The Collector

by Scott Wittenburg

Alan glanced over at the Conservatory of Dance Arts in Bridgehampton and slowed down his speed. Since he had only a few more miles to go before reaching East Hampton, he continued his drive east on the Montauk Highway at a leisurely speed and took in the town's quaint charm. It was easy to understand why this area was in such great demand and so expensive. Living this far out on Long Island allowed locals to escape the chaos of the city and live a more normal comfortable life in one of the beautiful homes, always in close proximity to the spotless white beaches and dunes stretching to the south along the Atlantic.

  He reached the outskirts of town and sped up to the speed limit. Ten minutes later he approached East Hampton and grabbed the map printout of the area lying off the seat. Finding Yuri Popov's restaurant would be easy since it was not far from Main Street, the common name for Montauk Highway as it ran through the center of town. His goal was to find out all he could about the Russian-American, particularly where his home was located.

  He entered the town and didn't need to drive far before he approached the intersection of Newtown Lane. He turned left on Newtown and spotted the intersection of the street where Stolovaya was located within a few of blocks. He started looking for a place to park along Newtowne in order to avoid his car being seen by any of the workers when he entered the restaurant. He found a spot a little over a block away, parked the Taurus and got out.

  As he backtracked down the street toward the restaurant, Alan noted the similarity between East Hampton and the other Hamptons he had driven through. All were small and charming with the characteristic small shops lining the main streets. He was surprised at the rather small size of Popov's restaurant, expecting something much larger. But that didn't take away from the fact that there was still plenty of money to be made from the well-to-do locals.

  He entered the restaurant and waited a couple of moments to be seated. The crowd was fairly small since it was between breakfast and lunch time. The place seemed clean and comfortable—a nice blend of casual elegance and functionality. He knew very little about Russian cuisine and was curious what the menu consisted of.

  He was led to a table near the window by a middle-aged hostess with a thick Russian accent. Alan sat down, ordered a coffee and looked over the menu. There was some American food listed in addition to the Russian cuisine—but Alan was feeling adventurous and decided he would give the ethnic food a try—more or less.

  The waiter came over and set a cup of coffee and a water in front of him.

  "What would you like, sir?"

  "Uh, I'd like to just have couple of fried eggs over easy and a bowl of your potato soup."

  "Very good," the waiter replied. "Bread?"

  "Wheat toast would be fine."

  The waiter nodded, scrawled down the order and left.

  Alan peered around the restaurant to get a feel for the best way to go about pumping the help about their boss. He first needed to find out if Popov was on the premises now and if not, when they expected him to show up. Once he figured out what car he was driving, he would hang out nearby until Popov left. Then he would tail him to his home.

  When the waiter returned with his food, Alan decided to cut to the chase. He took out his wallet, selected one of several bogus business cards and handed it to the waiter.

  "Is the owner here by any chance? I sell top of the line kitchen equipment and would like very much to talk to him about our exciting new line."

  The waiter said, "No, he is not here. He is out of town on business."

  "Oh, that's too bad. Any idea when he will return?"

  "I'm afraid not, sir."

  "Well, thanks anyway."

  The waiter handed the business card back to Alan and nodded before leaving.

  Alan wasn't sure if this was good news or bad. On the positive side, if Popov were out of town it would make checking out his home a lot easier. The downside however was finding out where his home was located. He had tried Google searches of Popov and everything else he could think of related to his restaurant in an attempt to find his home address but to no avail. He had called Charlie Ling just after he'd picked up the rental car but had gotten his voicemail. He would have to try him again after he left the restaurant.

  The food was delicious and Alan was finished wolfing it down in five minutes flat. He drained the last of his coffee, paid the check and left the place wondering how a scumbag like Yuri Popov could own such a nice place. He came to the conclusion that the man probably had very little to do with the actual running of the restaurant and most likely left that to somebody else while he spent his quality time overseas rounding up women for sex.

  On his way back to the rental car Alan called Charlie again, crossing his fingers. The Asian American computer whiz picked up after a couple of rings.

  "Hey, what's up?" Charlie said.

  "I need a huge favor, Charlie and I need it fast. Is there any chance you could find out a person's home address if I all I have is the guy's name plus the address and phone number of a restaurant he owns?"

  "Hmm, depends. What's the guy's name?"

  "Yuri Popov."

  "And the name and location of the restaurant?"

  "Stolovaya in East Hampton, New York."

  "Give me a second," Charlie said.

  He could hear Charlie tapping his computer keyboard over the phone at lightning fast speed.

  "What's the name of the street the restaurant’s on?"

  "48 Charring Road."

  Alan heard more clicking as Charlie pecked away at his keyboard.

  "P-o-p-o-v?" he spelled out.

  "Yeah, Yuri."

  "Wait a second . . . Ah, got it!"

  "No shit?"

  "I shit you not. He lives at 704 West Beach Drive, East Hampton. I'm pulling it up on Google Earth and it looks like his place isn't too far from where the restaurant is located. Let me see here. Yeah, there it is. Whoa, it's a big spread—even has a pool and a tennis court. This guy must be fricking loaded!"

  Alan hurriedly scrawled the address on a napkin.

  "Christ, Charlie, I don't know how in the hell you do it but I really owe you for this!"

  "I know you do—don't think I'm not running a tab for all of this greatness."

  "And worth every penny of it. Well, my friend, I'd better get going. Thanks a million."

  "No problem. Later, gator."

  Alan disconnected, shaking his head. He couldn't believe how Charlie Ling could find things like Popov's home address, and do it so quickly. The guy was a bona fide genius.

  He arrived back at the rental car, got in and touched the Google Earth app on his iPhone. He typed in Yuri Popov's address and was quickly taken via satellite to a dot on the map in East Hampton, Long Island. Alan double-clicked the satellite image until he had zoomed in as close as he could to Popov's property. Charlie was right—the place was enormous. Located within walking distance of the beach, Yuri Popov's estate consisted of a huge main house adjacent to what appeared to be a guest house, a tennis court, large pool and a garden, all surrounded by mature trees and tall hedges. The only break in the perimeter of the grounds were two gated entrances located on either side of a long driveway running along the front of the main house.

  Alan zoomed out and located Stolovaya. It was only a few miles or so from Popov's house. He needed get back on Main Street, head east over to Egypt Lane then south to Further Lane. This would bring him within a stone's throw from Popov's home.

  Alan started the motor and then heard his phone ring. It was Charlie.

  "Hey, Charlie," he said, wondering why he had called back so soon.

  "After we got off I decided to see if I could get anywhere on that website URL you gave me. I went to the site and noticed that there have been more images posted on it since you first contacted me. I didn't know if you were aware of that."

  Alan felt his heart rate go up—he hadn't visited the site in several days.

  "Shit, I didn't know! How many more images are there?"

  "Let's see. T
here were four posted before if I remember correctly and now there's about ten—no twelve. So there are eight new ones."

  "Wow, Charlie, I'm really glad you called me back on this—it's hugely important!"

  "I had a feeling you'd want to know. Anyway, I'm going to go to work again on this trace and see if maybe the additional image paths can give me a clue to the source. I'll let you know if I have any luck."

  "Thanks for calling, Charlie," Alan said, then disconnected.

  His hand actually trembling, Alan touched the Safari app icon and located the bookmarked website of Polina's captor. Seconds later, the page loaded. Alan scrolled down the column of images and glanced at the new ones. All of them were photographic renderings of ballerinas à la Degas, as before. He recognized most of them from his earlier research.

  He scrolled back up to the top and looked for images of Polina. He counted a total of six, although a couple of them he couldn't be sure of because the girl in question was either not clearly focused or her back was to the camera. There was one that was definitely Polina and it was a solo shot. The girl was standing in a dance studio wearing a blue tutu fanning herself with a large fan. Her stance was rather formal and her hair was pulled back behind her ears. She was wearing a necklace choker on her neck, making her look rather elegant for her young age.

  Alan zoomed in on this image and stared at Polina's face, wondering if he could read anything from her expression. Did it look like she was afraid or the least bit uneasy? No, not all. He wondered how these girls could model so effectively for someone who was literally using them as slaves. Although they were no doubt being forced to pose and do as their captor demanded, no one would ever know it from seeing these images. After comparing them to the originals, it was quite possible that the girls were being coached by someone who not only knew what he was doing but was patient with a penchant for detail.

  His gut feeling told him that it was unlikely that the girls were being harmed by this man. They not only seemed to be content with what they were doing but they looked healthy and showed no visible signs of physical abuse.

  Which was certainly good to know, but did not discount the fact that they had been kidnapped and sold into slavery by human traffickers—

  And from what Elena had learned, they would soon be moving on to much a worse gig than their present one.

  By posting these images, was the “artist” indicating that he was through with using these girls for this purpose? That their gig was over and it was time to move on? Why did that seem so hard to fathom?

  How could someone “own” these girls for all of this time, be reasonably kind to them then suddenly let them go so that they could be re-sold as prostitutes?

  It would really take an uncaring heartless bastard to do that.

  But now was not the time to be analyzing this—he would return to it later. Right now, he had to go see what he could find out about the man who had purchased and then sold Elena to Viktor the pimp.

  Alan closed out of Safari and returned to Google Earth. He got his bearings, started up the Taurus and headed back toward Main Street. He travelled east on the highway for a short distance then turned south on Cross Highway. After a few more miles, the smell of the Atlantic greeted him as he began peeling his eyes for Popov’s house. Using Google as his guide, he spotted the entrance and slowed down.

  It was nearly impossible to see the house from the road due to the thick hedges bounding either side of the main entrance. He drove up to the second entrance and could see a bit more of the house from that perspective. This access to the driveway was probably used more as an exit, he concluded. There were no cars parked on the drive, which was a good sign.

  Alan pulled over along the side of the road and intentionally parked where the rental would be in plain view from the house. He powered off his iPhone before shoving it into his rear pocket then getting out of the car. Then, after a quick glance back at the Taurus, he headed up the driveway toward Yuri Popov’s palatial East Hampton estate.

  As the massive gray two-story house came into full view, Alan’s eyes scanned the grounds. Beyond the patio separating the main house from the guesthouse was a tennis court located in the rear of the estate. Past the court were a good-sized garden plot and more trees. Although he couldn’t see it now, Alan knew that behind the house and a little north would be the oval-shaped in-ground swimming pool and the pool house. He tried to estimate how much this spread was worth but didn’t have a clue. All he knew for sure was that the profits from Popov’s restaurant weren’t the only thing paying for it.

  He reached the front porch and rang the doorbell. A few moments later, a woman’s voice sounded through the door.

  “Who is there, please?” came the muffled greeting.

  “My name is Densmore, ma’am—Brian Densmore. My car ran out of gas and I was wondering if I might use your phone.”

  The door opened an inch. A slit of face appeared through the crack.

  “How do I know you are speaking the truth?” the woman asked. Her accent was clearly not American. It in fact sounded similar to the hostess’s at Popov’s restaurant.

  Alan took out his wallet and pulled out a business card. He held it up so the woman could see it.

  “See, Brian Densmore, real estate agent,” he said.

  The woman stared at the card a moment, and then opened the door. Alan did a double-take at what he saw. The woman was in her early to mid-twenties with long blonde hair and absolutely gorgeous. From the sound of her voice, Alan had expected an older woman.

  She also looked more than just a little bit like Elena—if Elena was at a healthy weight and not strung out from her abominable existence. She was around five-seven and wore baggy sweatpants and an oversized NYU sweatshirt.

  The woman smiled tentatively but remained where she stood behind the storm door, making no effort to open it.

  “Don’t you have a cell phone? It seems like a real estate person would own one,” she said, still suspicious.

  Alan pulled out his iPhone and held it up.

  “Dead as a doornail.”

  The woman hesitated a moment, scrutinizing his face as if to size him up. He seemed to have won her approval.

  “Very well. You may use the phone,” she said, opening the door for him to enter.

  “Thank you so much, ma’am. I’ll just make a quick call to Triple A and be on my way,” he said, stepping inside.

  The interior of Popov’s home was stunning in its opulence and elegance, again causing Alan to marvel at how a man so corrupt and loathsome could put up such a sparkling façade.

  Then he recalled The Godfather and all of this suddenly made some kind of sense.

  “There is a phone in the study. Follow me,” the woman said.

  “Thank you—nice house you have here,” Alan said.

  “It is not my house. I only work here.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, then you have a very nice house to work in.”

  She glanced back at him long enough to deliver a wan smile and then led him into a large comfortable room that was Yuri Popov’s study.

  “Over there,” she said, pointing at the desk. “I must run to the kitchen for a moment.” It was clear by her expression that she didn’t want to leave him alone now but she apparently had something too pressing going on in the kitchen that demanded her presence for her to avoid it.

  “Thank you. I won’t be long,” Alan said.

  As she left the room, Alan walked around the desk and began snooping around, grateful that his hostess had left him alone in the room. There wasn’t any sign of a computer anywhere, so Alan assumed that Popov used a laptop for his work. He spotted a Rolodex on the desk and spun through it, looking for any names that might ring a bell. Nothing. He tried the middle drawer, half-expecting it to be locked but it wasn’t. He pulled it open and fished around for anything that might help him locate the identity of Polina’s captor.

  Finding nothing of interest, Alan searched through one of t
he other drawers and found nothing but files related to the restaurant. He pulled opened the last drawer and spotted a short stack of CD’s and DVD’s in the rear of the drawer. He picked them up and quickly read through the titles. All seemed innocuous enough and just as he was about to put them back in he saw something move out of the corner of his eye—

  “What are you doing!” the woman shouted from the doorway of the study.

  “Just looking for a phone book,” he replied innocently, glancing over at her from behind the desk. “You wouldn’t happen to know where the yellow pages are, would you?”

  She waited a moment before replying, clearly contemplating whether or not to believe his lame excuse for rummaging through her keeper’s drawers.

  “Couldn’t you just call information?” she finally said.

  “Never thought of that. Thank you.”

  Alan picked up the phone and punched in 411.

  “Uh, yes. I need the number for the AAA in East Hampton, please.”

  He smiled at the woman while waiting for the operator to connect him to the recorded phone number. She was standing directly across from him on the other side of the desk, her hands on her hips. He noticed that she had pulled up the sleeves of her sweatshirt since he’d last seen her, possibly to do some work in the kitchen. He spotted an oddly shaped black and blue bruise on her forearm that continued up to her elbow and out of sight. The bruise looked recent. When she caught him staring at it, she became noticeably uncomfortable and let her arms fall to her side.

  The number was read off to him and Alan plucked a pen out of the penholder to jot it down. He hung up the phone and looked across the desk at the young woman standing there.

  “Nasty bruise you have there,” he said, glancing at her arm.

  Her face flushed. “I fell down a couple of days ago.”

  “I see,” Alan said. “It almost looks like somebody’s hand could have caused it by the looks of those finger marks.”

  She pulled down her sleeves. “You must make your call and leave. I have work to do.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry. And I apologize if I seemed to be prying. It’s just that I’ve seen marks like those before. And they were caused by somebody who had been abusing a good friend of mine. Turns out that her husband was using her as punching bag on a regular basis.”

  “Please make your call and go now,” she said firmly.

  Alan picked up the phone and began dialing the number.

  “May I just ask you just one thing, ma’am?”

  “What is it?”

  “Did the man of the house do that to you?”

  “It is none of your business!” she cried. “And if you don’t go now, I am going to call the police!”

  “Can I just make this call first? I’m sorry—I truly am. I just have a problem with men that beat up on women. I’m sorry that I seemed to have jumped to conclusions and will leave right after this call.”

  Her expression softened somewhat. “Very well. Make it quick.”

  Alan resumed dialing and reached the dead-end party at 555-1234.

  “Yes, my car has ran out of gas and I need assistance. How long will it take to get someone out to—excuse me—”

  He looked over at the woman. “What’s the address here?”

  “704 West Beach Drive.”

  “704 West Beach Drive,” Alan told the imaginary dispatcher.

  “Fifteen minutes? Great, thank you.”

  “Now you go,” she said.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Alan said. “And I truly am sorry if I upset you.”

  She waited for Alan to round the desk and then she led him out of the study. Alan watched her from behind, wondering how many more battle scars were hiding under the baggy sweats she wore. He knew he had hit a chord with her and that he was going to have to work fast if he planned on getting any further in this case.

  When they reached the foyer, she stood there expectantly waiting for him to leave.

  “Do you by any chance know a woman named Elena?” he asked point-blank.

  Stunned, the woman stared at Alan, unable to believe what she had just heard him say.

  “Why do you ask that question?” she said.

  “Because I’m pretty sure that you do. At least, you’ve heard of her. Because I can’t imagine Mr. Popov bringing you all the way over here as his live-in partner without at one time or another making a reference to the former mistress of the house.”

  “Who are you?” she snapped nervously.

  “Let’s just say someone who knows what is going on in this house. And I am looking for a young girl whose life is about to be ruined thanks to the selfish actions of your, uh, keeper. This little girl, much like yourself no doubt, was plucked out of her homeland and then sold for a price to one of Mr. Popov’s cronies. She is now going to be re-sold into prostitution or worse. She also happens to be the little sister of the woman you have replaced here, who by the way is now doing twelve to sixteen hour shifts as a cheap whore in a New York City brothel.”

  She was staring at him incredulously, unable to speak.

  “That’s right ma’am, your leading man eventually grew tired of Elena and sold her to the highest bidder. And now she has nothing to live for except the hope of seeing her little sister saved before she becomes a similar statistic.”

  “My God!” she cried in anguish. “Please tell me all of this isn’t true!”

  “Oh, I wish I could—believe me—but I can’t. And it is my hope that you will help me before it is too late for this little girl.”

  Tears formed in her eyes. She blinked once, looked down at the floor, then stared up at Alan in an expression of grief.

  “Please tell me what I can do.”

  “You can begin by telling me your name.”

  “Nadiya.”

  “Pretty name.”

  Alan offered her his hand.

  “Alan Swansea.”

  She hesitated a moment before shaking his hand. Her grip was soft, tentative.

  “And what do you do? Are you a policeman?”

  “Private investigator.”

  “I see. Do you mind if we sit down? I am suddenly feeling weak.”

  “Of course.”

  She led Alan into the living room and gestured for him to sit on the sofa. “Would you like something to drink? I just brewed some coffee.”

  “That would be great. Uh, when do you expect Mr. Popov to return?”

  “Oh, he won’t be back for a couple of days. He has gone to Europe.”

  “Hmm. I see.”

  She cast him a pained look before turning to leave the room. Alan sat and observed his surroundings—the home of a man that he hoped would soon be living in much less comfortable digs someday soon.

  Nadiya returned carrying a sparkling silver tray with a pot of coffee and two cups. She set the tray down on the coffee table.

  “Sugar or cream?” she asked.

  “Black is fine.”

  She poured and handed the cup to Alan.

  “Thanks.”

  She sat down across from him on the sofa. “How do you know of myself and Yuri?”

  Alan replied, “Elena told me how Yuri obtained her in Germany and promised her work in his restaurant, which was a farce. She didn’t know of you but I had a hunch that history had repeated itself the moment I saw you. You are of the same, uh, body type.”

  She looked away. “I have been such a fool! Yuri promised me a new life in America and told me that I could manage his restaurant once we arrived here. He seemed so much a gentleman, you know? But I was wrong. Not long after we came here he forced me to have sex with him. Over and over. Sometimes he beats me up for no reason at all! It’s like he is hateful and takes out his hatred on me. He makes me do things that hurt bad.

  “When I ask him why he treats me so badly, he says it is because I am a slut and I deserve it. Maybe I do deserve such treatment, I don’t know any more . . .”

  “He is controlling your mind, Nadiya, and I thin
k you know that. And the longer you stay here, the worse it is going to get. Why don’t you leave?”

  She looked at him incredulously. “You are kidding, right? Elena surely told you how much power Yuri has and how he threatens to murder your family if you run away. And I have no doubt he would do it. I will not let my utter stupidity get my parents killed.”

  Alan’s contempt for Yuri Popov, Viktor Skipetroff and their ilk was growing incrementally the further he went in this case. He was stunned by the absolute control these men apparently had over these poor women and the no-win situation they found themselves in. It was a vicious cycle—an insidious pattern of sheer evil that was going down here. Down on their luck by economic hardship, desperate women and children looking for a better life were being lured by shysters making false promises of hope only to be exploited and sold to scumbags who further exploited them for profit and/or their own sexual gratification.

  And once they were sucked in, they were screwed. There was no way out.

  “If I told you that Yuri Popov is going to be out of business soon, what would you do?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. I probably wouldn’t believe there isn’t someone out there who knows Yuri that would still murder my family.”

  There has to be an end to this madness, Alan thought.

  “Nadiya, I want you to know something that you may not believe, but I can assure you that it’s true. Yuri Popov does not own you. And he is not invincible. He is going to be going to prison one of these days for the rest of his life and once that happens, he will no longer be a threat to you. You can trust me on that.

  “But for now we have to take this one step at a time. You need to help me find out where Elena’s little sister is being held against her will. I am convinced that Popov knows where she is. Once I find her, we can trace that crime back to whomever it is that is running this crime ring. And as sure as we’re sitting here, Yuri Popov will get eventually fingered somewhere along the line.”

  “I wish I could believe that. I really do. But it just isn’t possible. Yuri has a way of knowing everything somehow. He will probably find out that you came here. He seems to have eyes and ears everywhere. That’s why he knows he can leave me here alone and not have to worry about anything.

  “But no matter what, I want to help you find the little girl. It is the one thing I can do for someone who is so innocent. I’m just not sure how I can help you. I don’t know anything about Yuri’s business affairs—he just wants me around for the other things. He never shares any of his life with me. I doubt I can help you but I am willing to try.”

  “You can help me by showing me where he keeps his records. I need to find out the names of his business associates, for lack of a better term. Do you know where he keeps his paperwork? Or his computer?”

  “He has only one computer that I know of—it is a portable one—a laptop—and he always takes it with him. His paperwork must all be in the study. He always does his business there.”

  “No other rooms in this house that he works out of?”

  “No, that I am sure.”

  “What about the guest house?

  “He rarely goes over there. He has only had guests stay over once since I’ve been here. I cleaned up after they left but I can say that there isn’t any room over there that is used for business.”

  “Hmm. Then I guess I need to go back into the study and continue my search.”

  Her lovely face was pleading. “Please, Mr. Swansea, be careful that you don’t do anything that would let Yuri know you were here!”

  “Please call me Alan, Nadiya,” he said. “And don’t worry—I won’t leave any tracks. I just want to take a look around and see what I can find. He’ll never know I was here.”

  “I hope not. If he finds out, he will make me pay.”

  Alan leaned over and touched her arm gently, gazed into her soft blue eyes. “Believe me, Nadiya, he will never find out. The last thing I want to do is risk making you suffer any more than you already have. And I want to extend an open invitation for you to join me when I leave. I promise that I’ll keep you safe from Popov until I can make arrangements for you to return to your country.”

  She shook her head with firm resolve. “I cannot do that! My parents are all that I have in this world and I can’t risk their lives. But thank you for offering. It is very sweet of you.”

  A feeling of déjà vu swept over Alan as he recalled his conversation with Elena the night before. Neither of these women held any sense of self-preservation or hope for their future. They seemed ruined, broken beyond repair—their spirit sucked right out of them.

  It was a goddamn pity.

  “Promise me you’ll think about it, anyway. I will leave you my number before I go. You can call me anytime. Promise me?”

  She forced a smile. “Yes Alan, I promise.”

  He set down his coffee cup and stood up.

  “I’m going to go check out the study. You want to come along?”

  “I will be there in a moment. I have food cooking in the kitchen and need to tend to it.”

  “Is there a basement?”

  “Yes. But you won’t find anything there. It is nothing but a game room.”

  “I want to see it, anyway. And where is the master bedroom?”

  “Upstairs.”

  “I’d like to see that too. But first thing’s first.”

  Alan returned to the study and looked around. In addition to the executive desk was a built-in library taking up an entire wall, a pair of file cabinets, a laser printer and a fax machine. He went over to on one of the file cabinets and searched the top drawer. He saw nothing but more files pertaining to Popov’s restaurant. Ditto for the remaining drawers. He searched the other cabinet but found nothing that seemed suspicious or relevant to the case.

  Popov has covered his tracks well, he thought.

  He went over to the library and studied some of the titles. Most of the books were literature and reference materials with a few periodicals thrown in.

  Not that he really expected to find something like Human Trafficking for Dummies.

  Becoming frustrated, he went through the desk drawers a second time and came up with a big fat zero. There was nothing in this room indicating that Yuri Popov was anything other than a successful restaurant owner.

  Had he reached a dead end?

  Alan left the room and found Nadiya in the kitchen standing over the stove. She was cooking something that smelled scrumptious and he wondered why she would be cooking what appeared to be a complete gourmet meal when she was the only one in the house.

  “Expecting company?” he asked.

  She nearly jumped out of her skin, unaware of his entrance into the room.

  “You startled me!” she cried.

  “I’m sorry, I thought you heard me come in.”

  She forced a little smile. “It is okay. No, I am not expecting anyone—I just like to cook—and eat. I would invite you stay but that would be out of the question under the circumstances,” she said, and then added, “Wouldn’t it?”

  Alan was tempted to say no, it wasn’t out of the question and he would love to join her for dinner. Her quasi-invitation and her willingness to take such a risk gave him hope that perhaps the Russian girl wasn’t beyond repair after all.

  “My better judgment tells me that as much as I’d love for you to feed me this delicious smelling food I’d best decline. Thanks for asking though.”

  She actually seemed disappointed. “You’re right. Bad idea.”

  “Not a bad idea—just bad timing. My invitation for you to leave with me is still on the table, though.”

  Like a switch, her expression changed dramatically. It was like a dark cloud had just blotted out the sun. “I am not going anywhere.”

  Alan chose not to upset her any more and dropped the issue. “Can you show me how to get to the basement?”

  She grabbed a towel, wiped her hands. “Come this way.”

  Alan fo
llowed her out through the dining room and down a hall to a stairwell leading to the basement. She switched on a light and led the way down the stairs. When he reached the bottom, Alan let out a gasp.

  “Jesus, you weren’t kidding! This looks like a game room on a cruise ship—or in Vegas!”

  “Yuri rarely uses it. I often have wondered why he has this room.”

  Alan walked around and marveled at Popov’s “game room.” There was a roulette table, five video poker machines, several one-armed bandits and no less than a half dozen card tables. Completing the ensemble were a Brunswick pool table and a large screen television set up in a lounge area appointed with expensive leather furniture and a fully stocked bar.

  “I would wonder, too. He must have spent a king’s ransom on all of these gambling machines alone. And you say he hardly comes down here?”

  “Only when he has company, which is very rare.”

  Alan walked around the room for a few moments, poking around here and there, then took a last long look and said, “Let’s go see the master bedroom.”

  Nadiya nodded and led the way upstairs. Along the way to the second floor, Alan was in awe of Yuri Popov’s tastefully furnished house and shameless opulence. All for what? For himself and his live-in sex slave to enjoy as a happy couple? Although he had never met the man nor laid eyes on him, Alan was already forming a snippet of Popov’s essence in his mind. Here was a wealthy man who seemed to have everything money could buy yet apparently was never satisfied with any of it. Why else would he spend a small fortune on a game room he never used and had no vested interest in? And why such an elaborate, appointed-to-the-max estate that rarely had any visitors? He had a hunch that if he asked her now, Nadiya would tell him that Popov rarely used the pool or the tennis court either—except when he had guests.

  And why was he apparently not content with the women he had bought and sold, despite their beauty and the fact that they were there 24/7 at his beck and call? Another peek into Popov’s mindset was beginning to take shape and crystallize. A hatred toward women. Possibly the result of a lousy performance in the sack or something more profound.

  Why else would he purchase women just to knock around, demoralize and then re- sell? And his hatred probably didn’t end with his personal cartel of women. How many other ones had he been instrumental in purchasing and trafficking for profit?

  How else could anyone do what he does without any signs of remorse or regret?

  Alan wanted to bust this fucker almost as badly as he wanted to find Polina.

  “Here it is,” Nadiya said. “The master bedroom.”

  Alan followed her inside.

  “Do you sleep here too?”

  She snickered. “You’re kidding, right? Only when he wants me to, which is rare.”

  “So where is your room?”

  “Down the hall.”

  “So you’re telling me that this is Popov’s bedroom and you only come in here when he invites you in?”

  “That is pretty much it. In case you are wondering, we usually have sex in my room. Yuri says he doesn’t want to “mess up his sheets.”

  “That’s interesting. Is he some sort of neat freak by any chance?”

  “Have you ever seen that television show, Monk? Yuri is much like Monk.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me for some reason” Alan mumbled.

  The room was large, spotless and luxuriously furnished. There were French doors leading to a balcony. Alan went over and stepped outside.

  “Nice view,” he said, observing the scene before him. Beyond the trees and past a couple of houses were the beach and the Atlantic Ocean.

  “Yes, it is. I serve his coffee out here nearly every morning.”

  “So you are not only his cook, housecleaner, punching bag and lover but his waitress as well?” he asked cynically. “He sure has gotten his money’s worth!”

  Alan thought she was going to slug him, the anger was so intense in her eyes. “That was a horrible thing to say!” she spat.

  Alan tried to comfort her but she pulled away.

  “I’m sorry, Nadiya, and I apologize. It’s just that I know I am right, as much as the truth may hurt. And it quite frankly pisses me off. I mean, there you stand, young, beautiful, and intelligent with what should be a long wonderful life ahead of you. But instead, here you are—a slave to a man who doesn’t give two shits about you or what he does to hurt you. If I had my way, I would force you to leave this place with me, drop you off somewhere safe then go out and murder the low-life motherfucker!”

  “I cannot leave! Please, Alan, don’t say that again. I know it is hard for you to understand but you must try to see how things are for me. Yuri knows where my parents live and he could make one call and have them murdered just like that. Nothing will make me let that happen. I am sorry but that is how it is. Please, finish your search then go.”

  As much as he didn’t want to admit it, Alan knew she was not going to budge. Sad as it was—

  “Okay, Nadiya, not another word about it.”

  Alan went over to the dressing bureau, carefully went through the drawers and then searched the walk-in closet. He combed through the racks of expensive suits and neatly arranged shirts, shoes, ties, and so on but found nothing. Not even a firearm. He checked the nightstand, under the bed and the master bathroom only to find nothing of interest.

  Popov’s house was squeaky clean in every sense of the word. If he didn’t know better, the man appeared to live like a saint.

  But he knew better.

  “Can you think of anything I’ve missed?” he asked Nadiya. “Any other rooms that might contain papers or personal effects – anything?”

  “I’m afraid not. The only other rooms are the three guest bedrooms. And they are clean and tidy with furnishings only. Nothing but spare sheets and pillows.”

  “I can’t believe this! Does he have another place he goes to, besides the restaurant? A vacation house in the Caribbean for instance?”

  “Oh yes, he has a house in Los Angeles and places in Mexico and Europe.”

  There you go, Alan thought. Popov conducted his business elsewhere, no doubt where the law was a bit less lax than here in the states. Smart son of a bitch.

  His optimism continuing to spiral south, Alan said, “Where’s the garage?”

  “Follow me.”

  When they entered the two-car garage, Alan spotted a Mars red Mercedes SL550 Roadster parked in an otherwise vacant garage.

  “Popov’s toy, I presume?”

  Nadiya nodded. “Yes, this is his sports car. His other car is also a Mercedes but bigger.”

  Alan went over and peeked inside before opening the driver’s side door.

  “He ever let you drive it?” he asked Nadiya.

  “Of course, every day!” she joked. Then she said, “Yuri hardly ever drives this himself.”

  Alan got in and sat down behind the wheel of the two-seater. He snooped through the console and glove compartment and found nothing but the owner’s manual and a garage door opener. The car looked like it had never left the garage.

  Another expensive indulgence that Popov owned and hardly used. His useless, extravagant possessions alone could probably feed the entire population of a third world country for a year.

  Alan got out, walked around the car then headed for the door.

  “We’re done in here,” he said flatly.

  “So you’re going now?” Nadiya said.

  “Unless you can think of anything else, I guess so.”

  Nadiya almost looked as if she was disappointed. Alan wondered the woman was so inconsistent—as though she couldn’t decide if she wanted him to stay or go, or whether or not to give any part of herself up to him. Behavior that no doubt resulted from the pitiful abusive relationship she found herself in.

  He decided to risk pushing her button one more time. “Listen, Nadiya. I think you’re holding out on me and know more than you’re telling me about Yuri Popov. I also know that you’
re scared now and that don’t really trust me. I can understand why that is and frankly don’t blame you for feeling that way. After all, I’ve come here under false pretenses and basically asked you to help incriminate a man that you probably feel some sort of weird bond to. I can almost see how that could happen under these circumstances, believe it or not. I mean, I don’t know how hopeless your life back home was before all of this but it must have been bad enough for you to risk your freedom for what seemed like some sort of light at the end of the tunnel. A light that some low-life asshole made you believe existed for you elsewhere.

  “Yet in spite of all this deception and the horrendous situation you are now in, you still don’t want to risk running away from the man who stole your life from you. You’re afraid he will harm your family because that is just exactly how people like Yuri Popov and his cronies maintain their hold on their victims—by threats, violence and intimidation. They know they have you over a barrel and therefore will always get their way.

  “But here’s a chance for you to turn all of this around. Make Popov and his network pay for what they’ve done. Sure, it is risky and yes, there is a chance that they may harm your parents. But what guarantees do you have that he won’t harm them anyway? Do you trust Yuri Popov not to harm your parents just because you’re staying with him? And what about when he decides to let you go, like he did with Elena? What then? You think he will give two shits about what happens to you or your parents?

  “My point is this: If you don’t want to leave with me now, that’s your decision. I can’t force you to go. But before I leave, I want you to think about what you told me earlier. That you want to help me find Elena’s little sister. If that’s true, then you have to start leveling with me now. Otherwise, I am going to leave here being no closer to finding her than I was before. So for the last time please, Nadiya, think. Think of that young girl and if there’s anything else you can think of that might help me find her.”

  Nadiya stood silent for a moment, apparently soaking in what he had just told her. Then she looked directly into Alan’s eyes.

  “I am sorry, Alan. But I have not been holding out on you, as you say. I really do want to help and I am trying to. But I honestly can’t think of anything else to say about Yuri. If I could, I would. I promise.”

  Alan believed her—or at least was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. He had wanted to give Nadiya one final opportunity to open up if she was holding anything back—just so he could feel he had done all he could here. Now it looked as though he was indeed going to leave empty-handed, with nothing more than he had had before.

  That was very difficult to accept.

  He was not good at admitting defeat. Never had been. But it was beginning to look like this case was about to come to a screeching halt if something didn’t break. The same feeling of helplessness he had felt before began gnawing at him again. It took everything he had to face this pathetic Russian woman one last time before heading for the door.

  “Well then, I guess I’ll be going now. Thank you, Nadiya. And please remember that open invitation.”

  She stood there awkwardly, like a schoolgirl who had just found out that she was grounded for life. Alan’s heart went out to her.

  “I’m sorry,” was all she said.

  Alan turned and headed toward the door. He sensed that she was not following him so he looked back. She was still in the living room. He placed his hand on the door handle and opened the door.

  “Wait!” he heard her shout.

  The next instant she was running into the foyer, her face flushed with excitement.

  “What is it?” Alan said.

  “I just thought of something! Well, I’m not sure if it will help you, but it might!”

  “What are you talking about?” Alan asked, his voice cracking.

  “The cell phone! Yuri bought a new one yesterday and threw the old one out. It’s in a trash can—maybe that could help you!”

  Alan wanted to shout for joy. Yuri Popov’s old cell phone could still have his contacts stored in its memory. If he hadn’t deleted them, that is. As resourceful as Popov had been so far at covering his tracks, there was a very good chance he had wiped everything clean.

  But there was also a slim chance he hadn’t.

  “Where is the trash can?”

  “Outside!” she replied, taking him by the hand. She tugged on his hand and led the way back toward the kitchen.

  When they reached the den, she led Alan over to the patio door and slid it open. He followed her across the patio over to the spare house and around to the side where the trash cans were line up.

  “I think it’s in this one,” she said, removing the lid of the first can. She rummaged through the contents until she pulled out a plastic trash bag with handles that had been tied shut.

  “It’s in here!” she cried excitedly.

  She untied the ties, stuck her hand inside and pulled out a top of the line Blackberry.

  “Here it is,” she said, handing it over to Alan.

  Alan pressed the power button. The phone booted up. At least he wasn’t going to have to track down a charger. Twenty seconds later the start screen appeared. He pressed the contacts button and held his breath. A moment later, a scrollable list of names and telephone numbers appeared on the screen. There were no less than a couple dozen names and telephone numbers listed—

  So Popov hadn’t covered his ass quite so well after all. These contacts could very well lead to his undoing.

  Alan checked the battery status and saw that the phone was still half charged.

  “Let’s go inside, Nadiya. I want to see if any of these names ring a bell with you.”

  “You are going to leave the phone here after you leave though, aren’t you? Just in case he comes back and finds out it’s missing somehow?”

  “When’s your trash pickup?”

  She thought a moment. “Tomorrow—that’s good! He won’t be back until at least Saturday.”

  “So he wouldn’t expect it to be here in the first place,” Alan said. “I want to take the phone in case my friend has to hack it. Besides, it’s cold hard evidence in the event I find something incriminating on it.”

  Nadiya nodded. She placed the trash bag back into the can and led Alan back inside.

  In the living room, the two sat down on the sofa and huddled over Popov’s cell phone.

  Alan said, “Let’s start here at the top of the list. I’ll scroll down and you tell me if you know who any of these people are or if you recognize any of the names.”

  “Okay,” Nadiya replied.

  As he scrolled through the list, Alan noticed that none of the listings included both the first and the last names of the contact—it was either one or the other. For example, a contact would be listed as simply ‘Ivan,” or “Chirkoff.” He had a feeling this was done intentionally by Popov, just in case someone got a hold of his phone. Although this wouldn’t necessarily make tracking down any of the contacts impossible, it wouldn’t make it any easier either.

  “There—” Nadiya said. “That man who has been here a couple of times.”

  Alan read off the highlighted name. “Levkova?”

  “Yes. But he works at the restaurant. I think he’s the day manager.”

  “Hmm. We can probably cross him off, then,” Alan said.

  He continued scrolling until he realized that he was almost at the end of the list. Nadiya hadn’t recognized anyone else. He was almost to the last name when she touched his arm.

  “There is one I’ve heard of before: Rusakov. Yuri has spoken to him on the phone a few times.”

  “Do you remember a first name?”

  “Yes, it is Luka—I remember because that is also my father’s name.”

  Luka, Alan thought—was that not the name of one of the men who had lured Elena into a promising new future in the West? Yes! he recalled. It was Luka.

  “Can you remember what Popov and this Luka guy talk about? I mean, coul
d you tell if it was restaurant business? Or was it something else?”

  “I don’t think it has anything to do with Stolovaya. Yuri always leaves the room whenever he gets a call, so I am not certain of what they talk about. But I think that he and Luka are close, just by the way Yuri speaks to him. Like they are good friends.”

  That’s promising, Alan thought. For if Luka Rusakov was the same Luka who had recruited Elena, and he and Popov were “close,” it could be that Rusakov was a major player in this whole trafficking racket. And to think this bad guy was only a phone call away—

  A thought suddenly occurred to Alan. “Do you remember the names of the people who are responsible for your sale to Popov? There must have been others involved.”

  Her expression grew morose. “This is very difficult to talk about. I feel such a fool for being tricked by them!”

  “Please, Nadiya. I realize it must be difficult. But I need to find out if there is any connection between your abduction and Elena and her sister’s.”

  “Okay, I will tell you how it happened. I am originally from Ukraine. My family has lived in poverty since the breakup of the Soviet Union in 1991. By the time I was in my late teens, all I could think about was leaving the country and finding work so I could help out my parents. One day I saw an advertisement by an employment agency in the local newspaper. The ad promised “well-paying work in the West” and since I had nothing to lose I went to Moscow.

  “I went to the address given in the advertisement, which was nothing but a small storefront near the square. There were men, women and children all crammed into this little room, all hoping to find work. I waited until it was finally my turn to talk to the recruiter and he immediately took a fancy toward me. He said that I would be perfect for a modeling career in America and he made the arrangements for me to be transported to the airport the next day. I was so excited and couldn’t believe my good fortune.

  “But I was never taken to the airport. Two men in a car picked me up the next day and headed away from the airport. When I asked them why they were going in the wrong direction they laughed and told me there had been a slight change in plans—that I would be taken overland by truck to Germany where I would then be flown to the United States.

  “I grew suspicious and told them I had changed my mind, that I wanted them to let me out of the car right away. One of them told me that would be no problem as long as I had sex with him in the back seat first. I knew then that they were not going to let me go—that I was being abducted just like all the others I’d heard of who had been foolish enough to fall for false promises of a career in the West.

  “I tried to escape by jumping out of the car but one of them saw me and grabbed my arm. He twisted it so hard that I thought he had broken it. Then he jumped into the back seat, tore my clothes off and raped me. I had only been in that car for fifteen minutes and knew that my life would never be the same. All I could think about while the man pawed me, beat me and raped me was what a fool I’d been and how I should have listened to my father who warned me not to go to Moscow.”

  “God, Nadiya—I’m so sorry. Your story sounds much like Elena’s. Do you recall any of the names of your abductors? Or the recruiter at the alleged employment agency”

  She shook her head. “Not really. Only their first names. The recruiter who lied to me—his name was Oleg. The first man who raped me in the car was Sergei. The other was Vladmir.”

  “You mean they both raped you?”

  “Yes, over and over,” she replied weakly. “All the way to the Czech border.”

  He felt like he was hearing from Elena all over again—her horrific story of being transported through Eastern Europe in a truck and raped repeatedly by her abductors. Then he took into account that their stories were not merely isolated accounts of human trafficking activity but two variations of a common theme that was being repeated again and again, day after day in that part of the world. And from what Beth had indicated, this was happening everywhere—even in America. How many innocent victims had endured nightmarish scenarios like these all told? How many had seen their lives totally ruined, their very souls left barren by selfish heartless bastards that regarded these victims as no more than a commodity to be bought and sold? And violated.

  “What happened after the Czech border?”

  “They drove to Dresden and dropped off at a cheap hotel. But I wasn’t there for long. I was locked inside a room by a man who I guess worked there. A few hours later, the man came back with another man who was a very well-dressed and American. This is the first time I met Yuri.”

  “I see. So what happened after Popov showed up?”

  “He introduced himself and said that Oleg was right—that I was indeed perfect for him. I asked what he meant by that but before he answered, he wanted to know if my journey there had been a pleasant one. I almost laughed at this outrageous question but I was in no mood for humor. I told him what had happened along the way and he was angered to hear that I’d been raped by those men. In fact, he went a little crazy with rage. He excused himself and made a call on his cell phone on his way out the room. I could hear him shouting angrily from the hallway at somebody on the phone. He came back a few minutes later and apologized for the “rough treatment” I’d received and said that those men would be “dealt with,” as he put it.

  “Then he told me that he was going to be up front with me—that he had tipped Oleg off to be looking for a young woman with my characteristics, as he put it. I asked him what for, and he just smiled and said something like “to join me in America as my partner and business associate.” I asked what that meant exactly and that’s when he lied about my employment at his restaurant and the great life I was going to have in the States.”

  Nadiya delivered this last sentence like she had just bit into a lemon.

  Alan said, “What was your reaction to his plans for your future?”

  “At first, I was in disbelief. After what had happened up until then, I had no reason to believe or trust anybody. But Yuri was very convincing and made the whole thing sound like I was going to be so happy with him and that I’d never have to worry about money again. He asked about my family and told me that I’d be able to send them money and get them out of poverty. It all sounded too good to be true! And of course, it was not true. But like a fool, I believed him and felt like a princess in a fairytale. He took me out to shop for clothes and we had a wonderful dinner. He was nice and treated me like a lady.

  “But the fairy tale ended soon after we came to America. After he took me to his house, he showed me my room and told me take off my clothes. I asked why and he said because I owed it to him. That I owed my life to him for bringing me to America. When I refused, he started beating on me and tearing off my clothes. He was so cruel—he was like a madman! I had scratches and bruises all over me the next day.

  “He is still cruel to me, but worse. The only time he talks to me any more is when he is telling me what to do for him—clean his clothes, clean his house, make everything spotless. Then he will suddenly grab me and force me to have sex with him. It is horrible! Sometimes I think he hates me and loves to take his hate out on me. He loves to see me suffer, to see me in pain. Then after all of this he makes me tell him that I love him. It is sick!”

  Alan chose his next words carefully, not wanting to upset her any more than she already was.

  “Has Popov ever threatened you by saying he wants to replace you with somebody else? You know, has he ever threatened to get rid of you, for lack of a better way to put it?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You mean, like the way I replaced Elena?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Of course he has threatened me with about everything imaginable at one time or another, including that. But that’s nothing new.”

  “You told me that he is in Europe now. “Doesn’t that worry you? Knowing what he is doing over there?”

  “You mean buying and selling girls?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly
what I mean.”

  “I guess I try not to think about it.”

  “But you know that’s what he’s doing! And it’s just a matter of time before he finds “a new model” and sells you to somebody else. Just like he did Elena. You have to have given that some thought at one time or another.”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “All the more reason why you need to get out of here. Before it’s too late. I wish you would reconsider leaving with me.”

  “I can’t. I really think you should go now. I have told you all I have to say.”

  Alan heard the familiar tone in her voice that said to back off. And as difficult as it was to do, he conceded. He took a business card out of his wallet and handed it to her.

  “Please call me, Nadiya, if you change your mind. Or if you just want to talk.”

  She took the card, glanced at it and said, “Okay.”

  She led Alan to the door, held it open for him and told him goodbye.