In the Hush of the Night

by Raymond Benson

  Christina and Sofia had been taken somewhere else. Her compatriots were told to remain in the van as Fidel escorted Yana away and handed her off to a Russian man at the back of the building. Would she ever see them again? They had become close. Like sisters. They were family. The three women had attempted to comfort each other against the harsh realities of their new existence. Mostly they cried together. Sofia took to praying a lot, even though she had claimed to be non-religious. Yana had been raised with no particular faith, and now she knew she’d been correct.

  There was no God—not in a world where something like this could happen.

  She heard a key unlock the door. It opened, revealing a thick-necked man in his forties. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

  He spoke Russian. “What is your name?”

  She cleared her throat. Lately her speech had become very hoarse. “Yana Kravec.”

  The man pulled out a passport, opened it, checked the photo against her, and nodded. “From now on, your name is Nadia. If anyone asks you, you say your name is Nadia. If they ask for your family name, you say your name is ‘just Nadia.’ Got that?”

  Yana nodded.

  “In a few hours you will be taken to your new home. Wait here. Can I bring you something to eat or drink?”

  She wasn’t hungry. Her appetite was completely shot. “No, thank you.”

  “Stand up.”

  She did so.

  “Turn around.”

  She obeyed.

  The man nodded. “You will do fine. You are a very beautiful woman. You are worth a lot of money.”

  Yana stared at her feet. “Am I going to dance here? Is that what this is about?”

  “No. You are special merchandise. The Bear has other plans for you.” There was a knock at the door. “What?”

  “Ivan, Makar is here with the car.”

  “All right.” He placed a hand under Yana’s chin and lifted her head. “Your ride got here sooner than we thought. Grab your things and let’s go.”

  He led her out of the room, where the music was louder in the hallway. She passed an open doorway to a dressing room. Two women were inside; one was putting on lingerie, the other was sitting at a makeup table, looking in a mirror. They didn’t notice her.

  The man called Ivan took Yana to the back door, the same one she had entered a few hours earlier. A younger man, probably in his late twenties, stood outside in the alley by a blue Nissan sedan. It was dark outside.

  “Ivan?” A voice called from the hallway.

  “What?”

  Yana turned to see a dark-haired woman with tattoos on her arms. Their eyes met.

  “I wanted to tell you that there’s a drunk customer giving Sheila a hard time. I can’t find Dmitri. You might need to handle it.”

  “I’ll be there in a minute!” Ivan snapped. “Go back to the bar!”

  The woman held up her hands. “Fine.” She turned to walk away, but stole another glance at Yana.

  “Get in the car!” Ivan spat.

  Yana obeyed. The younger man—his name was Makar?—had popped the trunk.

  “No,” Ivan said. “Let her ride in front. It’s late enough. She can see some of Chicago.”

  Makar shrugged, closed the trunk, and opened the passenger side door. Had he expected her to ride in the trunk? Yana thought the horrors would never cease. She got in the front seat. Makar sat behind the wheel, and they drove away. Now she could see the city, the streets, the traffic, the lights … As they pulled out of the alley, she glimpsed the neon sign for the club.

  The Den.

  “What’s your name?” the driver asked.

  “Yana.”

  He back-handed her on the face as he drove. “No, it’s not! What is your name?”

  “Nadia. Nadia!”

  He nodded. “That’s right.”

  They drove for a while until they reached a dark residential neighborhood. It reminded her of that first street in New Jersey where she’d been taken. Isolated, quiet, and out of sight.

  It was the same procedure as before. Makar pulled into the garage of a house. He led Yana inside and handed her over to two men—one black, the other Caucasian. The latter grabbed her roughly by the upper arm and took her upstairs. He knocked on a door and opened it.

  Two other women were lying on beds. They looked up. From the dark circles under their eyes, Yana knew that they, too, were captives.

  “Your roommates,” the man said as he shoved Yana inside. “We’ll go over the rules later.” He closed the door and was gone.

  The other women were young, late teens or early twenties. One was Asian, the other white.

  “What’s your name?” the Asian woman asked.

  “Ya—er, Nadia.”

  “No, what’s your real name?”

  “Yana. My name is Yana.” She broke out into tears. “My name is Yana. My name is Yana!”

  She was determined not to forget it.

  16

  Early August

  On the Monday following Annie’s visit to the Den with Harris Caruthers in July, she attempted to contact Tiffany Vombrack, the bartender, to follow up and perhaps interview her away from the club. Her attempts failed and the momentum on the case slowed. She spent the last half of July on a case involving a Pakistani couple in Chicago who had apparently “bought” a maid from their native country.

  Finally, she was ready to get back to the tattooed girls. As Annie stepped into her cubicle, with coffee thermos and lunch in hand, her cell phone rang with the chime it made when a person called the number on her business card. She plopped her stuff on the desk and grabbed the phone out of her jacket pocket.

  It was Tiffany Vombrack, and she wanted to meet. She specifically asked to see the “photo of the dead girl” again.

  They agreed to get together at a Denny’s on Harlem Avenue, coincidentally, but in Oak Park, much farther north than where Karen Washington had been held. Normally, Annie would have dressed down to meet a witness, but she didn’t bother to change out of her pantsuit. She did, however, stash her weapon in her purse to avoid undue attention.

  Annie arrived first. She chose a booth away from the window in case Tiffany might be worried about being seen from the outside. She sat and placed her leather carrier on top of the table. The waitress brought coffee and water, and Annie waited a full fifteen minutes before Tiffany finally appeared. She was dressed the same way as she had been at the club.

  “Hi, sorry I’m late,” she said. “Traffic.”

  “I understand; it’s all right.”

  Tiffany sat and motioned for the waitress. “Coffee, please.”

  “You have to be at work at five, when the club opens?”

  “Four-thirty. Sometimes I have to open up, and today’s one of those days.”

  When the coffee came, she ordered a full breakfast from the menu, taking it for granted that Annie was picking up the tab. Annie stuck with her coffee, as she had already eaten.

  “Thanks for reaching out,” Annie said.

  “Yeah. I got to thinking. Do you have that picture of the dead girl in the car with you? I want to see it again.”

  Annie nodded. She pulled the file folder out of the case and found the photos. She glanced around to make sure no one else could see it. “Not exactly breakfast material,” she said as she handed Irina Semenov’s picture to Tiffany.

  She looked at it and nodded. “I have seen her before. I thought I might have when you first showed it to me, but Ivan was there and I didn’t want to say so.”

  “I suspected that.”

  “Listen, I don’t want to be in a courtroom. I don’t want to have to say anything on the record. Okay?”

  “Tiffany, we might need you to, if it comes to that.”

  “Nope. I’m going to get up and leave. I can’t be a witness or testify or anything like that.”

  “Why not?”

  “It would be ratting. People in this business, they don’t like rats.”

  “Maybe
you should get in another business.”

  “Right. Like it’s that easy. For you, maybe.”

  Annie didn’t want to lose her. “Fine, off the record. Tell me what you know. It won’t go further than this table.”

  “I have your word?”

  “You have my word.”

  Tiffany nodded. “Okay, girls come and go all the time at the club. All the time. Some girls stay a few weeks, maybe a few months, and then they’re gone. Some girls are there just a week and decide they can’t handle it.”

  “You’re talking about dancers?”

  “Yeah.” Tiffany pointed at the photo. “She was a dancer who was there for one day and one day only. Her name was Anastasia. I didn’t know her last name. She wasn’t very good; her attitude was poor, as I recall. Her English was okay. I didn’t really talk to her except to say hello and welcome her. She was new. Then, the next day, she came to work and Makar was there to take her somewhere. She never came back.”

  Annie took the photo and replaced it in the folder. “Anastasia?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Actually her name was Irina Semenov. She was trafficked, we believe, from Russia.”

  “Trafficked? Oh, my God. Really?”

  “You don’t know anything about that?”

  “No! Jesus, I’m just the bartender!”

  “Calm down. I want to ask you if you’ve noticed anything. Anything that sticks out, something that’s out of place somehow. You said Makar took her somewhere?”

  “Yeah. You remember Makar?”

  “Makar Utkin. The boss’s son.”

  “Yeah, him. I assumed he was taking her to another club or something.”

  “When was this?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. May, sometime.”

  “Please, can you be more specific?”

  “Uh, let me think. Around the middle or end of May, maybe?”

  “Maybe?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “This is important, Tiffany. Was it before Memorial Day weekend?”

  “Yeah, I think so. I’m pretty sure. Look, and there’s something else.”

  “What?”

  “There was a girl at the club a week or so ago. Week-and-a-half. I was told she was interviewing for a job, so she was in one of the back rooms of the club. She didn’t come in through the front door, though. It was pretty late, close to midnight maybe. Anyway, I asked Ivan who was there, and he said ‘some girl named Nadia.’ I never talked to her. Well, she left with Makar that night, too. Ivan escorted her to the car.”

  “Can you describe her?”

  “She definitely looked Russian, I can just tell. Brown hair. Big eyes, but that might have been a deer-in-the-headlights look. I think she looked scared.”

  “Tiffany, what day was this?”

  “Uh”—she hid her face in her hands, and then raised it—“Thursday, a week ago Thursday.”

  Annie made a note of the date and nodded. “I’m going to show you the other two girls again.” She pulled out Karen’s and Teresa’s photos. “Still don’t know them?”

  The woman studied the pictures, but shook her head. “No, I can say I’ve never seen them before.”

  “All right.” Annie organized her thoughts. This meant that Makar Utkin had lied to her. Probably Ivan, too. Makar had known Irina Semenov—“Anastasia” to him, most likely. She would have to revisit the young man.

  “Is Makar working tonight?” Annie asked.

  “I haven’t seen him for a couple of days. He works a crazy schedule. You never know when he’s going to be there. It’s like he works when he feels like it.”

  The food came, and Tiffany dug in. In a way, it gave Annie pleasure to see her eat. It probably wasn’t often that she was treated to such a meal.

  “Tiffany, I’m investigating a human trafficking operation here in Chicago. Have you noticed anything at the Den that might indicate that something like that is going on?”

  She slowly shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. All the girls who dance there want to dance there. I mean, I don’t interview them or anything, I’m not the person who hires them, or fires them, for that matter.” Tiffany set her jaw. “I’m trying to remember if there’s anything … sometimes men bring potential dancers in the back door, like that Nadia girl. They meet with Ivan, or Fyodor, if he’s there. Hardly ever do those girls get hired.” She held up her hands. “I don’t know if there’s a casting couch in the office or not. I stay out of that.”

  “Do the men who work at the Den—do they have relationships, or relations, with the dancers?”

  “Sometimes. But it’s consensual on both parts, I’m pretty sure. Some of the girls, they’re pretty loose, if you know what I mean. Others are there for strictly business, and they don’t put up with any harassment. I get hit on all the time, and I don’t put up with it.”

  “Have you ever heard anyone mention someone called ‘The Bear’?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Annie’s eyes suddenly widened and she gasped, her attention focused over Tiffany’s shoulder.

  “What?” Tiffany asked, turning to look.

  A tall and muscular man, dressed in shorts and a tank top, had just passed by their table. He was facing away from Annie and Tiffany, just a few feet away, with an arm around a blonde woman who, even from the back, looked like she could pass as a model. The man was studying his cell phone as the woman spoke, trying to tell him something.

  Annie felt her stomach lurch. Could that be? Eric? Shit, shit, shit, no, no, no … !

  The man turned just enough so that Annie could see his face.

  “Oh, Jesus,” she whispered and put a hand to her brow, embarrassed.

  “What is it?” Tiffany asked.

  “I, um, thought I saw my ex with his new model girlfriend. But it’s not him.”

  The couple walked away and sat on the other side of the restaurant.

  “How long has it been since you, uh, broke up?” Tiffany asked.

  “Eight months. Well, almost nine.”

  Tiffany gave her a look. “Do you still have a thing for him?”

  Annie looked back at the couple. He was still eyeing his phone, ignoring his gorgeous date as she spoke to him. Typical of Eric, she thought. Two of a kind. This guy isn’t interested in what she has to say, either.

  “Not at all. I’ve moved on.”

  “Have you?”

  Annie did not want to discuss her private life with Tiffany Vombrack. Plus, she was a little angry with herself for reacting the way she had. “Yeah, it was just my eyes playing tricks on me. My jerk alert was going off. Look, Tiffany, let’s get back to the subject at hand. I have to get going. Do me a favor. Keep your eyes and ears open, all right? If you see or hear anything, you let me know. Okay?”

  “Does this mean I’m an informant?”

  “Not officially.”

  “I can’t mention on my Facebook page that I’m working for the FBI?”

  “You don’t want to do that, Tiffany.”

  “I’m kidding. Do I get paid, though?”

  “No. Not unless you think you can deliver some serious evidence. Heck, if you give us evidence that will lead to a successful prosecution, we can put you in witness protection, and you can start a whole new life.” That apparently appealed to Tiffany. Annie saw her eyes glisten at the prospect. After a pause, Annie said, “I’d like to know when Fyodor Utkin returns.”

  “Fyodor? You think he’s involved?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Be careful. Make sure your bosses don’t know you’ve talked to me. Do you know where Fyodor is?”

  Tiffany shrugged. “He’s in Russia, is my guess.”

  “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

  “Nope. Ivan’s always in charge when Fyodor is away. Maybe it’s really Ivan you want.”

  “I can’t imagine Ivan Polzin having it together enough to be in charge of a complex and dangerous crime like trafficking, can you?”

  Tiffany smiled. “
No, you’re right. But he takes orders well.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking, too. Thank you, Tiffany. I hope we’ll be able to speak again. You call me if you hear anything. Just be careful.”

  “I will. I have some hash browns left. You want ’em?”

  17

  Agent Harris Caruthers returned to Chicago to join Annie in questioning Ivan Polzin. She had managed to get the green light to make official requests for Polzin, Fyodor Utkin, and Makar Utkin to appear at the US Attorney’s office on Dearborn. Polzin responded, but not the Utkins. She had known Fyodor was out of town, possibly in Russia, but Makar couldn’t be found.

  She had chosen to deliver the request to the Den in person at five o’clock on a weekday, accompanied by Harris and two Cook County Sheriff’s men who provided support. Annie didn’t expect there to be trouble, but one never knew.

  The bouncer at the front was unfamiliar to her. Before he could protest, Annie and Harris displayed their credentials and the legal documents. “I have official FBI communications for Ivan Polzin and Makar Utkin.”

  The big man looked like he’d been struck. “Uh, okay. Wait here?”

  “No, we’re coming in.” She nodded at the three men behind her. “Let’s go.”

  They marched into the club—which had no customers at the moment, though loud music was already pounding. Tiffany was behind the bar. At first her eyes betrayed a look of alarm, but she quickly recovered and remained cool.

  “See if you can get the music turned off,” Annie told one of the cops. She went past the bar—merely glancing at Tiffany—and through the EMPLOYEES ONLY archway, followed by Harris and the other man. They moved beyond the dressing rooms and into Polzin’s office, where she found him sitting at his desk.

  “Mr. Polzin, the FBI would like you to come down to the federal building for some questioning. It’s voluntary, and you can bring your attorney.”

  The man’s expression was one of disgust, as if he’d just bitten into a rotten apple. “Am I under arrest?”

  “No, sir. But you need to come in for some questioning. This is not a subpoena. It’s just a request. The meeting is suggested for tomorrow, but we’re here to take you there now, if you’d like to get it over with. You may call your attorney, if you wish, and have him or her meet us there.”