Annie looked at the time and noted that her father would be in his office and not the classroom. She dialed his number.
“Annie?” he answered.
“Hi, Dad. How are you?”
“Just fine. What’s up, sweetie?”
“I was just calling. We haven’t talked in a while. Sorry, it’s been crazy busy here.”
“No need to apologize, I’m just happy to know you’re alive. We missed you at the cookout on July Fourth, though.”
Jack Marino, after moving through a couple of institutions, now taught at College of DuPage in Glen Ellyn, a western suburb of Chicago. Robert, a stockbroker in New York, and Mary, a schoolteacher in Bloomingdale, another western suburb, had made it out to the family home in Glen Ellyn for the holiday. Paul, a film editor in Los Angeles, and Annie had missed the gathering.
“Yeah, I’m sorry about that. My bad.”
“Don’t worry about it. You still taking dance lessons?”
“Ha. Technically, I am, but I’m never in class. I keep practicing the same toe-heel shuffle combination over and over in my apartment. Aloysius thinks I’m mad.”
Her father laughed. “Your mother would egg you on. You know she—”
“—she tap danced, too, I know, that’s why I started taking lessons. I was just … I was just thinking about her. I guess that’s why I called.”
“Yeah, well, I think about her all the time.”
“Sure. We all do.”
“How’s—you still seeing what’s-his-name? Edward?”
“Eric. No. That ended about nine months ago. Forget him. I have.”
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that, honey.”
“Don’t be. He was a schmuck. Besides, FBI agents don’t fall in love and get married.” Christ, had she just said that?
“Annie …”
“Never mind, Dad. Really.”
They small-talked for a few more minutes, and Annie said she had to get back to work.
“Okay, don’t be a stranger,” he father said. “Maybe we can do something on Labor Day weekend?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
There was a pause. “You sure you’re okay, sweetheart?”
“Absolutely. Talk to you later.”
She hung up and sighed. Of course I’m okay.
Her gaze moved back to the computer monitor.
The report. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to write. Nothing unusual had occurred at the Den. Harris had been set up to watch the back of the building, while Annie kept an eye on the front. Customers came and went. Dancers and staff entered and left through the back door. No one brought women to the club in a surreptitious manner. The operation was proving to be of no consequence, and so on the third day Annie pulled the plug and decided to focus on other pending cases. She was about to deliver the report when SSA Gladden phoned with some news.
“Marino, you have another tattoo.”
The next day, Annie and Harris drove to Milwaukee, where a forty-eight-year-old Caucasian man had been caught attempting to dispose of a body in a forest preserve. The deceased was a woman, approximately eighteen or nineteen years of age, who had been strangled. Milwaukee PD arrested the man, who confessed to killing her.
The bear claws tattoo was on the corpse’s neck.
This information was processed through ViCAP, where it was flagged and sent to the Chicago FBI field office. The crime had occurred a week previously, so Annie and Harris were too late to view the body, which had already been cremated. This time, the victim had actually been identified. Helena Nikolaev was an illegal immigrant from Ukraine who had been reported missing in her home country a year earlier. How she managed to enter the US was unknown. ICE was looking into the case, but other details cropped up that necessitated the FBI Civil Rights Human Trafficking squad’s involvement. Special Agent Brad Blocker, from the Milwaukee FO, was already assigned, but Annie’s superiors coordinated an exchange of data.
Annie and Harris met Blocker at the Milwaukee County Jail on North 9th Street, which was operated by the US Marshals Service, Eastern District of Wisconsin. The plan was to interview the suspect and go over the evidence collected at the crime scene and the suspect’s home. Agent Blocker was in his early thirties and had a rather cold, no-nonsense attitude. Annie sensed in the man an underlying prejudice against immigrants—Russian or otherwise—as he spoke of them disparagingly.
After viewing the crime scene photos and autopsy report and examining the photo of the tattoo, Annie confirmed that the victim was linked to The Bear.
“The perp says he bought her on the Internet,” Blocker said. “She was to be his personal slave. Apparently, he had her confined in a shed that was in his backyard for three months. He used her for his own sick pleasure. He’s divorced, lived alone, but he has kids reaching college age.” The man shook his head. “That’s what these damned immigrants get themselves into coming over here like that without proper documentation.”
Annie ignored the remark and asked, “How did she die?”
“He was doing one of those asphyxiation kink-things on her while having sex with her.”
“You mean raping her.”
“Uh, yeah. Went too far, he says. Real piece of work, he is.”
She and Harris watched the video of the suspect’s confession, took notes, and then arranged to interview him.
Joseph Flanagan was a top salesman with a national insurance firm, but now he was dressed in a jumpsuit with a depressed look on his face as he was brought into an interrogation room.
Annie and Harris sat across from him at the table. Annie introduced herself and Harris and told the man why they were there. “We’ve heard and read the statements you’ve made, but we’d like you to please tell us again everything you know. We’re especially interested in how you obtained the woman. Who you spoke to, what kind of money you paid … anything at all?”
“I’ve already told the police what I know.”
“That’s all right. You can tell us now.”
Flanagan told a story that was not unfamiliar. He had been a patron of a strip club called Cherries Jubilee, located in the western outskirts of Milwaukee. In Annie’s classification of strip clubs, it was one of those middle-level B-clubs that catered to a working-class clientele. The dive featured dancers of all ethnicities, but the Eastern European and Russian women, Flanagan claimed, were the “most attractive,” which was why he went there. After being recognized as a regular customer, a man approached him in the club.
“He asked me if I might be interested in owning a girl like them,” Flanagan said. “At first, I was, like, what? What do you mean? He explained that he knew of a website where you could buy a woman—like a mail-order bride—only she would be, in his words, ‘your personal slave.’ I thought he was crazy, but he was slick and charming and acted like he knew what he was talking about.”
“Please describe him. Was he American? Russian?”
“Russian, I think. He spoke with a heavy accent. He said his name was Petyr, spelled P-E-T-Y-R. He actually spelled it out loud, just like that. He never told me his last name.”
“Did he work at the club?” Harris asked.
“I don’t think so. He was sitting in the club like a customer.”
“Had you seen him there before?” Annie asked.
“A couple of times. We’d said hello to each other, acknowledged that we liked what we saw on stage. I remember he asked me if I liked Russian women. I told him yes. It was the next time I was there, after that, that he told me about the website.”
Annie consulted her notes. “I see you provided the website URL to the other investigators. Did you know that this was an address in the dark web?”
“I know that now. I didn’t at the time. I didn’t even know what the dark web was!”
The FBI, of course, knew all about the darknet, as it was also called. The organization had special personnel in the Cybercrimes Division who monitored it. The darknet functioned primarily as a black market for il
legal transactions, an online shopping mall of worldwide illicit and criminal behavior. Terrorists used the darknet to communicate with each other, and child pornographers were active in it. While some legitimate business was conducted in the dark web, chances were that anything going on there was seriously questionable.
“Tell us how it worked,” Annie ordered. “What convinced you to try it?”
Flanagan shrugged. “I guess it was just the idea of having a … oh, God, I’m really sorry. I never should have done it.”
“Too late for that,” Harris spat. “Just talk to us. Maybe you can help yourself when it comes to your sentencing. I know they’re talking about the death penalty for what you did. We’ll see if what you tell us leads to any convictions of the people running this thing. It could help.”
Annie knew Wisconsin didn’t have the death penalty. She shot Harris a look, and he winked at her.
The threat worked, though. Flanagan nodded and said, “Petyr told me I need this special software called I2P. Once I had that on my computer, I could access the site. The URL he gave me just went to a screen where you filled out a form—your name, address, and what you were looking for. It said that all the information was confidential and would not be shared.”
“And you believed that?” Harris asked.
“I know, I’m stupid. Really stupid.”
“Go on, Mr. Flanagan.”
“So, a day later, I got an email with a code, and that allowed me to get past the front door of the site. Then I was asked questions about my living conditions, like where I would keep a woman if I got one, how I would keep it a secret, what risks I might have to take. Stuff like that. I guess they wanted to be sure I wasn’t going to get caught easily. I also had to affirm that if I did get caught, I was on my own. I had to take the fall. After that, I waited a day or two, and then I got another email with a new code and URL. This sent me to a different site for another set of questions, this time about the type of woman I was looking for. You know, blonde or brunette, that kind of thing. A day or two later, another email arrived with a new link and code. This one took me to a picture of … Helena. She looked … great. I didn’t ask to see any others.”
The prisoner hung his head and started to cry.
Annie and Harris shared a glance, and then she asked, “Do you need a break, Mr. Flanagan?”
He shook his head. Annie found some tissues in her suit jacket pocket and handed them over. The prisoner wiped his face and blew his nose.
“Then what happened, Mr. Flanagan?”
“The cost was fifteen thousand dollars. I had to come up with the money. That took a couple of days.”
Harris interrupted. “Didn’t you have any qualms about paying money to strangers with no recourse if something went wrong? What if it was just a scam?”
“It was to be an in-person exchange. Once I agreed, I got another email with instructions. I had to get the cash and put it in a suitcase. I was told to go to a motel—it was the Shady Grove Motel out on I-94—and go to a particular room at one in the morning. They said I had to back up my car right in front of the room and open the trunk. I knocked on the door. There was a man there with a clown mask on—and Helena was sitting on the bed.”
“Did she appear as if she’d been mistreated?” Annie asked.
“I don’t know. She looked just fine to me, better than her picture. She was scared, I guess. She didn’t say anything.”
“The man,” Harris interjected, “can you describe him?”
“He was dressed in black and had that creepy rubber clown mask on. He had a big gun, too. Made me very nervous. When he spoke, it was not a Russian accent.”
“American?”
“Yeah. Sounded like it.”
“And then what?”
“I was told to open the suitcase. The guy counted the money. He then told Helena to get in the trunk of my car. I objected, but he told me I could do what I wanted after I’d driven at least ten miles away, but he advised me not to let her out until I was home.”
Annie glanced at the police reports. Investigations had been made at the motel in question. The room had been rented by a “J. Smith.” The manager had been interrogated for a day, but ultimately it was clear that he hadn’t known what was going on in the room.
“So … you had Helena there in your shed for three months,” she said.
Flanagan nodded. “I didn’t mistreat her. I fed her, I made sure she wasn’t bored when I wasn’t around; I even gave her a puppy.”
“You didn’t mistreat her? You kept her captive in a shed, you raped her repeatedly, you used her for your own selfish purposes … and then you ultimately strangled her to death?”
Flanagan hung his head and started to cry again.
“Jesus …” Annie looked at Harris. “Come on, let’s go. We’re done here.”
Annie and Harris continued to go over the case with Agent Blocker.
“We were all over that club, Cherries Jubilee. The manager’s a guy named Chuck Dzenko. American, born and raised. Actually, he’s only the assistant manager but he ran the place. Get this—Flanagan was still coming to the club, even with the woman already at his house. Dzenko knew him as a customer. Dzenko has lots of arrests on his record, including a couple for pandering, but that was over a decade ago. A while back he was manager of another club that burned down called Marvel Girls. There was some insurance fraud suspected there, but nothing was proven. As for Cherries Jubilee, it appears he keeps the business clean, so far, if you can call what he does clean. He swore he didn’t know a customer named Petyr or witness any encounters between Flanagan and anyone else other than the dancers.”
“Of course not. Did you find out who actually owns the club?”
“Yeah, looks like it’s a shell company based in Belize called—”
“Eyepatch, LLC.”
“Yeah.”
Annie nodded. “We already have our Financial Crimes people looking into it. The company has no TIEA so we can’t find out who the principals are. But we’re still trying. Has the name Fyodor Utkin come up in your investigation?”
“Yeah, he’s the real manager of Cherries Jubilee, but he’s missing in action.”
She looked at Harris. “We really have to find that guy.”
For grins, Annie and Harris stopped at Cherries Jubilee before heading back to Chicago. The club hadn’t opened for business yet, but they found Chuck Dzenko behind the bar, restocking the booze. He was in his fifties, had red hair, and sported a pot belly.
“And what can I tell the FBI that I haven’t already told the FBI?” he asked when they revealed their IDs.
“We’d like to show you some photographs,” Annie said, pulling out her expanding collection. She showed him pictures of Vladimir Markov, Irina Semenov, Karen Washington, and Teresa Wang, and then shots of Makar Utkin, Fyodor Utkin, and Ivan Polzin. He reacted negatively to them all except Fyodor.
“I know him, he’s the boss.”
“How well do you know him?”
He shrugged. “Known him a few years. He doesn’t live in Milwaukee, though. Lives in Chicago, doesn’t he? He isn’t here much. I’ve pretty much managed the place for him. You know, a while back I had a club of my own, the Marvel Girls …”
“We know that,” Harris said.
“Yeah, well, Fyodor’s club was competition—friendly competition, I guess. We knew each other. Sometimes dancers from his place came over to mine, and sometimes mine went over to his. It’s an incestuous business. Uh, I didn’t mean it that way …”
“We know what you mean.” She pointed to Makar’s photo. “This is his son. You ever seen him?”
Dzenko frowned. “I don’t think so.”
“Have you ever seen this before?” Annie showed him the photo of the bear claws tattoo.
“Nope.”
As it was before the club officially opened, there were no dancers or other staff to interview, but Annie didn’t think it would matter. She thanked Dzenko and they left. Before
hitting the road, she made a call to SA Sally Bertram in Financial Crimes.
“Hey, Sally, I just wanted to know if you’ve made any progress on uncovering anyone behind Eyepatch, LLC, that shell company we talked about before?”
“No, but have you heard from Colin Clark?”
“The ALAT in Russia? No, I’ve been waiting to hear from him.”
“Well, he called me to ask the same thing. The Russian government busted a bank in St. Petersburg that was allegedly moving dirty money for some drug runners located in some of the southern states—Texas and Arkansas and Louisiana, I believe. Let’s see … it’s called Karpovka River Bank. In the course of auditing it, they discovered that Eyepatch, LLC was listed as a client. In a gesture of uncommon goodwill, the Russians shared that information with our embassy.”
“Holy shit, that’s good news. Thanks, Sally, I’ll get on to Clark right away.” She hung up and told Harris what she’d learned.
“I hope that leads somewhere,” he said. “But I tell you, this operation … how in the world have they kept it so well hidden? This guy, Flanagan, if he hadn’t been careless, he might still have Helena Nikolaev in his shed. How many buyers are there? How many victims? We’re lucky Flanagan screwed up. Other buyers could be more careful. Are there dozens of other trafficked victims out there being held privately by The Bear’s customers?”
Annie frowned. “I hope it’s limited to just dozens.”
20
Yana wanted to scream.
Not because of the abuse she was subjected to, but rather from the sheer helplessness she felt. She had lost count of the days since she was first brought to the house. It had been at least a month. One of the other women, the Asian girl, was sold two weeks into Yana’s stay. Now it was just the two of them—Yana and the Serbian girl, Mira.
She wished she could find the courage to attempt an escape.
The captors were two men who lived in the house, too. Very bad, very cruel men. The only good thing was it was now prohibited by their bosses to touch the merchandise. So, sexually at least, the torment had let up. The first month of captivity had been a constant barrage, such a terrifying ordeal that Yana was fully aware that even if she did find a way to flee, she would be forever damaged.
In the Hush of the Night Page 13
