Chapter Ten – The Telus Deal

 The Unknown liked this scam because it was clean. Not messy with tears or frantic emotions like the grandparent con, not tangled in gift card codes that had to be fenced in bulk. This one was smooth, almost elegant.

Choosing the victim was easy. She started with customer lists — scraped numbers from marketing leaks and stolen data sets floating around dark forums. Then she cross-checked addresses with carrier records, most of them Telus customers. Older accounts were best. Long-term customers trusted the brand, answered calls from “representatives,” and rarely questioned new promotions.

Tonight, the number belonged to a man in his late sixties, still paying a post-paid plan on an aging cell. Unknown had already flagged him as ideal: loyal customer, not tech-savvy, unlikely to argue.

She dialed.

“Good evening, this is Telus calling. You’ve been selected for a special customer loyalty program. Congratulations.” Her voice was bright, professional, brisk — the kind of voice that belonged on a call center floor.

The man hesitated, then warmed. “Oh… thank you. What sort of program?”

“A brand-new smartphone,” Unknown explained smoothly. “Free upgrade and a reduced monthly rate. All we need is to confirm your security code and password on the account so we can process the order. The phone will be shipped directly to your home address.”

There was a pause, the faint sound of papers shuffling. Then, obediently, the man recited his code and password. A moment later he confirmed his address.

“Perfect,” Unknown said, typing on her laptop. In reality, she was already inside the man’s Telus account, using those credentials to order the newest model available — an $1,100 phone charged to the victim’s own account.

She ended the call with a smile. “Expect delivery in five to seven business days. And thank you for choosing Telus.”

The second phase was predictable. A week later, when the phone failed to arrive, the victim dialed the callback number Unknown had provided — a prepaid line routed back to her.

“Telus support, how can I help you?”

The man explained his frustration. Unknown sighed sympathetically, sounding like a weary but helpful agent. “Ah, I see the problem. Shipping error on our end. What happens sometimes is that the phone gets misrouted. But don’t worry. We’ll fix this.”

The “fix” was a second order — this time initiated by the victim himself, still believing he was speaking with Telus. The man dutifully confirmed the account details again. Another phone. Another profit.

The final step sealed the trick.

“Sir, one more thing,” Unknown said, gentle but insistent. “To speed up delivery, you’ll need to return the misplaced unit when it does arrive. Otherwise your account could be flagged for fraud.”

She gave the man an alternate address — a rented drop box registered under a fake name. When the parcel finally landed at the victim’s home, the man, flustered and eager to resolve the issue, re-mailed it straight into Unknown’s hands.

The business model worked because it was volume-based. Each phone was resold almost immediately — sometimes to local buyers, sometimes through brokers who shipped overseas. Profit margins weren’t massive per unit, but the churn made it lucrative. Week after week, phones came in, phones went out, cash flowed back in.

And the risk? Minimal. On paper, everything was legitimate. Victims themselves had provided the credentials, placed the orders, confirmed their addresses. To Telus, it looked like customers had simply upgraded. By the time confusion settled, the merchandise was already gone, and the trail cold.

Unknown leaned back in her chair, satisfied. This was the kind of scam she preferred now: low detection, high cooperation, a conveyor belt of profit. No frantic crying voices. No hasty gift card sales. Just a steady river of phones turned into cash.

She poured a drink, smiling into the glass.

“Thank you for choosing Telus,” she murmured, amused at the echo of her own words.