Sparrow & Buck

Hell was a teenage girl.

Then that girl grew up. Granted, her formative years were…chaotic, but overall she turned out okay. She was holding down a job, a good job in a new field. She had a nice apartment, a rough-coated German Wirehaired Pointer named Lilly, and some wild birds she liked to feed. Routine was important; rock-solid consistency was key to a successful day.

She would typically wake up around four in the morning. After getting dressed, she would snap the leash to Lilly’s collar and take her out for the morning walk and run around the neighborhood. Afterwards they would return home for coffee and contemplation, wash the remnants of sleep and sweat off in the shower, and get dressed. She had the benefit of living downtown, the commute to work wasn’t a long one. Early mornings, when she liked to arrive at the department, was a good time to finish up paperwork and reports. Her partner, Detective Thomas Buck, usually wasn’t too far behind her. Sometime around mid-morning the department would get their daily briefing, if the teams weren’t already called out into the field.

From there, it was detective work, and for a ‘boot’ – as Buck called her – that was recently promoted to Homicide, that meant a lot of footwork. Even more than when she was just a beat cop. At around 6 p.m. she could go home to a quiet dinner, kick up her feet for a couple hours of boring TV, feed Lilly and take her out, then go to bed so she could get up and repeat it all over again the next day.

The life Anna Sparrow led was quiet and orderly, home life and work life kept completely separate. Since she had been promoted, though, the line between home and work lives was beginning to blur.

Friday - 4:00 a.m.

The clock next to her bed blared to life. She had a fairly dreamless sleep; there had been a dream early on, one that made her skin crawl and her shoulder itch, but the context eluded her.

Sparrow’s eyes snapped open. There was no startle, no shudder, but there was also no gentle nudge or easing into wakefulness – she was simply awake. She sat up and smiled at the fuzzy face that was staring back at her.

“Good morning, pretty girl,” she said quietly, reaching out to smooth back the epic bedhead that her dog seemed to acquire every morning. As an elder German Wirehaired Pointer, Lilly could wear some crazy hairstyles flawlessly, and the beard was always on point. She had rescued the old girl from a high-kill shelter in Harris County; a family had surrendered her because the eldest daughter – the dog’s caretaker – had gone off to college, and no one else could be bothered to care for her any longer. The moment Sparrow had spotted Lilly, there was an instant connection. Sparrow had a deep love for dogs, they were the purest of souls that one could hope to have in their lives, but she knew that this one was special.

Lilly rolled to her side, peering up at Sparrow with that clear amber eye, extending a long foreleg, bracing it against her thigh, wagging her nub of a docked tail. Sparrow laughed, leaned over and kissed the side of Lilly’s face, rubbing her belly.

“Is it time to get up? Are we ready to go for our run?”

“GO” was obviously the word to get Lilly up from the warmth and comfort of the big bed they shared. Despite the three orthopedic and very comfy-looking beds scattered throughout the apartment, Lilly’s preferred choice of sleeping accommodations was Sparrow’s bed. She was an old girl, though, so she deserved it.

As soon as running clothes and shoes were on, leash was clipped on, phone was pocketed, and her sidearm was strapped. No chances were allowed to be taken, even in this part of Houston that was considered to be ‘safer’, anything could happen. She was prepared for ‘anything’.

The sidewalks and streets at this time of morning were quiet and pretty empty. In the two years she had lived at that complex, she usually encountered a handful of early morning runners, the most was a quick hi-there-hello as they passed each other. Even now with Lilly, evenings were full of admirers and families on walks that wanted to stop and pet Lilly, but early morning runners were a different breed – they wanted to get through their runs quickly. It was a grind, a way to wake up and get the day started. For Sparrow it was part of her routine – she neither loved nor hated it, it gave her enough cardio to say that she had done it, and it kept her somewhat fit.

That morning was as typical as it got for Houston at the beginning of fall – the air was trying to cool down, but still thick with humidity and the last dredges of heat from the previous day. It was still around seventy-five degrees, she could feel the beginnings of beads of sweat on her forehead and neck just five minutes into the run.

Just as she reached the construction site for a new high-rise apartment complex, she crossed the street, Lilly casually ambling along at Sparrow’s side. Modern Houston was a far cry from the humble beginnings she remembered, not from pictures or brief paragraphs in history books, but from memory when Houston was truly a town of the Wild West. Funny to think that she should return to it over a century later, to a district that had once been mostly saloons and brothels, was now upscale apartments, museums, and shops.

Her left shoulder began to tingle, ever so slightly at first, it was enough to catch her attention. She lifted her head, there was someone approaching from the opposite direction. As they got closer, the tingle transitioned into a steady itch that wouldn’t abate with any amount of scratching. Yet, her free hand immediately drifted up to rub the area without her really thinking about it.

“Morning,” she heard them say. She caught a good glimpse of them under glow of a street light; tall, lithe, elegant, very agile and athletic like a track or cross country runner. Elf.

“Morning,” she replied with a smile. The two passed each other on their runs, and that was it. The itching subsided back into a tingle, then disappeared completely.

As Sparrow and Lilly turned to head back, a swift bolt of pain shot through her shoulder, forking off down through her arm as well as into her chest. This caused an image to flash in front of her eyes causing her to stop mid stride – a piece of the dream that she had forgotten. Marshland. Miles of beaches. Acres and acres of farmland. A large house that pre-dated the Revolution. The memory associated with her once most favorite place on earth was jaded and poisoned, it made her physically shudder. Her hand drifted up again to the aching in her shoulder. What had caused the pain like that?

The scar was a strange creature unto itself at times, and went against logic and rationale that comprised most of Sparrow’s demeanor. The hardest part was explaining such an anomaly to others, which is why, nine times out of ten, she chose to simply not acknowledge it at all.

Lilly looked up at her and bumped her head against Sparrow’s leg – they needed to get home for breakfast, said the bump. But there was more in the pointer’s eyes, something that she sensed in the shudder. Sparrow looked down and smiled, running her hand across the furry head, scratching under Lilly’s bearded chin.

“I’m all right, sweetie. I promise. You’re right, let’s get home. A mile-and-a-half and already I feel like I’ve taken a full bath in my own sweat.” A hot shower would feel good on that shoulder. Rain must have been coming, it didn’t ache like that unless it was going to rain…or she had remembered something she didn’t want to.

With coffee brewing and Lilly fed, Sparrow shed her sticky, soaked clothes straight into the washing machine, then stepped into the shower. No matter what she was doing, Lilly had to be there with her. Her favorite spot for morning showers was against the wall in front of the shower. No matter what was going on with her own life or with work, Lilly was the one being that could consistently make her smile.

As she ran the soapy poof over her skin, the netting caught on a jagged edge on her shoulder and pulled.

“Dammit,” she muttered, as she released the poof where it had snagged. Her left shoulder looked like a deep wound that had been healing for a couple of weeks - red and raw, scabbed over and no longer bleeding. Three long trenches that ran from the crest of her shoulder and diagonally downward to her clavicle. The overall size and shape would make one think she had been attacked by a mountain lion. It still looked fresh, yet the wound itself was one she had sustained many, many years ago.

She had received it during a time in her life where she could have let it define her completely. Teenagers, no matter the period in history, seemed to be predisposed to a foolish assurance that they were invincible, certainly some more than others. Give that group of teenagers a reason to truly believe that there was no curfew to their lifespan, and society had individuals considered to be semi-immortal that had never developed past adolescence to deal with. Sparrow felt lucky that she had never been part of that insufferable group. She had stopped aging around twenty-seven or twenty-eight, when her natural life truly ended, and semi-immortality began. All that, all those years because of one wound.

Out of the shower, she wrapped a towel around herself, and stared at herself in the mirror. She rubbed her scarred shoulder, it was really aching this morning. She shook her head, shrugging it off, then ran a brush through her dark brown hair. She was small, giving people the impression she was much younger than she actually was. Because of her petite stature, she was used to the sidelong looks she received when she showed up at a crime scene, so she made it a point to dress up. Not to ridiculous standards, but so that she looked professional and set herself apart from being just ‘another damn kid’ trying to make it in a field where she didn’t belong. Or looked like she belonged.

Just as she was picking out her clothes for the day, Lilly’s head popped up. The dog jumped up, dancing in place a couple times, then let out a long ‘wah-wooooo!’ and bounded out of Sparrow’s room. Lilly never barked, she woo’d melodically, especially when she was happy or excited, or feeling particularly sassy.

“What is it, girl?” Before she could even try to guess at what had caught her dog’s attention, there were three solid knocks on her front door. She checked her watch, it was only a couple minutes past six, it was too early for the dog walker to show up. Tossing her pants onto her bed, Sparrow reached for her side arm and chambered a round, then clutching the top of the towel where it was tucked in at her chest. Padding to the front door, she had to rise up on the balls of her feet to see through the peephole. She saw a black t-shirt underneath a red buffalo plaid shirt first and immediately knew who it was.

She sighed. Partially from relief, partially from annoyance. Her hair was quickly pulled over her left shoulder to obscure the view. Then she disengaged the bolt locks and slowly opened the door, smiling reservedly up at the hulking figure.

“Good morning, Buck.”

“Hey, kid, we gotta…oh, sorry, I didn’t…” He looked abashed by seeing her in just a towel.

Sparrow shook her head and opened the door wider. “Don’t worry about it, c’mon in. What brings you by, and so early? We usually just meet at the station.” She turned, letting Buck in. Lilly was ecstatic, prancing and vocalizing her excitement, which made Sparrow chuckle. She should have had a stronger sense of modesty, especially around a man much older than she was, who was also her partner. Time had muted and smudged her once-strong sense of modesty and propriety. What was left was a bank empty of worry or regard.

Thomas Buck was the polar-opposite of Sparrow; he stood at six-foot-four, coming in at around two-fifty on the scale. He was forty-seven, having been on the force for twenty of those years. He kept himself in fighting shape with old-school weightlifting, despite going just a little soft around the middle. It didn’t matter what time of year it was, the man could always be found in Levi’s 501 straight-leg jeans, size fifteen boots that looked about as old as he did, a black t-shirt and a plaid button-up with the sleeves rolled up. Keeping true to the state stereotypes, he could always be found in a black felt Stetson and mirrored aviator sunglasses. Despite several memos from higher up in the law enforcement food chain requesting that detectives needed to dress more ‘professionally’, Buck never waivered, and no one dared approach him about it. As the lead Homicide detective, he had earned every stripe and medal through all the blood, sweat, and tears he had shed for the department and the city; so too had he earned the right to dress however the hell he wanted.

Buck took the unlit cigar out of his mouth and rolled it between his fingers, averting his eyes as she walked ahead of him. “We got a body out at Piney Point. It was called in about thirty minutes ago, Bossman put us on it, asap.” Lilly was the perfect distraction, as soon as he dropped to a knee, she rolled over on her back giving him ample opportunity to rub her belly.

“Piney Point? Huh. We don’t get many calls out that way. Gimme just a minute and I’ll be ready.”

“Well get the lead out, we gotta get out there. I don’t want those county sons of bitches contaminating my scene.” He rubbed the wiggling pointer’s belly, scratching at her chest as he spoke.

“I wish you would give them a break, I haven’t seen them do anything wrong yet.” She stepped into her room and closed the door over, leaving just enough space open where they could still talk.

“You ain’t been around as long as I have. My bar of expectations disappeared about ten years ago when it comes to county.” He looked up, sticking the cigar back between his teeth. “Could ya hurry it up, please? We gotta go.” He looked back down at Lilly and smiled, “Tell Mommy to hurry up, would ya?” He got no response, other than a chuffing sneeze from the dog.

“Hey, just because you’re stuck in Hicktown 1985 fashion doesn’t mean we all have to be,” she replied, coming back out fully dressed, pulling her long dark hair back into a simple ponytail. She was in black skinny pants, a light blue shirt, and a black fitted blazer, which she would very likely be shedding five minutes after they got there. Yet she was wearing black and white Chuck Taylors, which greatly amused Buck inwardly.

“I am not stuck in ‘Hicktown 1985’, this is a look I have cultivated over the last twenty years, it’s my signature,” he said, trying to sound offended. This was a conversation they had at least once a week.

She grabbed her bag from the kitchen island chair, tucked her Sig Sauer into the waistband holster, and bent down to kiss Lilly goodbye. “You be a good girl, okay? Protect the house. Callie will be by in a few hours to take you outside. I love you.” One more kiss, then she was out the door, holding it open for Buck, and locked it behind him. The look that Lilly gave her every morning when she had to go to work tore Sparrow’s heart in two, so goodbye’s had to be swift.

“Well which is it? Either I’m stuck in Hicktown 1985 or I just came off George Strait’s bus in 1990? It can’t be both,” he said, following her out of the breezeway.

“You know, somehow you actually manage both. I guess we’re taking yours?” She gestured to the parking lot.

Idling just behind her car was Buck’s hulking black beast. It was a newer model Ford F350, on huge knobby tires and a six-inch lift, with smokestack pipes jutting up from the bed of the truck. It fit Buck perfectly.

“Yup,” he said, “you need a boost there, kid?”

Sparrow huffed a chuckle. “At this point I’ll need a trampoline. No, thanks, I can manage.” And she did, she somehow managed to hoist herself up into the truck, just to be greeted by the deep, throaty growling of Cannibal Corpse’s lead singer. She rolled her eyes skyward, it was going to be that kind of day.

Brazenly, she reached over and turned down the volume, it was hard to hear and talk over the noise.

“You wanna keep your fingers, you don’t dis the Cannibal,” he warned, inching the volume back up.

“But it’s noise!”

“Noise my ass, “ Buck grunted, “you just don’t appreciate the fine wordsmithing of Cannibal Corpse.”

Sparrow snorted. “The poet laureates of thrasher metal.”

“Death metal, if you’re going to insult my music, at least get the genre right.”

Driving through morning rush hour in Houston required a level of patience that Buck did not possess. His driving tended to give her several mini heart attacks as they wove in and out of traffic. At one point she was hanging on for dear life, clinging to the oh-shit handle as Buck dodged hitting the back of a sedan by mere inches, getting a blast of an airhorn from a semi behind him, for which he answered with a solid middle finger out of his window.

“Do you have to drive like that?” She already knew the answer, this was a discussion they had frequently.

“Like what?” he asked, feigning innocence.

“Like a demon-possessed bull in a china shop!”

“See,” he started, “this is the fundamental difference between you and me. If we were relying on you to drive, we’d still be waiting ten miles back, as you politely signaled and waited for someone to let you over, all while inching slowly forward because people want to drive with their thumbs up their asses.”

Sparrow could finally breathe a sigh of relief once they pulled off I-10. “But you say that about everyone,” she pointed out.

“Yeah, because they’re not me.”

Sparrow sighed and rolled her eyes. She felt endeared to Buck most of the time, but he was a handful, he could be irritating and exasperating. He wore a wedding ring, so there was another woman who had to put up with him in a non-professional capacity – someone who had to deal with him at home. In underwear and socks, over dinner and just having woken up in the morning, even more unrestrained than he was at work. Whoever she was, because Sparrow had not met her yet, she had to have been a saint.

Turning onto Cullman Road, Sparrow zeroed in on the house she knew they were going to; it looked like a football player’s house. Sure enough, a few cop cars were gathered at the gate, a few more parked haphazardly on the circular driveway. The gate was strapped with crime scene tape, guarded by a couple of beat cops.

A quick search on her phone about the property brought up the specs and purchase history. She looked up at the extravagant house, a quick scrutinization – she could see why it was bought for seven million. It was in a prime location in a cul-de-sac, taking up a good acre-and-a-half, butting right up against Buffalo Bayou. A sprawling structure constructed of brick, seven bedrooms and eleven bathrooms, spread across fifteen thousand square feet.

Sparrow jumped down from the mountain of the truck and joined Buck at the gate. They didn’t even have to flash their badges, the cops knew Buck - even if they had never met him face-to-face, cops on the beat just knew him by reputation. By association, they knew Sparrow, even if they didn’t know her yet. She smiled at the officers as she passed, and as it was returned by both, the one on the right pulled down his shades to wink, and watch her walk through the gates. Her smile stiffened, and she sped up - attention paid to her by men was uncomfortable and she did everything she could to discourage it. That particular one, though - Matt Greene, just wasn’t taking the hint.

Buck looked down at her hurrying to keep up. “I think Greene might be kind of sweet on ya there, kid.”

“Hush up, Buck.”

He chuckled and switched the stogie to the other side of his mouth as they entered the covered driveway and grand entry. The double doors were made of rich, dark wood and wrought iron, under normal circumstances would have been very sturdy and strong. The first thing Sparrow noticed was the cracked wood and bent metal.

“All right, Curtis,” Buck said, approaching the officer in charge, “give us the goods.”

Curtis was the patrol supervisor, he was older than Buck – maybe even close to retirement, and he was the first officer that Sparrow had been partnered with for field training as a rookie. While Buck liked calling her “Kid”, Curtis still called her “Boot”.

“Mornin’, Buck. Mornin’, Boot. We have a good ol’ fashioned murder. Follow me.” He turned and went inside. “The home you’re seeing belongs to Deon Blackhand.”

“Wait, Deon Blackhand that plays for the Texans? The defensive linebacker?” Buck asked, slightly but genuinely surprised.

“You got it,” Curtis confirmed, “still a second stringer, but as you can see…”

“He still ain’t doin’ too bad. Who woulda thought, we’re on the case of a goddamn celebrity.”

“And an orc.” Curtis glanced at Buck, there was a note of disapproval in his voice.

People were still very divided on their approval of non-humans mingling with humans. The most extreme of them were called Purists - they were all for preserving the purity of the human race, and eradicating the supernaturals completely. Others, like Curtis, were far more subtle with their disapproval, but it was still present and apparent.

“Don’t be an asshole, Curtis,” Buck drawled, “there’s more than enough of them to go around. Where’s the body?”

While the guys were talking, Sparrow took the time to soak in all the details. They made a good show of trying to decorate tastefully, like the Dior vases filled with floral arrangements and fine art on the walls that did not seem like it fit the personality of a football player. More obvious signs of a big sports figure displaying their wealth was in the Gucci and Versace décor – gaudy and ostentatious in presentation. She was willing to bet there was at least one black Escalade in the garage.

There were definite signs of a struggle; an antique armchair – one of two - that was turned the wrong way, an end table between the two chairs that was knocked over.

Sparrow reached up and rubbed her shoulder, it had started tingling as soon as she stepped through the door. The tingling felt like white static, like when a hand or foot went to sleep. It was an orc’s home, that was to be expected, but the supernatural presence was stronger than just one orc. She felt something boring holes into her from the side as she casually wandered through the grand foyer. To the immediate left as they entered the house, she had seen a formal sitting room. Ahead of that was another sitting room, which was closer to an old-fashioned drawing room. Neither room were much touched by anyone other than the cleaning staff.

Further down the foyer was the sweeping staircase that split in two directions, bordered by the same painstakingly forged wrought iron railings that adorned the front doors. Beyond that to the left was a hallway. From where she stood, she could see the double French doors that led to the covered patio, beyond that was the pool. The doors were wide open, one had been almost completely yanked off its hinges, it looked like it was barely hanging on by the top hinge. Sparrow made her way closer to inspect the damage. The doors were heavy and very well made, it had taken a great deal of raw strength to damage it like that. She turned and motioned Buck over.

“Damn,” he said, looking at the door from top to bottom.

“That takes some real strength,” Sparrow said quietly. She gestured to the edge of the door, where there was a nice, full bloody handprint, and marks where it looked like fingers had tried to grab the door but couldn’t hang on.

“Orc strength.”

Sparrow made a face. “Possibly. I’m reserving my judgement until we know more.”

“If you know anything about him,” Curtis said, coming up behind them, “you’ll know that he already has a rap sheet full of domestic violence, assault and battery, assault with a deadly weapon, you name it.”

Sparrow looked over her shoulder at Curtis, eyes narrowed. “Well, I don’t. Know about him that is. Not much of a football fan.”

Curtis scoffed. “The hell is wrong with you, Sparrow? That’s damn near un-American.”

Sparrow looked at him pointedly. “I prefer baseball. You know, the great American pastime?” She turned her attention back to the door, then beyond the door to the scene out past the patio. “Even if I did, I would still reserve my judgement. As should you.”

“Rather high and mighty of you, ain’t it, Boot?” he asked, as he followed them out.

“No, it’s not, it’s called being objective,” she replied, choosing to ignore the dig. “None of us are the judge or jury, we’re not here to convict and execute. We’re here to collect evidence, do our due diligence, and arrest the right person – be it man, woman, or monster.”

Buck huffed a chuckle and adjusted the brim of his Stetson. “She’s right, Curtis. We got a job to do.”

Curtis looked at him indignantly. “That’s rich coming from you, Buck. You were the one who said you didn’t want to be partnered with the rookie. Remember?”

This wasn’t a shock to Sparrow, she had known their partnership was a direct order from the captain, because she was just a gumshoe, but also because Buck was hard to deal with on the daily.

Buck drew himself straighter, he may have actually grown a few inches; when he rolled his shoulders and tipped his chin up, he was about to square up with someone, and that never went well for the person on the other end. “You wanna watch your tone there, Curtis. You have issue with something I said, you take it up with me.” He made a shooing motion with his fingers. “Now, run along back to your post like a good little guard dog, and let the big dogs handle this.”

Curtis scowled. It looked as though he was going to say something in retaliation but thought better of it. He looked at Sparrow, then back to Buck, and the scowl deepened. Buck watched the retreat, his upper lip curled up in disdain.

“Buck.”

She pulled his attention back to the present. She was walking towards the pool, following an increasingly heavier trail of blood – footprints, a handprint here and there, and spatter.

“Goddamn. What’d he do, shoot her with a fuckin’ shotgun?”

“No…” She sounded unsure; it was hard to really tell what it was that she was looking at. It was at the edge of the pool where Sparrow stopped and knelt to get a better look. Where the water should have been an appealing turquoise, cool and inviting, was dark red, fading in stages as it spread away from the body that floated facedown in the water. A halo of bleach blonde surrounded her head; sections of her hair were still stained with blood. Though most of the blood had drained into the water, there was still a sluggish trickle from the immense chunk that had been taken from her neck and shoulder. “To me, that doesn’t look like any kind of gunshot wound I’ve ever seen. Has the ME been called yet?” It looked like a bite, and the association made her shoulder itch.

“Doubt it,” Buck grumbled. “I’ll do it. You might want to go over there and see what you can get from her.” He motioned to a woman to their right, standing under the cover of the overhang by the outdoor bar. Possibly the maid, maybe a personal assistant. He left the interviewing up to Sparrow, as he was notorious for going in hard, whereas Sparrow had a bit more finesse and a softer touch with witnesses. The interrogation room, however, that was his territory.

Sparrow stood back up, nodding in agreement with Buck. “We’ll need to get her out of the water quick, see if they can put some lead in it.” Stepping over a large puddle of blood and scratching at her shoulder, she walked over to the woman. The woman’s face was puffy, her eyes were dark and bloodshot, just from her demeanor, Sparrow could ascertain that it had been her that found the body that morning.

“Hi, I’m Detective Sparrow,” she greeted, holding up the badge she wore around her neck, as she pulled a small notebook out of her back pocket.

The woman gave her the barest nod in greeting, her eyes glued to the pool. “I’m Elena.” Her voice was husky and gruff, she had been doing a lot of crying.

“Can you tell me your relationship to the victim?”

“I was Miss Angelica’s assistant. I helped her with her appointments, schedules, cook for her, do some cleaning.” There was a trace hint of a Spanish lilt in her voice, as though she had worked hard to Americanize her accent. In a city even as diverse as Houston was, the more Spanish one spoke the harder the labor they had to do.

Sparrow put those notes into her notebook. “You said Angelica was her name? So you two were pretty close?”

“Angelica Benning. And yes, I suppose you could say we were.” She ran the side of her index finger under her eyes. She had been wearing makeup at one point, but Sparrow could see the streaks where her mascara had been running. Elena’s dark hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail, she was dressed rather well, mocha colored herringbone pants, the style was very similar to a high-end designer, and a lace panel button-up blouse – another high-end designer, both known to run well into the thousands per piece. The shoes, too, were also on the luxury brand end, probably costing into the high four figures. It wasn’t unheard of for personal assistants to make a good salary, especially for the wives of celebrities or sports stars if they were really on their game. But enough to be able to afford clothes and shoes like that? Sparrow made a mental note to mention it later in their conversation.

“What time did you arrive this morning?”

“Six o’clock. I am always here at six o’clock every morning. I arrive through that gate,” she said, pointing across the pool deck to the gate that led out to the driveway and garage. “We always come in through there and enter the house through the pool supply room.”

Sparrow turned and followed the path around the pool – both around the deep end as well as around the shallow end of the pool, stepping out so she had a better view of the door that Elena had indicated. Her eyebrows furrowed in thought, looking back to Elena. “Through there? Why not through any one of the other doors?”

Elena dipped her head a little. “Mister Blackhand does not like when the help uses the main entrance. I sometimes go through the kitchen if I know that he’s away at practice or a game that is not here.”

“Particular, is he?” Sounded like an ass to her, but she would let Buck sort him out.

Elena made a very telling face. “Yes, very particular. We should be ‘invisible’ to him as air; unseen and unheard in the background, unless he demands it.”

Uh-huh. That was interesting. “When did you discover Miss Benning?”

“As soon as I came in. There was blood…a lot of blood.” Her hand came up to her mouth, tears were welling up in her eyes again. She sniffed deeply, looking away and down, her hand fully covering her mouth, taking a moment to compose herself before she could speak again. “I always get here first. There are three other maids – Maria, Ines, and Esmeralda, they come in a few minutes after I do. We have to take the bus, Mister Blackhand does not want our cars parked in his driveway.” She cleared her throat and wiped at her eyes again; Sparrow noticed that they cut towards the house briefly, then back to the detective. “I saw…I saw Miss Benning in…in the…”