In the Hush of the Night

by Raymond Benson

  Everything was going to be better when they reached America.

  7

  On the first Sunday of the month, Annie ran into Jason Ward at Starbucks again. That morning, she had planned to go for a brisk walk through Lincoln Park, and caffeine helped to get the heart rate and sweat going. Seeing him at the table with his laptop early on a Sunday morning, plugging away on his book and dedicated to his craft, was inspiring.

  “How you doing, Jason?”

  “Just fine, Annie. Have a seat.”

  “I’m about to head to the park—it’s a beautiful day—but I’ll sit for a minute.”

  “Please honor me with your company,” he said as she sat across from him.

  “How’s the writing going? Don’t you work in your apartment?”

  “That’s two different questions. The writing is going—eh. And yes, I do work in my apartment, but I like the vibe here. And it sometimes provides me with the opportunity to meet jet-setting FBI agents who live in my neighborhood.”

  “Ha, you’re seeing me at my Sunday-morning-no-makeup worst,” she said. She gestured at the sweatpants, T-shirt, and tennis shoes.

  “Well, I haven’t shaved or showered, so we’re even.”

  She appreciated the company, as it had been a frustrating week with not much progress in the case of the tattooed woman. Agent Caruthers had returned to Detroit, and she had continued to look into the Cat’s Lounge on her own. She had stopped by again and met Ludwig Vasiliev, who was managing the joint while Utkin was away. Once again, she had pressed the employees about the Jane Doe. She questioned Tina again, who had since gained a bruise on her left cheek. She explained that she had tripped during a dance and fallen on her face. This time, she was adamant that she hadn’t seen the woman in the photos at the club, and that it was all a mistake. However, she maintained that she had seen the tattoo before, but she couldn’t recall where.

  As for the Jane Doe, her body couldn’t be kept in the morgue forever. The US Attorney’s Office got involved and a judge eventually ordered that the unidentified corpse be properly buried. That wouldn’t stop Annie from continuing to work on the case. There was nothing more the victim’s remains could tell them. They had plenty of photographs and DNA samples.

  “Working on anything juicy?” Jason asked as he pushed the laptop aside and took a sip from his own coffee cup.

  “I’m working on lots of things, but you know”—she made a face—“human trafficking is not juicy.”

  He winced. “You’re right, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “It’s all right.” She shook her head. “To tell you the truth, I had no idea how awful it was until I joined the Civil Rights Unit. It really is one of the cruelest crimes someone can inflict on a human being.”

  “Yeah, I know. I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s okay. But to answer your question, yes, I’ve got ongoing cases, which of course I can’t discuss. How about you? Didn’t you have a big graduation party or something?”

  “I did! That was Memorial Day weekend. Big to-do over at Nat’s parents’ house up in Highland Park. Maybe you saw my pictures on Facebook?”

  Annie hadn’t looked at Facebook in a while. She had a very discreet personal page with not a lot of friends, intentionally kept that way. Jason was one of them.

  “Sorry, I didn’t, but I’d like to see them!”

  Jason brought up the site and turned the laptop so they could both see the monitor.

  “That’s their house.”

  “Wow.”

  “And that’s their backyard.”

  “Nice.”

  “There’s Nat and me.”

  “Aw.”

  “Those are my parents and my sister Miranda.”

  “I remember meeting them; they’re very nice. I forgot—where does Miranda live?”

  “Indianapolis.”

  “I enjoyed talking to her that one time we met. She still works for the not-for-profit?”

  “Safe Haven. And guess what.”

  “What?”

  “Well, you know Safe Haven is an organization that helps women in lower income situations and at the poverty level. Mainly they provide shelter and items for battered women and their children, too. Domestic violence stuff.”

  “I remember that.”

  “So, they’ve got this new initiative on human trafficking.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, it’s a new part of their agenda, and Miranda might be overseeing it.”

  “That’s great! We’ll have to talk when she comes to visit you next.”

  “She actually wants to speak to you. Can she call you?”

  “Sure. Feel free to give her my office number.” Annie dug into her fanny pack and pulled out a business card. “Nine times out of ten you get my voice mail, but I’ll return the call.”

  “Thanks.” He put the card in his pocket and continued to flip through the photos. “Oh. That’s Trey, Nat’s brother. I’ve told you about him.”

  “You said he’s a bully.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Let me see.” She turned the computer to get a better look. “He looks like one. I would tag him from the get-go as a bully.”

  “He’s mostly a jerk.”

  The picture showed Trey clowning around at the barbecue grill, gesturing with a spatula.

  Annie turned her attention to the other man in the picture. “Who’s the guy with the blue eyes?”

  “That’s a friend of Trey’s. A Russian guy named, uh, Mack. He really is Russian—he speaks with an accent—although I believe he came to this country when he was like six or seven. I don’t like him either. I do like Nat’s mom and dad. They’re as American as apple pie—typical white, upper-class North Shore we’ve-got-money people.” He scrolled to the next photo, a group shot of about twenty-five people, all party guests.

  “There’s Nat’s dad. I have to say I really like him. He’s genuinely nice and seems to like me all right. And there’s Nat’s mom.”

  “She’s pretty.”

  “Yeah, she was some kind of glamour model.”

  “What are their names?”

  “Paley. Nat’s dad is Greg Paley. Her mom is Angela. Nat told me her grandfather Maxim was the first of the family to be born in the US. His parents had emigrated from Russia in the 1920s. He still lives there at the house, but he’s in a wheelchair.”

  “Fascinating. What do they do?”

  “Have you ever heard of Palit Wool?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “They import wool made from some kind of exotic goat in Russia. They make all kinds of wool products but are mostly known for those nice shawls and scarves that are so Russian. Look, I have a picture of one here … I was going to give it to my mother for her birthday.” He found a shot that revealed a beautiful white shawl made up of an intricate pattern of fine threads.

  “Oh, I’ve seen those. I’ve heard them being called wedding ring shawls.”

  “The goats breed only in a particular place, and they have a very fine wool on them.”

  “It’s so big, but it looks like it’s light and soft.”

  “It is.”

  “So, your future in-laws import the wool?” she asked.

  “The wool, the shawls, scarves, ties, pajamas—you name it. It’s kind of a big deal, I guess. The company is based in Chicago but their main operation is over in Russia. St. Petersburg, I think.”

  “Is their manufacturing plant here?”

  “No, it’s in St. Petersburg. The US side is mostly retail.”

  They had scrolled to the end of the photos so Jason turned the laptop back to face him. “Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask you—do you know a good range or something where I can learn to shoot a hunting rifle?”

  “A hunting rifle?”

  “Yeah, Mr. Paley invited me to go hunting with him at their cabin in Michigan. He’s a real macho type that does outdoor sports and stuff. He was in the military, a real discipline-oriented guy. Y
ou should see him yell at Trey when he’s mad at him. He’s like a drill sergeant. But he’s nice to me. He’s probably a pretty good hunter. The thing is, I’ve never hunted.”

  Annie laughed. “And you don’t want to look like a complete idiot when you go.”

  “Right.”

  “Let me think about that.” She was reminded of her Memorial Day weekend investigation. “Where in Michigan is it?”

  “I’m not sure. Sort of in the middle of the state, where there’s a lot of forest.”

  “Huh. I was just up there on a case. The Paleys have property there?”

  “Yeah. A cabin and a big spread, apparently. Nat said her grandfather Maxim bought the land originally. So you think you can help me out?”

  “I know some good instructors. You gave me your email; I’ll send you a couple of names.”

  “Cool. Thanks.”

  “You don’t sound very enthusiastic.”

  “Well, to tell the truth, I don’t think I really like the idea of hunting. I don’t want to kill a deer or a bear. I worked in my parents’ hardware store, and we sell guns. Hunting rifles and shells. But I’ve never in my life fired one.”

  “Well, then don’t go hunting. You don’t have to, do you?”

  “Uh, I kind of think I do. I mean, if I didn’t want to go I probably wouldn’t have to, but he might think I’m a wuss. I don’t want my father-in-law to think that.”

  “You’re probably right. I’ll get you those names. In the meantime, get yourself a book on hunting.” She sighed. “And I guess I’d better get going or this fine day will pass me by.”

  “Have a good walk, then!”

  She swung out her legs and stood. “Write a masterpiece! See you later.”

  8

  Annie spent the next week juggling various assignments. There were always a number of cases on her plate. While most were relatively minor, a handful of them were significant. Even so, in her mind, nothing related to human trafficking was ever “minor.”

  She was usually the go-to agent in the squad for human trafficking incidents, but Annie also spent time on other categories that the Civil Rights Squad investigated—“color of law” violations, in which law enforcement or judicial personnel allegedly violated a victim’s civil rights; hate crimes; and Freedom of Access to Clinic Entrances (FACE) offenses, such as when patients are blocked from entering a facility that legally performs abortions. A separate unit in VC-2 was the Crimes Against Children Squad, which included child pornography (called “Innocent Images” at the FBI), illegal child labor, and the like. Annie preferred to be where she was. She wasn’t sure that she could emotionally handle a crime-against-children case, but she would rise to the challenge if asked. Although she was childless herself, she loved children, and perhaps someday she might have one of her own.

  Ha! I guess I’d need a partner for that.

  These days, that was practically impossible. Her work came first, and that left little time to socialize and meet men. Her coffee chats with Jason were her only non-business interactions with a male person since the breakup with Eric. Derek at the studio didn’t count—he was her tap dance instructor, and he was gay. Jason was also more like a little brother than anything remotely like a possible romantic interest. Plus, he was engaged.

  Has it really been almost seven months since I’ve had a date?

  She didn’t miss him, but she missed the companionship. Even though she and Eric had rarely seen each other when they were together, it had been nice to occasionally come home and slip into bed with another warm body.

  So I like human contact. What the hell is wrong with that? Can’t I be a kick-ass FBI agent and still like sex every once in a while, too?

  There was a time when she had thought Eric was the One.

  More like just another in a long line of men who are threatened by a strong, independent woman.

  It hadn’t helped that he was needy and jealous of her time, and that wasn’t going to work.

  To hell with him.

  At least she could honestly say that she loved her job more than any man in her life so far. She hadn’t asked to be on the Civil Rights Squad—she’d been assigned to it. At first, she wasn’t sure it was for her. She’d had her eyes set on VC-1, particularly the organized crime section of the Criminal Enterprise Branch, or perhaps the Behavioral Science Unit. Human trafficking was close, though, since trafficking crimes were often instigated by organized, hierarchy activity. After six months in the squad, Annie developed a passion for her specific vocation. When she saw firsthand the horror of what victims went through, she dedicated herself to the mission. She liked to think of herself as a crusader for the sufferers.

  The investigation into the tattooed girls was moving slowly, but she was amassing helpful information. Annie spent a day in her office studying the 2009 Minneapolis case again. The victim there had been identified as an illegal Russian immigrant who had been in the country for at least three months. A suspected prostitute, her body had been found by a maid in a motel room on the outskirts of the city. An unknown white male in his fifties had paid for the room in cash. The killer was never found. The victim had been deliberately strangled after the sex act had been completed, so essentially the perp had paid for the privilege of murdering someone. Since no cash was found at the scene, the guy most likely took it back before leaving the motel.

  Minneapolis police traced the victim’s prior movements and learned she had worked at a strip club called the Hot Spot, which closed down a year later.

  There wasn’t much else in the file. No mention of family.

  Annie noted the name and phone number of the homicide detective in charge of the case, picked up the phone, and dialed.

  “Brinkley,” the man answered.

  “Detective Bud Brinkley? This is Special Agent Anne Marino at the FBI Chicago field office. Do you have a moment?”

  “FBI? What’s this about?”

  “I’m calling about an old case, a cold one from 2009.”

  “Jesus, I can’t remember that far back. What case? What do you want to know? I’m pretty busy here; we had a double homicide this morning and it ain’t pretty.”

  Why did men always think they’re busier than anyone else? “I can call back later if you want.”

  “No, no, go ahead. I love talking to the feebs.”

  The sarcasm in his voice wasn’t lost on Annie. She explained the case she was calling about.

  “Okay, I do remember that. Never caught the killer.”

  “I know. Do you recall who the manager or owner of the Hot Spot strip club was? That information is not in the case file, at least not in what I have, which isn’t very much.”

  “Not off the top of my head. I’ll have to dig out the file to find that out. How is it you have the file?”

  “Back in 2014 I worked a human trafficking case that involved a homicide in Chicago. The victim in that case also had the same tattoo of bear claws as your vic did.”

  “No shit? I remember that tattoo.”

  “A ViCAP search told me about your victim’s tattoo.”

  “Give me your name again and your number, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Is that okay?”

  “Sure, I appreciate it.” She gave him the information and hung up.

  Annie also spent time looking into what the Bureau had on Fyodor Utkin. The man had a rap sheet that included a few arrests, including one for procuring, but that case was dismissed. Utkin had entered the United States in 1990 through Newark, New Jersey. His first activity on the books was logged in 1994 in Chicago when he applied for a liquor license for a strip club he wanted to open. The license was denied then, but he successfully received it in 1996 for a now-defunct establishment called Zebra. The pimping charge came in 2003 when a brothel in the suburbs was busted. Unfortunately, the local police botched the evidence, and Utkin went free. Notes by investigating officers indicated that Utkin was suspected of working with Russian organized crime members in Chicago, but no pro
of was ever collected. He had owned and operated several strip clubs in the area over the past twenty years. Three in Chicago—the Cat’s Lounge, the Den, and Paradise—were still in business today. He also had interests over the years in clubs in Wisconsin, Minnesota, and Michigan, all legitimate. Annie took a hard look at his Michigan activity. Utkin’s businesses in Detroit and Ann Arbor were closed, and it didn’t appear that he currently held any assets in that state. His holdings in Minnesota did include clubs in Minneapolis, but there was nothing to indicate he had anything to do with the old Hot Spot. That didn’t mean he hadn’t at one time.

  She made some calls to contacts she knew in Chicago and the suburbs where Utkin’s clubs were located. By asking the right questions, she learned that Utkin technically didn’t own the establishments. A company called Eyepatch, LLC was listed as the owner.

  The next call was placed to a colleague in the Financial Crimes Section. SA Sally Bertram was an ally when it came to discreetly looking into a suspect’s finances. Annie and Sally had worked together twice on trafficking cases in which the criminals’ money trail needed to be tracked.

  “Hey, Annie, what’s up?”

  “The usual, Sally. I heard you got married?”

  “I did! I’ve had two months of wedded bliss. Unfortunately, I’ve spent most of that time here.”

  “I hear you. I think that’s why I’m still single.”

  “Oh? What happened to … weren’t you with someone?”

  “Yeah, but that’s not a headline anymore. We broke up seven months ago.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Don’t be, I’m better off. But congratulations. Seriously.”

  “Thank you. So, what’s up?”

  “Can you look into a company for me? I’d like to find out who the owners are, where it’s based, anything you can. Could be relevant to a case I’m working on.” Annie told her about Eyepatch, LLC.