Minnesota

 Habits

Regina sat in the taxi, burner phone in hand. The driver steered the car through Greater East Side, a well-maintained suburb of St. Paul. The drive was uneventful, with one exception. In the middle of the sea of cookie-cutter houses was a block of businesses. When Regina read the lettering on one of the buildings, her heart stopped. Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. A glum feeling spread in Regina’s stomach. If Steve tells me that Mark had a hideout here, I’m going to send him to into the wilderness of Alaska. It was common to hide in plain side. Many young women that ended up as sex workers started out in neighborhoods just like this one, recruited by members of neighborhoods, just like this one. But for Mark to do low level work, that’s different. As the driver pulled to a stop, the dread began spreading. Steve wouldn’t have called her out here if it didn’t concern Mark.

            “This is it.” The driver pointed toward a long driveway. Regina could barely see the house at the end of it. “The fare comes to forty-nine dollars.” She handed him fifty-five dollars, the fare and ten percent tip, exactly. The only thing that stuck to the memory of service staff more than overly generous tipping was not to tip at all. And this is one of those occasions when being remembered isn’t acceptable.

            She stepped from the airconditioned cap into the simmering summer heat. The humidity made quick work of her freshly showered body. By the time she walked twenty steps her satin tank top already clung to her skin. Steve lingered in the shadows of the trees that lined the driveway.

Her partner watched her approach, the sly grin on his face wrinkling around the mouth. It didn’t make him look old, though.

            “Satin, in this weather?” He sighed. Of course, he wore a practical dark gray t-shirt, jeans and sneakers.

            “At least I left the high heels at home, see?” She pointed toward her sandals. He laughed. But it lasted only a second. He motioned toward an iron gate. The driveway continued for another hundred feet, leading to a small yellow house with green shutters and a reddish clay roof. Trees and shrubs surrounded everything, giving the property a sense of remoteness in the urban jungle. Despite the midday sun, everything here was shaded, bringing down the summer heat by ten degrees.

“Who’s car is this?” A bright red BMW sportscar stood in front of the house. Steve opened the iron gate, careful not to allow the lock to make a noise as he opened and closed it.

            “Ah, see, my dear, that’s the business venture that’s about to go bust.” Steve slowed his pace. “The car, the house, this property, all belong to a company named ‘Independent Ventures’. It’s a subsidiary of three other companies. It took Zee three days to track this down.” He held up three fingers to emphasize the importance of the length of time. Regina understood. Zee was the best Tech they had. Most things only took that girl an hour. “Bottom line, Mark and Duane are the sole operating officers of this little ‘venture’. So, my guess is, this is their stash house. And the fact that he actually bought a car and had it registered means he’s been here far more often that he told us.” They reached the front door. Steve turned toward her, head lowered, his cold blue eyes staring into hers. “You know what we’ll find in there. Are you prepared to do what it takes?” She didn’t nod, didn’t say anything.

Regina reached for the door knob.

The stale smell of body odor hung heavily in the dark house. Steve moved past her to the nearest window. He pulled the blackout curtains to the side, scuffed, then pulled open shutters.

“Good to know that he takes some precautions.” Steve looked at her, pointing to the third window cover; mini blinds. He pulled the string and light pushed in.

There was a large sectional couch, a build-in shelf unit covering an entire wall, dozens of computer screens, units and gadgets that looked familiar to Regina. Steve pulled out his phone and began taking pictures. “I’ll send these to Zee. She can tell us what all this is for.”

Regina nodded and made her way further into the house. The front room connected to a small kitchen with dirty white cabinets, broken doors, a screaming orange countertop, and a stovetop that looked like it should have stopped working at the last turn of the century. Garbage bags, neatly tied with yellow string, lined the floor. A half empty one sat in the kitchen sink. Regina saw the familiar colors of fast-food containers. No wonder he’s getting chubbier.

She moved through the next door, leading to the dining area. At least, it would be in any other house. Here, boxes were stacked to the ceiling. She gleaned into one of the open containers. Latex-free, 5% more lubricant. She didn’t need to read further, but inspected the remaining, stacked, boxes. Are these all condoms? We’ll have to check the content.

She moved down a hallway and stopped at the bathroom. The smell of ammonia hit her nose and her eyes watered. She pulled back the shower curtain and saw several inches of unidentifiable goo at the bottom of the shower. Used condoms dissolved in acid. A common practice to get rid of semen and possible DNA traces.

And Regina Praeda finally lost her temper.