In the Hush of the Night

by Raymond Benson

  “We got to know each other well on that boat,” Teresa said. “She told me all about her life, just as I told her all about mine.”

  Annie felt a tremendous surge of satisfaction at finally identifying the victim in Michigan. Irina Semenov. Now she had some ammunition to give to her colleagues at ICE—Immigration and Customs Enforcement. They would work to trace Irina’s movements backward from the moment she entered the country.

  “Your voyage was late April to early May?”

  “Yes.”

  The timing sounded about right. The traffickers were systematically tattooing their victims within a month or so after the women arrived in the US, before they proceeded to turn them out to strip, prostitute themselves, or be sold as chattel.

  “Teresa, you’ve already given us very good descriptions of all the men you encountered, including this ‘Nikolai’ that you met in Kiev. We really want to find out who’s in charge of the criminals who did this to you here in this country. I’m especially interested in the Caucasian man you said was at the cabin, the one who beat you. You’re certain he was not a Russian?”

  “No, he spoke like an American. He was American.”

  “And you say he’s in his late twenties or early thirties?”

  “I think so.”

  “And the men stayed in a different cabin nearby.”

  “Yes. I was all alone. I could sometimes hear them laughing and drinking in the other cabin when they weren’t visiting me.”

  Annie nodded. That was a lot to go on.

  “If there is ever anything else you can remember or tell me about any of these men or The Bear, you will call me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you, Teresa. You’re a brave, strong woman. You’re a survivor.”

  “Oh, one thing I remember.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The American. He acted like the cabin was his.”

  “Did he say it was his?”

  “Not really. It was just the way he acted. Possessive. I remember he told one of the other men to ‘chop some of his wood in the back.’ For the fireplace. ‘Chop some of my wood there in the back,’ he said.”

  “That’s good, Teresa. You have a very good memory.” Annie took her hand. “You’ve given us a lot of good information. We’re going to track these men down and arrest them. We’re going to make sure they never do to anyone else what they did to you.”

  It was the last thing Annie ever said to Teresa. When Annie went home after the interview that night, Teresa Wang hung herself with a bed sheet, prior to being released into what she must have thought was a harsh, cruel world.

  12

  It was time to expand the investigation across the Atlantic.

  Annie had worked with one of the ALATs in Russia before. Colin Clark was a good man, if somewhat overworked. After all, there were only a few Assistant Legal Attachés for all of Russia, and they were based in Moscow. The Legats and ALATs had a certain mystique at the Bureau. They were men and women of the FBI stationed in foreign countries, usually at US embassies, acting as liaisons to local law enforcement and security.

  She worked on an email to Clark, attached the growing case file, and sent it. Annie laid out her suspicions about the international trafficking network and asked if he could get any information about The Bear and focus an initial probe in the St. Petersburg area.

  The Russian embassy in Washington, DC, had already communicated the identities of the two dead tattooed women to their families. Irina and Teresa. At this point, the existence of the criminal operation was known by both countries. Whether Russia would do anything about it was anyone’s guess.

  Teresa’s death had hit Annie hard. It was possible that the FBI agent had been the last person the victim had spoken to. Annie couldn’t imagine the torture that had been going on inside that woman’s head and heart. It wasn’t the first time a victim had committed suicide after being rescued, and it wouldn’t be the last. The psychological damage that trafficking inflicted on a victim was, in a way, often worse than the physical torment. Survivors’ roads to recovery were personal, diverse, and always difficult.

  The phone at her desk rang and brought Annie out of her funk. “Marino,” she answered.

  “This is Detective Bud Brinkley in Minneapolis.”

  “Yes, detective, how are you?”

  “Fine. Listen, I’m emailing you the rest of the material on that case with the tattooed girl. I’m pretty sure it’s all we have. That case went cold real fast. But you also wanted to know who the manager of the Hot Spot was back then?”

  “Yes?”

  “A Russian guy by the name of Fyodor Utkin.”

  What a surprise, Annie thought.

  “He’s still around,” she said. “Here in Chicago.”

  “We couldn’t prove that he or anyone at the strip club pimped out the victim to the motel. She didn’t work at the club at the time of the murder. The report’s in the file I just sent you.”

  “Even though you couldn’t prove it, what did you personally think?”

  “Well, those people are sleazy scum of the earth. I wouldn’t put it past them at all if they were sending their strippers out as call girls, but we couldn’t catch them at it. No, the place was clean, despite the bottom-feeders that ran the place.”

  “Did you interview Utkin?” Annie asked.

  “Yeah. He was legit, we definitely checked him out. But you know, he wasn’t the owner of the club.”

  “Would it by chance have been a shell company in Belize called Eyepatch, LLC?”

  “As a matter of fact, it was!”

  “Thank you, detective. I appreciate your help.”

  “You’re welcome, and hey, keep me in the loop, will you?”

  “I will, detective.”

  She hung up and brought up Fyodor Utkin’s file on her computer. Was he working for The Bear? Was he the US manager of operations? The problem with that scenario was that he had been known to the FBI for years. They’d kept an eye on him. As far as the law was concerned, he ran his businesses without blemishes.

  Near the end of the afternoon, her cell phone rang. The ID said CARUTHERS.

  “Harris?” she answered.

  “Annie, hi, how are you?”

  “Good, and you?”

  “Great. Listen, I’m in Chicago again. Just got here, thought I’d call. I wanted to thank you for your good work. Getting Irina identified was pretty incredible.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it. Still … it’s a sad thing to have to do.”

  “I know. Anyway, I’ve been reading your updates, and I want to help you. The locals in Lakeway are getting nowhere in their investigation. Chief Daniel is old and about to retire, and Captain Mike Baines is not the brightest bulb in the building, nor is he too concerned. He seems to think it’s low priority and that the county sheriff should do all the work since it’s a county case anyway. Part of the problem is that the sheriff doesn’t want the case until it’s near solving.”

  “Harris, it’s possible that the cabin in the woods Teresa Wang mentioned might be in the area. You think?”

  “That’s why I want to work together. I mean, it’s my case, too.”

  “Sure.” Annie checked the time. “You want to go check out some strip clubs again?”

  The Den was out near O’Hare airport, located in Des Plaines. This time Annie drove the Bucar with Harris in the passenger seat. On a weekday the traffic wasn’t bad, but the heat index had shot through the roof. The A/C in the Fusion was adequate, but Annie was about ready to request a newer model car.

  “Nothing like a surprise visit from the FBI to keep the strip clubs on their toes,” she said as they approached the building.

  “Toes? That’s all we’re going to see?”

  She elbowed Harris. “Watch it.”

  A young man in his late twenties or early thirties served as the bouncer and money-taker at the cash register. At first Annie thought she knew him, but she wasn’t sure.

 
; The agents displayed their credentials. “Agents Marino and Caruthers, FBI. We’d like to see the manager on duty.”

  The man looked surprised. “FBI? Why?”

  “Just get your manager,” Harris said. “What’s your name, anyway?”

  “Makar Utkin.”

  “Utkin?” Annie asked. “Are you related to Fyodor Utkin?”

  “He’s my father.” He had a light Russian accent. There was more of an American inflection in his speech since he’d probably lived in the US most—but perhaps not all—of his life.

  “Is he here?”

  “No, he’s out of town.”

  “Who’s in charge then?” Annie pressed.

  “Ivan.”

  “I know Ivan. Please fetch him.”

  The younger Utkin went into the club. As before, Annie and Harris went inside behind him. The decor was very similar to the Cat’s Lounge—dark, tacky, and furnished with thirty-year-old tables and chairs. A young woman was on stage displaying her wares, gyrating to the music of Prince. The agents positioned themselves by the bar, where a female bartender asked them if they wanted anything to drink. Annie didn’t know her, but she hadn’t visited the Den in a few months. The woman appeared to be in her late thirties, with tattoos up and down her arms. Her hair was as black as coal.

  “No, thanks,” Annie answered, “we’re on duty.”

  The bartender noticed the guns at their belts. “Oh, I see.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “I’m Tiffany.”

  “Tiffany what?”

  “Tiffany Vombrack. And it’s my real name.”

  “Do you just bartend or do you dance, too?”

  “Oh, I just bartend, help out with the management, you know, oversee the girls.”

  Annie opened the folder she carried and pulled out some photos, starting with the one of Vladimir Markov. “Ever see this man?”

  “Yeah. He’s a customer.”

  “When’s the last time you saw him?”

  She appeared to ponder this. “Gee, I don’t know. It’s been a few weeks, I’m sure.”

  “Does Ivan know him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The manager appeared at that point, led from the back rooms by Makar Utkin. As the younger man walked past Annie, she gave him another scrutinizing look. His blue eyes stood out. Certain she’d seen him in the past, Annie spoke up. “Excuse me?”

  He stopped. “Yeah?”

  “Have we met before?”

  Makar shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.” He winked at her. “I’d remember you if I had. Ladies with guns turn me on.” He returned to his post at the front of the club.

  Annie rolled her eyes at Harris and murmured, “Can’t wait to give you my number, buddy,” which forced her partner to suppress a laugh. She turned to the manager. “Hello, Ivan, how are you?”

  “Fine, Agent Marino.” Ivan Polzin was a thick-necked Russian immigrant in his forties. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” Unlike Makar, his speech was very thick with an accent.

  “I was just showing Tiffany here some photos. I’d like you to take a look, too. Do you know him?”

  Ivan took Markov’s picture and frowned. “I think I’ve seen him. I don’t know him. He’s a customer.”

  “Well, he must get around, because he was a customer at the Cat’s Lounge, too.”

  Ivan shrugged. “We’re all the same business.”

  “I know. Fyodor is out of town, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When will he be back?”

  “I don’t know. He never tells me these things. He just says, ‘I’m going to be gone for a while.’ Sometimes he’s gone for a few days, sometimes a month. Is possible he went to Russia. In the meantime, I’m in charge of the clubs, I have to make sure all three have managers in place and the girls’ schedules are set, and I find a replacement if one of them doesn’t show up, you name it.” He wiped sweat from his forehead.

  Next, Annie showed Ivan and Tiffany the photo of Irina Semenov. “How about her?”

  Tiffany recoiled. “Ew!”

  Ivan winced but didn’t say anything.

  “Her name was Irina Semenov,” Annie said. “She had a tattoo of bear claws on her neck. Look, like this.” She showed them the photo of the tat.

  Ivan rubbed his chin and shook his head. “Nah, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her before. I’ve never seen that tattoo.”

  Annie looked at Tiffany. “What about you?”

  The woman had a crease in her brow, but she slowly shook her head. “No.” But then she glanced at Annie and Annie noticed her eyes widen ever so subtly.

  Was she trying to tell her something?

  The next two photos Annie revealed were of Karen Washington and Teresa Wang. “How about them? Ever seen them before?”

  Again, negative answers.

  They were done. Annie and Harris pulled out business cards and handed them to Ivan and Tiffany. Annie said, “If something strikes you, if you remember something, or if you ever see someone with that tattoo, please give me a call, would you?”

  “Sure thing,” said Tiffany. She stuck the cards in the back pocket of her jeans.

  “So, Ivan, I trust I don’t need to have a look around?” Annie asked. “All your dancers are legally entitled to work in the United States and all that?”

  “What, you think I would risk the wrath of ICE? Are you kidding me? We run a legitimate business here.”

  “That’s what Fyodor insisted, too. Okay, have a nice evening.”

  On the way out, they stopped to talk to Makar Utkin again. “I might as well show these pictures to you,” Annie said. “Do you know any of these women?” She revealed Irina’s picture first, which elicited no visceral reaction like it did with everyone else who saw it. He simply shook his head. She then displayed Karen’s and Teresa’s pictures. Again, another shake of the head.

  “No, I’ve never seen them before. Should I have? Did they dance here sometime?”

  She put away the pictures. “Say hello to your father for me.”

  “I will. What’s your name?”

  She handed him a business card. “He knows me. I must have seen you around at one of the clubs before; you look very familiar.”

  He shrugged. “I’ve been working for my dad ever since I was old enough to walk inside.”

  “Okay. Stay out of trouble.”

  Annie and Harris visited the third club that Fyodor Utkin managed, Paradise, located farther south, near I-80. The manager on duty there, Sasha Treblinka, couldn’t identify Markov at all. Annie figured the club’s location might have been too far of a drive for the guy to regularly visit. Treblinka said nothing about Irina’s photo or the tattoo photos as well. However, when he saw the pictures of Karen Washington and Teresa Wang, he blinked.

  “You know them?” Annie asked.

  The man shook his head. “No. I thought this one”—he tapped Teresa’s picture—“looks like another Asian girl who worked here, but it’s not her. Sorry.”

  As they left the parking lot, Harris asked, “Now what?”

  “I’m calling it a day. Let’s head back to the city. Where are you staying?”

  “The Marriott at Ashland and Harrison, close to the FBI building. My car’s there at the field office.”

  “I’ll drive you back to the FO.”

  “So did we strike out on those visits?”

  “Probably. Not too sure, though. That bartender, Tiffany. She knew something. I might need to have another talk with her away from the club.” She looked at Harris. “I bet you a lunch that she calls me.”

  He shrugged. “Okay.”

  As she drove up I-294, Annie pictured an abstract representation of the trafficking network. It was right there, probably in front of her eyes, but it was covered by curtains. Hidden in plain sight, so to speak. These things always were.

  She just had to find a way to pull back the curtains.

  13

  End of June

&n
bsp; When the container ship arrived at the Port of Newark, Yana Kravec was hungry, thirsty, and had probably lost ten pounds. Christina and Sofia were also malnourished. It had been nearly three weeks since they’d first boarded the boat, but now, finally, it was time to disembark.

  Everything would be better in America.

  Von came and addressed the three women. He told them to get their bags and have their passports and work visas ready. They were happy to leave the little berth that had become extremely claustrophobic during the journey. Even though he had been kind during the voyage, now he was as gruff as he’d been when they first met, when Nikolai had handed them over to him in St. Petersburg. Von barked at them to hurry along as he accompanied them through a series of hatchways. It seemed as if they were going deeper into the bowels of the ship instead of up to the deck. There was no sign of other crew. Finally, they emerged into the open air and onto a gang plank that stretched to the pier.

  It was night.

  Von escorted them to the Customs and Immigration booths, where a single agent was working.

  Yana looked at the clock on the wall. Two in the morning. What was a Customs agent doing working at that hour?

  She watched as Von handed over a wad of bills to the man, who then gestured for each woman to come forward. Yana went first. The agent swiped her passport and stamped her visa. Yana had read on the Internet that she would be fingerprinted and have her photo taken when she arrived in the US, but for some reason the Customs man didn’t do that. Once he was finished with her, he jerked his head to indicate for her to move on. She waited beside Von as Christina and Sofia went through the same procedure.

  They were brought out to the pier where the huge steel containers were stacked. Even though bright floodlights illuminated the area, the dark night sky dominated the setting. A red van with blacked-out windows sat waiting for them, its engine running. The passenger door opened, and a woman appeared. In the dim light, Yana thought she might be in her forties. The woman held out a hand. Yana and her bunkmates each shook it.

  “I’m Nadine. Welcome to the United States.” She said it without cheer. Yana thought perhaps the woman didn’t enjoy doing this job in the middle of the night; she must be merely grumpy.