In the Hush of the Night Read online

  “You know that?”

  She shrugged. “I hear things from my friends, from the neighborhood. He’s been spotted spying on the girls. He’s not supposed to come around, but he does.”

  “Do you know where he lives now?” Harris asked.

  She shook her head. “I have no idea. I don’t care. I don’t want to know. He can rot in hell, the bastard. He left me with no money. Look around you. I can barely keep our house. I work two jobs.” Then she stopped and looked at both of them. “Why? What’s he done? The other police would not tell me.”

  “Ma’am,” Annie said, “I’m sorry to say that he’s dead. He was in an automobile accident last Wednesday night in Michigan.”

  “Oh.” She didn’t flinch. “Good riddance. I hope no one else was hurt. Was he drunk? I bet he was drunk.”

  Annie and Harris exchanged glances. “Ma’am, do you have any idea why he would be in Michigan? Did he have business there?”

  “How should I know? I have no idea what he did. He was a crook. He associated with undesirable men.”

  “What undesirable men?”

  “That run the strip club.” She made a face in disgust.

  “What strip club?” Annie asked.

  “That one on Cicero, near the airport.”

  Annie thought a moment. She knew all the strip clubs in the Chicago area. “Midway Airport?”

  The woman nodded.

  “The Cat’s Lounge?”

  “That’s it. He had friends there. I imagine he worked there. I don’t know. When he started associating with those people five years ago, that’s when he started ignoring his family.”

  Annie and Harris looked at each other.

  “What time does the Cat’s Lounge open?” Harris asked when they reached their cars.

  “On a Sunday? Not until five. Let’s get a cup of coffee and then we can go.”

  Annie and her squad kept records on all the strip clubs in Chicagoland. They knew who the owners and managers were, and periodically someone from the squad would stop in the establishments and “check on things.” Some strip clubs were notorious for trafficking violations, although the ones in the city had kept their noses clean. Did a criminal element operate behind the scenes for a lot of these places? Certainly. The Italian mob—the so-called Outfit—still existed in Chicago. In fact, every community had its own organized crime group, just like in New York. It came with the territory of big cities.

  They stopped at a Starbucks and took seats in a corner.

  “The Cat’s Lounge is owned and run by a Russian immigrant name Fyodor Utkin,” Annie told Harris. “He’s been around for twenty-five years or so, ever since the fall of the Soviet Union and we started getting an influx of immigrants from that part of the world. I know him. He runs several of the clubs in and around Chicago. I understand he has interests in Milwaukee and other spots in Wisconsin, and up in Minnesota, too. I wasn’t aware of anything in Michigan, but maybe he does now. He’s a wealthy slimeball. But so far he’s kept his nose clean and by all accounts runs a legitimate business. I don’t like the business, but he’s not breaking any laws that we know of.”

  “His name has come up,” Harris said. “But I’ve only been on the job three months, as you know.”

  “Well, hopefully, if he’s in town, you’ll get to meet him.”

  There were four cars besides theirs in the Cat’s Lounge parking lot. Annie knew there was a back entrance and noted six cars parked in the rear, which most likely belonged to dancers, security, and wait staff.

  There were three types of strip clubs, in Annie’s experience. The A-list “classy” ones were pricier, allegedly had the most beautiful women, and served a full menu. These were the places least likely to have legal problems. Below that was a category Annie called the “B-clubs,” which usually only served snack food. Sometimes they were raunchier, and they mostly appealed to a working-class clientele. Clubs that served booze couldn’t display full nudity and were topless only, but the dry joints left nothing to the imagination. The bottom rung of clubs were sleazier, cheaper, and often transient; this category included the so-called massage parlors—dives that came and went, often acting as fronts for illegal activities such as prostitution. Those were the ones the squad had to be on top of.

  The Cat’s Lounge was definitely a B-club. It sold booze and was thus only a topless joint. The food available consisted of typical bar fare. Operating costs were low.

  A tough-looking man in his forties was at the door, sitting on a stool. He wore black trousers and a short-sleeved black T-shirt to emphasize his muscles. He eyed the guns and immediately said, “You can’t bring those in.”

  Credentials flashed, and Annie said, “Is Fyodor here?”

  “Uh, yeah, he’s in the office.”

  “Can you tell him we’d like to see him?” She and Harris handed over business cards.

  The bouncer got up and said, “Wait here.”

  After he’d gone into the club, Annie jerked her head at Harris, and they went inside anyway. The lights were low, except for two stage areas, one of which was occupied by a short blonde woman dancing in a “police” costume. She was grinding and slowly unbuttoning her clothing to the strains of “Money for Nothing.” There were four customers, all men, sitting separately, staring at the dancer as if she were a goddess.

  The bouncer appeared from behind the bar. He noticed them and frowned, annoyed that they had come in, but he waved them onward. The agents moved around the bar and into a back hallway. Dressing rooms were to the right, a storage and supply room was in front, and the manager’s office was to the left. There wasn’t much to the real estate. All the money had gone into the bar and main floor.

  The bouncer gestured them inside the office, where Fyodor Utkin sat at a desk. There were two other chairs in the room. On the desk were stacks of correspondence—bills, statements, and the like—and a thick pile of US currency.

  “Special Agent Annie Marino and a colleague,” Utkin said with a Russian accent. “Always a pleasure to see you.”

  She shook his hand when he stood. “Hello, Fyodor. How are you doing?”

  He gestured to the money. “Just fine, can’t you see? I was just going through last night’s take.”

  Utkin was a man in his mid-fifties with graying dark hair. His physique indicated that he was obviously someone who worked out.

  “And what do I owe for this unexpected visit from the FBI?” he asked, returning to his seat.

  She opened a folder and removed a photo of Vladimir Markov. “Do you know him?”

  Utkin frowned and shook his head. “No. No, I don’t know him. Who is he?”

  “You sure you don’t know him? He hasn’t worked for you at some point?”

  “What? No, I would remember if he worked for me. I don’t know who this is. Who is he?”

  Annie took back the photo. “His name is Vladimir Markov. His ex-wife says he used to hang out here a lot.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “So if I ask any of your employees or your dancers if they know him, they’ll tell me no, too?”

  “I don’t know! You asked if I knew him, and I don’t. I don’t know everyone who comes in here. I have other clubs, and I’m not always here. I travel a lot.”

  Annie pulled out photos of the victim and a close-up of the tattoo. “Do you know her?”

  Utkin recoiled at the brutality of the picture. She had purposefully shown him the one taken of the Jane Doe in the trunk, and one of her face. “Jesus Christ, that’s horrible! Why you show me this?”

  “Sorry, she turned up dead a few days ago, and I just want to know if you recognize her.”

  “No, I don’t! God.” He gave the pictures back.

  “Wait. See that tattoo?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Have you ever seen it before?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Lots of girls—and men, too—have tattoos. I pay no attention.” Annie studied his face. “What? I run legitimate busines
s here, you know that.”

  She returned the photos to the folder. “I’d like to show these pictures to your staff. Is that all right?”

  “Go ahead.”

  She turned to the bouncer, who was still standing at the door. “You want to look? What’s your name, anyway?”

  “This is Boris,” Utkin said. “He’s new.”

  “What do you say, Boris?” she asked. “Know this man or this woman?”

  He looked quickly, shook his head, and said, “No.”

  “What a surprise,” Annie muttered.

  She led the way out of the office and down the hall. She knocked on a dressing room door.

  “Come in!”

  Annie made sure the occupant was decent, and then she and Harris entered. She knew the woman who sat in front of a mirror applying makeup. The woman looked up. “Oh, hi, you’re that FBI agent, ain’t you!”

  “Special Agent Annie Marino. This is Special Agent Harris Caruthers. How are you, uh, Tina, right?”

  “That’s right, you got a good memory.”

  “You’ve been working here a while, haven’t you?”

  “A little over a year.”

  “A year’s a long time in this business. Everything good? No complaints?”

  “Nope. I like to dance, and I make good money. No complaints.”

  Annie looked at Harris, who nodded—he was letting her handle the interview. Annie handed over the picture of Markov. “Do you know him?”

  She didn’t look long. “Yeah, I’ve seen him around.”

  “Around?”

  Tina gestured toward the bar. “Customer. He’s a regular.”

  “You ever see him back here, with Fyodor or other staff?”

  Tina shook her head. “Mm, no, I don’t think so.”

  “But you’ve definitely seen him here?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “You ever talk to him?”

  She shrugged. “Yeah. If they tip, if they want a lap dance, you know, sure, you talk to them.”

  “He ever say anything beyond what you’d normally hear?”

  “No. He’s not one I tend to remember, if you know what I mean. He’s pretty quiet when he’s here. Not like some of the noisy ones, you know, the ones that say vulgar shit about your ass or tits. Why, what’s he done?”

  Annie didn’t answer her. She thought she’d spare Tina the graphic photo of the victim and instead pulled out the close-up of the tattoo. “Ever seen ink like this?”

  Tina creased her brow. “Mm, no. I don’t think so. Wait. Yeah, maybe. A girl that passed through here a couple months ago had ink like that. She’d just come into the country, I think. Didn’t stay long. Worked two days at most.”

  “Just come into the country? From where?”

  “Russia, or Eastern Europe, somewhere like that.”

  That answer prompted Annie to go ahead and show her Jane Doe’s trunk shot. “Is this her?”

  “Oh my God!” Tina turned away.

  “I’m sorry, Tina.” She said, more gently, “This girl was trafficked and murdered. We’re trying to identify her. I’d appreciate it if you looked.”

  Tina peered through fingers. “Ew. No, I don’t think that’s her. Wait. No, well, it could be, but I don’t … no … I don’t think it is.”

  “So are you saying it’s improbable that this is the girl who was here for a couple of days, but not impossible?”

  “I guess so.”

  After a few more questions, it was clear they weren’t going to get much else from Tina. They interviewed the sole waitress and the bartender, both of whom confirmed that Vladimir Markov was indeed a Cat’s Lounge customer at times, but no one knew anything else about him. No one copped to the tattoo or the pictures of Jane Doe, either. Annie and Harris went back to Utkin’s office.

  “Apparently Mr. Markov was a regular customer,” Annie told Utkin.

  “Like I said, I don’t know everyone who comes in. You’re lucky you caught me here today. I’m leaving town tomorrow.”

  “Who runs the place when you’re gone?”

  “Ivan or Ludwig comes over from the Den. Or bartender Sandy; she’s very capable.”

  Annie knew Ivan Polzin as well. He had immigrated to the US in the early nineties and worked in Utkin’s organization.

  “Guess I’ll have to talk to Ivan. Oh, by the way, I heard the woman in this photo may have worked here a couple of days. You sure you don’t recognize her?”

  She watched his body language, especially the way his eyes darted around the room instead of looking at the photo. “If she did, I didn’t know her. And I see every girl who works here, so that means I don’t know her. Sorry to disappoint you. Who of my employees told you this?”

  She ignored the question. “Thank you for your time, Fyodor. Do me a favor—if you happen to see anyone with that tattoo, let me know, would you?”

  When they got outside to their cars, Harris asked, “Do you think he’s lying?”

  Annie looked back at the building as it vibrated from the heavy bass notes pounding inside.

  “Yeah, I do.”

  6

  Early June

  The ship rocked with the waves, sending one of her roommates to the toilet again.

  Yana Kravec clutched the edge of her cot and sat up. It was better than lying down—that was what made her seasick. Fortunately, she hadn’t continued to vomit like Christina. Sofia, her other roommate, seemed to be doing all right.

  “Is it going to be like this the whole way?” Sofia asked, her face a little green.

  “I hope not,” Yana replied.

  “It’s only the fourth day at sea. We have eight more days of this torture.”

  “The second day was calm, remember? We will get out of the rough waters. It won’t be like this all the way to America.”

  At least Yana hoped not.

  It had been two weeks since her last meeting with Nikolai Babikov before he came through with her passport and visa to the United States. She paid him the small fee, which she thought was an incredible bargain. Yana knew of people who had turned over their life savings to emigrate. She was getting transport essentially for free.

  Nikolai told her to meet him near the Big Port of St. Petersburg on the designated day. They met at a coffee shop. She carried a single suitcase, a shoulder bag, and a purse. He had told her to pack as lightly as possible. Once again, he asked her if she had told her parents—or anyone—about the arrangements. She hadn’t. He then handed over the lovely passport and visa. Her picture wasn’t the best, but it would do. The visa said that she would be working as “domestic help” for the Caviar Nanny Agency, based in New Jersey.

  Sofia and Christina also showed up at the coffee shop. They were around the same age as Yana, both very pretty. Christina was from St. Petersburg. Sofia was from a small town called Kirishi, which was still larger than Yana’s little village of Chudovo. They were expecting to become models or actresses as well. Yana joked that she hoped they wouldn’t become competitors. Over the meal Nikolai bought them, they quickly became fast friends. They were going on a wonderful adventure together!

  Nikolai had explained that they would be ushered through the port authorities with the crew of a large shipping container. He assured them there wouldn’t be any problems with their passports or visas. There might be a few days in which they’d be inside their quarters before the ship actually left port. The trip at sea would take twelve days, but the entire journey, from boarding the boat to disembarking, could be between fourteen and twenty days.

  You are not to leave your quarters during the journey.

  “Why not?” Sofia asked.

  Those are the rules. We are getting around certain procedures. You cannot call attention to yourselves. Not everyone aboard the ship will know you are there. Only a select few. You will be brought food and water on a daily basis. You will have your own private toilet.

  He gave them a deck of playing cards. This might occupy some of your time. I understand the
re are Russian books and magazines in your quarters, as well as American ones. I know you can all speak English, but you might use the time to practice. Everyone speaks English in America.

  That had been five days ago. Nikolai had taken them into the port later that night, after midnight. An official who looked as if he’d been awakened met them at the terminal. He stamped their passports without really looking at them. Nikolai handed him an envelope, and a crew member of the Okulovka escorted the three young women aboard.

  Their room was a box. Fifteen feet by fifteen feet. No windows. There were four folded cots on the floor when they arrived, so one was removed. It was a good thing, because when the three cots were fully opened, there was already barely enough room to pass between them. A toilet the size of a kitchen pantry was attached, but there was no shower or bath. A small empty shelf was attached to the wall. A box of paperback books and old magazines sat in the corner.

  When the crew member shut the door, he locked it.

  The three of them were in a bit of shock. How could this be their accommodations? Did they have to be stuck in this little room with each other for three weeks?

  The women calmed down and discussed it, and it was Sofia who convinced them all that this was the way it was going to be because what they were doing was illegal—but it was the only way to get them to America for free. They had to suck it up and make it work.

  That made them feel better, and when dinner was brought to them, the crew member—Von was his name—was kind. He spoke pleasantly and explained a little about the voyage across the sea. It would not always be smooth sailing. Sometimes the ocean was rough. He told them a few things they could do to combat sea sickness and gave them pills to help prevent it. Von also emphasized that they were not to leave the room—because they weren’t supposed to be there. He and a couple others were the only ones who knew there were “passengers” aboard. Von asked them to make an adventure out of it. Look at it as the sacrifice they had to make in order to go to America. Enjoy it—it would be something to remember for the rest of their lives.

  So they had made the best of it.

  Now, five days later, four days of which were at sea, the girls were ready to strangle each other. Christina, in particular, had been upset about the conditions the entire time. While she was willing to put up with it, it didn’t mean she couldn’t complain—and she did. Yana, however, kept a positive attitude. She knew this was the hardest part of the journey. Besides, she was happy to leave Russia. She wasn’t sorry at all to say goodbye.