In the Hush of the Night

by Raymond Benson

  “Let me get back to you. I’ll see what I can dig up.”

  “Thanks, I owe you a wedding present. Or at least a drink.”

  “A drink sounds great, thanks. Talk to you later!”

  Annie hung up. Again, she had to wait on a call-back. That was one of the few frustrating aspects of the job. Some things simply took time. There were some instances in which she had waited months to receive a returned call. In this case, however, Sally phoned back an hour later.

  “Okay, Eyepatch, LLC appears to be a shell company, and its listed address is in Belize.”

  “That’s not surprising.”

  “But there are no red flags from the IRS. They must pay their taxes.”

  “No idea who the principals are?”

  “Nope. It was incorporated in a jurisdiction that does not require owner, shareholder, or director’s details to be filed publicly, and there is no TIEA with the US.” Annie knew Sally was referring to a Tax Information Exchange Agreement. The financial and management information of Eyepatch, LLC was very private indeed.

  “Okay, thanks. I appreciate it.”

  “Sure thing. I’m waiting on that drink.”

  “This week. I promise.” Another call was coming in. “My SSA is calling, got to run.” She switched lines. “Hi, John.”

  “Annie, we have a situation.”

  The main command post on the ground floor was occupied by seven people—SSA John Gladden, SAC Michael Tilden, ASAC Sharon Feliz, two SAs from VC-1, and two from VC-2, including Annie. Everyone had a laptop open in front of them on the conference table.

  Feliz spoke. “At 12:07 today, the FO received this call from Mrs. Angelique Washington in Memphis, Tennessee. After the initial screening, she was transferred to an agent who took the call.” She pressed a key on her laptop and the recording filled the room.

  FBI, can I help you?

  “Uh, hello?”

  This is the FBI, how may help you?

  “My daughter just called me, she’s been missing for two months, she says she’s a prisoner of some men in Chicago! Please, you need to find her! They have guns! Please hurry!”

  Ma’am, please slow down, can you tell me your name?

  “Angelique Washington.”

  You’re calling from Memphis?

  “Yes! I told the first person who answered all this. They transferred me to you. Karen’s in danger! Please, you’ve got to hurry! She’s being held prisoner she says, they s-s-sexually assaulted her, she’s afraid they’re going to make her do … oh God in heaven, please, my poor baby, my darling girl … !”

  Mrs. Washington, please slow down, take a deep breath.

  The woman did so audibly.

  Now, please tell me your daughter’s name and age.

  “Karen Washington. She’s seventeen.”

  And you say you haven’t seen her in two months?

  “She … she ran away. Well, I mean, she left. I knew she was going. I couldn’t stop her. She went to Chicago, and I didn’t hear from her. I reported her missing.”

  Feliz stopped the recording. “The Memphis police contacted the Chicago PD when they were unsuccessful in tracking Karen’s movements. We’ve asked their Missing Persons Division to get us any information they have, but I don’t think there’s much. We now have the missing persons report that was forwarded from Memphis.” She pressed a key and the victim’s school photo appeared on the overhead screen. A pretty, bright-eyed African American girl. Feliz punched another key to continue the recording.

  “Karen called me out of the blue this morning. She said she stole the man’s phone and made the call without him knowing it. She says she took a big risk doing it, that he’d kill her if he found out. He has a gun.”

  How long was your conversation, Mrs. Washington?

  “About a minute. She was afraid to talk longer. She was whispering.”

  Did she give you any clues as to where in Chicago she is?

  “Yes, I … I wrote some of it down. She said she’s being held in an apartment building in Chicago. She didn’t really know where she’d been taken, but she’s near the train tracks. She said a train rumbles by outside every so often.”

  Did she say if it was a commuter train or an El train?

  “No. What’s an El train?”

  Never mind. Did she say anything else?

  “She said the windows are covered with cardboard. She snuck a peek outside through a small hole she’d made with a pen in one in her bedrooms. She said she could see a sliver of the street and part of the building on the other side. There was a road sign in her view, it had a number on it—‘forty-three.’”

  Highway 43?

  Annie looked at Gladden. “That’s Harlem Avenue.”

  Another agent added, “It’s also Waukegan Road in the north.”

  Ma’am, are you sure she meant Highway 43?

  “I don’t know, she just said there was a square sign with a white circle in the middle and the number forty-three in black in the circle. Oh, and she said she could see part of the name of the building across the street. It’s a store, and the name has big letters. She saw R, N, I, T, U.”

  Let me repeat that. R, N, I, T, U.

  “Yes. That’s all she said. Then she had to hang up. She thought they’d heard her.”

  Feliz stopped the recording. “The rest is just getting details about the girl. We have an agent in Memphis interviewing Mrs. Washington, and we’ll get an update after that’s occurred. Now we just have to figure out where on Harlem Avenue.”

  “Harlem Avenue runs the entire length of Chicago, up and down, through all the suburbs,” one of the SAs said.

  Annie added, “But she said her daughter could hear a train. Like the agent on the phone said, it could be a Metra or it could be the El. Or both.”

  “Right. It shouldn’t be too hard.” Feliz flicked a switch and a map of Chicagoland appeared on the big screen behind them. With more manipulation, Highway 43 was highlighted. It ran north-south from Park City in the north down through several suburbs, into Chicago city limits, and then south all the way to Tinley Park.

  Annie stood to examine the map closer. “Okay, let’s count all the instances where the Metra lines intersect with or run alongside 43. Up in Northbrook, 43 is Waukegan Road. This Metra line runs alongside it for a bit. What line is that?”

  Someone said, “Uh, that’s the Fox Lake train.”

  “Milwaukee District North,” another person added. “I’ll write these down.”

  Annie continued tracing 43 down. “Here it turns into Harlem Avenue. And here’s another line it crosses in Park Ridge.”

  “That’s the Union Pacific Northwest to Harvard,” Gladden said. “I took that every day when I was just out of college working at the US Attorney’s Office.”

  The highway crossed several different lines as she named the suburbs. “Then Elmwood Park. Forest Park. Riverside. Forest View. Worth. Tinley Park. Hey, that’s really not a lot. We should be able to find this.”

  SAC Tilden picked up the phone on the desk. “I’ll get satellite images of every intersection.”

  As the Special Agent in Charge phoned the surveillance section, Annie moved next to Feliz. “Please pull up Google Maps, Sharon.” The screen was projected so the room could see. Now search for ‘furniture store.’”

  Tilden heard her and put a hand over the mouthpiece. “Furniture store? She didn’t say anything about a furniture store.”

  Annie nodded. “I’m guessing the letters R, N, I, T, and U belong in the word ‘furniture.’”

  SSA Gladden stifled a laugh. “How did you figure that out so quickly, Annie?”

  “I was a Wheel of Fortune addict when I was a kid. I’m a nerd.”

  Feliz entered the words in the search box. Icons dotted the entire Chicagoland map. Annie started pointing to furniture stores that could be possibilities on Highway 43. There were a few along that long stretch of city thoroughfare.

  Annie said, “That little yellow guy, t
he street view fellow, he can really be your friend.”

  “I know how to use Google Maps, Marino, but be my guest.”

  Annie took over and pulled the icon to the top furniture store on 43 that was near a train line. “We won’t bother with the ones not near train tracks.” The display switched to street view, standing in the middle of the intersection. Annie turned the POV a full circle. “I don’t see anything that looks like an apartment building, and the furniture store is a Crate and Barrel. No good.” She moved to the next one, further south, and repeated the process. “Nothing here, and no furniture store with those big letters.” She kept going.

  “Marino, our surveillance drones will get us these images in a second,” Feliz said.

  “Look, I’ve got it,” she said. The street view scene revealed an apartment building that looked like it was built in the eighties. “Tinley Park. Harlem Avenue and 175th Street. There’s an apartment building there. And right across the street is MS Furniture. Big letters. And look, there’s the highway sign.”

  “What was this, a race?” Feliz asked.

  SAC Tilden ended his call and hung up the phone. “John, liaison with the county and let’s get a task force together ASAP. Marino, you’re in charge. We’re going to rescue Karen Washington.”

  9

  It took two hours to assemble the task force. Nine officers—seven men and two women—from the Cook County Sheriff’s Department made up the SWAT team, the use of which was justified by Mrs. Washington’s indication that the men inside the apartment were armed. Lieutenant Carl England was in charge of the team, while Annie would act in a supervisory role, participating in the raid but not in the first wave to breach the apartment. One man from the Southern Residential Agency (RA) was on hand to assist her; otherwise she was the only FBI presence at the scene. Another member of the task force was the operator of a thermographic camera. A warrant had been quickly issued by the United States Attorney’s Office so that the police could use the device to determine how many souls were currently occupying the apartment. Annie’s role would be to talk to the victims and take them under her wing while the police took care of the pimps.

  It didn’t take long for the reconnaissance of the twenty-four-unit building to locate the target, a two-bedroom apartment. Four windows on the second floor were covered from the inside by sides of cardboard boxes. Two of them—one a smaller bathroom window—faced Harlem Avenue. The blocked-out windows were not visually suspicious, mainly because they were in keeping with the overall feel of the complex. The place was run down and only half occupied by tenants. Other residents had unusual decorations in their windows. Tattered drapes, cracked glass, and even a torn American flag acted as blinds. No one would think twice if they spotted the cardboard-covered windows.

  The building’s parking lot contained ten cars. A walkway balcony ran in front of the second-floor apartment doors, motel-style. The SWAT team was positioned on the staircase between floors, just out of sight of the target apartment’s front door.

  It was a quiet, hot, and sunny weekday afternoon. Not much traffic. A great time for a surprise visit from the police.

  Annie and the lieutenant watched the structure from an unmarked van parked across the street—right in front of the Highway 43 sign.

  “Thermal images still reveal only four people,” the tech at the controls said. “Nothing has changed. I’m confident that the two in the bedroom are women. The other two are men. They’re in the living room, sitting on a sofa and watching TV.”

  “Right,” England said. He spoke into the mouthpiece of his helmet. “Now listen up. Everyone is in place. First wave goes in strong, neutralize the two men in the living room. They will most likely be armed. Remember—try not to let any harm come to the women in the apartment. Naturally we’d like to arrest the men without any violence, but deadly force is authorized if there is a threat to your own—or the women’s—safety.”

  Annie was dressed in a Kevlar vest over a polo shirt and jeans, the back of the vest plainly reading “FBI.” The Glock 22 was in a holster at her waist. She felt ready. The potential for violence always came with the job.

  “There’s our man,” said the lieutenant, nodding at the building. Annie saw an undercover cop approach the apartment door. He held a pizza box. “We went through the garbage for the apartment. They seem to get a lot of pizzas delivered.”

  The cop knocked on the door. He spoke to someone on the inside.

  “Ready …” England said.

  The door opened.

  “Go!”

  The pizza delivery man backed away and dropped back against the balcony as four SWATs stormed the walkway from the staircase. The man who reached the door first kicked it open hard before the man inside could shut it. The leader charged inside, his Heckler & Koch MP5 raised and pointed in front of him. His comrades followed as shouts of “Police! Hands in the air! Hands! Let’s see your hands! Police!” were suddenly overcome by gunfire.

  The lieutenant drew a sharp breath and exchanged looks with Annie.

  One, two, three, four … and five shots. Then it was quiet. The lieutenant, listening to the progress in his helmet earpiece, caught Annie’s eye and nodded. “They found the girls.”

  “I’m going in,” Annie said.

  “I’ll come with you,” the RA man added.

  As England gave orders to bring up the support personnel, ambulances, investigators, and technicians, Annie and her colleague left the van and ran across the street to the building. They went up the stairs, down the walkway, and into the apartment.

  “Clear!” someone shouted. The operation had lasted less than a minute.

  A Cook County cop was lying on the worn carpet, badly wounded. He’d been hit in the neck where the helmet couldn’t protect him. The two pimps were dead. One lay near the cop in a rapidly expanding pool of blood. The other still sat on the couch, lying back with his shirt open, hit in the chest.

  “Bastards shot at us,” the SWAT leader said. “What else could we do?”

  The TV was on, blaring a baseball game. Annie, her hands covered in rubber gloves, turned it off. She then moved past the carnage and into a dark bedroom illuminated only by a night stand lamp. Two cops guarded the women, who lay face down on the bed, holding each other, sobbing and trembling. Annie sat on the edge of the mattress.

  “Hey, it’s okay, you’re safe now.”

  The victims looked up. One was Asian and the other African American. Annie addressed the black girl. “Are you Karen?”

  Tears ran down the girl’s face as she nodded. They were both terribly frightened, thin, and pale. The Asian girl had a bruise on her face and appeared to be in worse shape than Karen.

  “Come on, let’s get you both out of here.”

  The women moved toward Annie and embraced her, sobbing into her vest. Annie held them and stroked their hair.

  Then she saw the bear claws tattoo below the Asian girl’s right ear.

  It was nearing eight that evening and Annie had not eaten dinner. She was at Palos Primary Care Center, a small hospital in Palos Heights, not far from the crime scene. The two victims had been taken there for examinations while the county police processed the apartment and gathered evidence. Seventeen-year-old Karen Washington had been properly identified. The other girl claimed to be twenty-one-year-old Teresa Wang, from Ukraine. It was quickly determined that she was in the country illegally. Her passport and work visa were found in the apartment, along with $50,000 in cash, weapons, and drugs, all locked in a strongbox that the police opened.

  The girls were in pretty good shape, considering. They were malnourished and had been roughed up. Both claimed to have been raped several times. Wang had suffered a beating. But they were alive and had no serious injuries other than the psychological trauma they would live with for the remainder of their years. For the next day or so they would remain sedated.

  The wounded officer was still in surgery. He was expected to survive, but he would most likely be in intens
ive care for at least a couple of days.

  Annie had given the girls some time to settle in for an overnight stay in their hospital rooms. She finally got a chance to grab a snack at the cafeteria and settle her own nerves. The raid had gone well enough, although she wished they’d been able to interrogate the pimps. So far the police had found nothing that indicated who was behind the crime.

  It wasn’t a brothel, as was first suspected. Preliminary interviews with the victims indicated that the apartment was simply a place where they were being held, waiting to be moved at a later time to yet another secret location. Annie was anxious to document the women’s stories.

  After she finished her meal, Annie went upstairs to Karen’s room, where she lay in bed. A nurse was taking her vitals.

  “Karen, I spoke to your mother an hour ago,” she said. “She’ll be here first thing tomorrow.”

  Karen just nodded. She had a wide-eyed, deer-in-the-headlights look. She was obviously in a bit of shock.

  “Do you feel like talking?”

  The teenager looked at her. She sighed heavily and said, “All right.”

  Karen Washington told Annie a familiar story. She met a boy—older, charismatic, and kind. He paid attention to her, made her feel pretty and wanted. Karen grew up in a family that consisted of a single working mother and three siblings. She’d been lonely and at odds with her mother, and was a bit of a rebel. The boy, “Harold”—the name was probably fake—wooed and seduced her and eventually talked her into going to Chicago with him. Against her mother’s wishes, Karen left with her knight, who turned out to be a very dark one. As soon as they got to Chicago, Harold introduced Karen to harder drugs and a group of men who wanted to “help” her. Before she knew it, she had been taken to a house and locked up. There, she was gang-raped, including by Harold. She was kept in the house for nearly two weeks and then moved to the current apartment in Tinley Park. Her captors’ names were Vasil and Auric. She was denied a phone, a computer, or access to the outdoors. Karen claimed that the men told her she would remain there until she was “sold.” One morning, while Auric was still sleeping and Vasil got in the shower in the one bathroom, Karen managed to sneak into the men’s bedroom, take Vasil’s cell phone, go back to her own bedroom, and call her mother. The conversation wasn’t long, and it ended once she heard Vasil turn off the shower. She quickly hung up, deleted the call record, and rushed to the men’s bedroom to replace the phone before Vasil emerged.