Page 175 - Labelle Gramercy, Detective

Slow Burn

You could only escape that horrible fate by sending a dollar to the
Order of the Pentacle with a new copy of the letter, containing an
altered list: your name removed, the ones below it advancing one
position, and a new name, your own choice of victim, added at the
bottom. You would then send it to the new first name on the list,
putting that person on the spot.”
“One dollar? That doesn’t sound like too much to pay for a bit of
safety from those cultists, even if it were only Quincy Carbone in a
fright wig.”
“You weren’t listening, Duncan. Recipients of that letter would
believe it has functioned like a chain letter. Thus they will be
dismayed—but not surprised—to receive not one but dozens of
letters, each with a different name at the bottom and their own at the
top. They understand the exponential growth of the chain, and that is
the con: Quincy in fact manufactured all the letters and sent them
from different zip codes, at intervals and in bunches, to a wealthy but
superstitious man in his neighborhood. The Order of the Pentacle
was a post-office box where Quincy hoped to collect his ill-gotten
gains little by little, slowly milking a cash cow. The pyramid was a
hoax, and he counted on his victim keeping quiet. He was wrong, an
error of youth.”
I shook my head. “What’s he up to now?”
“We’ll soon find out. Here we are: 5919 East 1st Street.”
It was a quiet working-class neighborhood, older houses with not
too many campers parked on lawns. As we pulled up to a run-down
two-story residence, I spotted the inevitable Honda, but it was in the
street, not the driveway of 5919.
“He doesn’t own this place, does he?”
“No, just rents a couple of rooms in back. The owners live in
front. Shabby but genteel. They need the rent to make ends meet, I
would guess.”
“So he’s back to a P.O. box again. I’ll bet the postal authorities
keep a close watch on that!”
Labelle saw no humor in my remark. She was already walking up
the driveway. A man came out of the house and pointed toward the
garage. I caught up to her and we approached a rear door. My
stomach was churning, but that was a good sign. The poor
cheeseburger didn’t stand a chance.

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