always in Canada.

Janet Brown: So how?

Unknown: Through cutouts. Middlemen. Students here on visas, sometimes. People who owed favours. They received the funds “on behalf” of contacts overseas, then broke it down — smaller transfers, prepaid cards, even crypto once that started getting popular. By the time it circled back to me, the trail was gone.

Unknown: One of them even called me “sir” when he dropped the envelope. Polite kid. Didn’t have a clue what he was part of.

Janet’s pulse quickened. An envelope. For the first time, the woman had admitted a physical handoff somewhere along the line.

Janet Brown: An envelope. So at least once, someone handed you cash in person.

Unknown: Maybe. Maybe not. Details blur after a decade.

Janet leaned back, cigarette burning between her fingers. Her father’s voice echoed: Every liar slips eventually. Sit still long enough for the cracks to show.

Tonight, she had her first crack.

Unknown: I told one woman she had to wire money to China so the RCMP could “trace the transfer.” Made it sound like a sting operation. She nodded along like I was a sergeant on the force.

Janet Brown: How much?

Unknown: Nine thousand dollars. Four Money Marts in her city. Four separate wire transfers. She followed every instruction. Never questioned once.

Unknown: When the last wire cleared, I leaned back and laughed. It was perfect — not just the money, but the control. She thought she was on the side of the law, when really she was working for me.

Janet Brown: And did she ever find out?

Unknown: Of course. They always do. The bank calls, the family calls. But by then the money’s long gone. And she? She probably never admitted it to anyone else. The shame’s worse than the loss. That’s the beauty of it.

Janet ground her cigarette into the ashtray until the filter bent. Trust first. Judgment later.

Janet Brown: Nine thousand, four transfers. But how did you decide who to call?

Unknown: Mailing lists. Data leaks. Property records. Long-distance landlines. You pick who’s got something to lose and someone who still trusts a voice on the phone.

Unknown: I picked a woman in her seventies with a long-distance plan. Lived alone. Perfect for a credit-card sting. She wanted to be useful — that’s why she walked to four different Money Marts like a soldier on orders.

Janet smiled faintly despite herself. Her father had been right: every liar slipped eventually.