Wild Secret

vehicle and plow down the neighborhood street.
I held on as JD followed. The Porsche cornered like it was on rails.
Marshall barreled down the narrow street. There were cars parked on either side, and palm trees shrouded the lane. There was a stop sign ahead, and a guy in a white truck pulled out.
Noonan was going too fast to do anything about it. He slammed on the brakes, and tires squealed billowing white smoke. Marshall twisted the wheel to avoid the truck and plowed onto the shoulder, knocking over the stop sign, smashing into a tree.
The airbags deployed, the hood crumpled and crinkled, the grill shattered, and bits of plastic and glass from the headlights scattered the area. Steam billowed from under the buckled hood, the radiator cracked.
We pulled behind the vehicle, and I hopped out with my weapon drawn. I advanced toward the driver’s side and shouted, "Out of the car! Now!"
The airbag had punched him in the face, and he looked dazed and pissed off. He raised his hands, kicked open the door, and staggered out.
“On the ground! Now!"
He complied and put his hands behind his head, his face against the hot asphalt that had been baked by the sun all morning.
JD slapped the cuffs around his wrists and yanked him to his feet.
I holstered my weapon, called dispatch, and gave them our location.
"Why did you run?" I asked.
"Why did you chase me?"
"Guilty people run," I said.
"I don't like cops."
"You forgot to mention that you worked for Randy Murdoch."
"You never asked."
"Is that where you got the barrel to dispose of Skyler's remains?”
His face crinkled, and his eyes narrowed at me. "What!?”
"We know the barrel was shipped to Randy Murdoch’s soap company. You worked there. You had access.”
“So?”
“Your girlfriend turns up in one of those barrels, and you don't think that's odd?"
"I think that's fucked up. That's what I think."
"Not looking real good for you right about now, Marshall."
"I don't care how it looks. I didn't kill Skyler. I loved her."
"How about you give us a DNA sample?"
"What’s that gonna prove?”
"Paternity. You want to know if it was your kid, don't you? If my girlfriend was murdered, and my child along with her, I'd really want to find the son-of-a-bitch who did it. Unless I was the one who did it.” I glared at him.
"I really do want to find out who killed her. It sure as hell wasn't me. And no, I ain't giving no DNA."
JD patted Marshall down and pulled out his wallet, keys, a pocket knife, a lighter, and a pack of cigarettes.”
“So, what now?" Marshall asked.
"We wait for a patrol car to take you to the station.”
“What are you arresting me for?”
“Reckless driving for starters.” I read him his rights.
"How about a cigarette while I wait?"
It was like music to my ears. I nodded to JD. He pulled a cigarette from the pack and stuck it in Noonan's mouth. JD used Marshall's lighter to strike it up, and the perp took a deep drag, glowing the cherry-red. The cigarette dangled from his lips while he inhaled on one side of his mouth and exhaled on the other.
That cigarette butt would give us all the DNA we needed to establish paternity. I thought it would be a useful bit of evidence somewhere down the line. It would turn out to be more useful than I had first imagined.

27
After a few minutes, Mendoza arrived. The patrol car pulled in behind us, red and blues flashing.
“Smoke break is over,” JD said. “Lose the cigarette.”
Marshall spat it to the ground.
I snapped on a pair of nitrile gloves, picked it up, and stuffed it into an evidence collection bag.
Marshall’s face twisted. “What the hell are you gonna do with that?”
I smiled. “DNA.”
Anger reddened his cheeks. “That’s bullshit. You can’t do that.”
“Yes, I can.”
JD stuffed Marshall into the back of the patrol car, and Mendoza took him to the station.
A tow truck arrived to impound the vehicle.
We headed to the station where Marshall was processed, printed, and booked on reckless driving and a host of other charges.
It didn't take him long to start complaining of head, neck, and chest pains. Said his vision was blurred, and he felt nauseous. We called an ambulance, and he was transferred to the emergency room for evaluation. It was probably all BS, but we had to check it out.
We filled out after action-reports, and by that time it was most definitely happy hour.
The band was scheduled to play their last show with Faye later that evening at Sonic Temple. We grabbed a quick bite to eat at Blowfish and washed it down with a few cocktails before heading over to the practice studio.
The guys were breaking down their gear when we arrived, but Crash hadn’t shown up yet. We made short work of it and loaded all the gear into the band van. The rebuilt ’70s van was a beast—matte black with chrome pipes, fat Cragar rims, and the Wild Fury logo on the side.
I tried calling Crash again, but he didn't answer. I asked Faye, “Have you talked to him?"
She shook her head. “I tried calling a few times. He's giving me the silent treatment.”
The guys climbed into the van, and we followed them to Sonic Temple. We loaded the gear into the venue. Wild Fury had played so many times that the sound guy knew exactly how to set the levels. There was really no need for a soundcheck anymore. Just a brief run-through of a song to make sure everything was wired up correctly and functional. We were in and out within an hour, and I still hadn't heard anything from Crash.
The band didn't take the stage until 11 PM, so we had plenty of time to kill. The guys wanted to celebrate their last night with Faye on bass.
The sun had just dipped over the horizon, and the evening was just beginning. We left Sonic Temple and walked down Oyster Avenue toward Overboard. Tourists started crowding the strip, and the smell