Teresa Rogg stood by the kitchen counter in her Quincy home last summer with a phone pressed to her ear, wrapping stacks of $100 bills in tin foil. She then sealed the money in a box, walked out to her yard, and waited for a courier, just as the woman on the phone had instructed.
The man who appeared from the side street remained silent, save for a single word — a passcode. “Blessings,” he said.
“That’s how I knew to hand over the box,” she recalled.
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