Wild Secret

sighed. "Playing golf."
"Thank you."
"You're wrong, Deputy. You’re wrong about this, and I hope you know that you're about to destroy a man. A hard-working family man.”
Her words stung. Her life was about to be upended through no fault of her own. I didn’t like this part of the job. But I didn’t like seeing innocent people murdered either.
We plunged down the steps, raced across the courtyard, and pushed through the wrought-iron gate.
I took a picture of the photo so I’d have it handy on my phone, then gave it back to Faulkner to log.
We hopped into the Porsche, and Faulkner and Erickson followed us to the country club in their patrol car. We stopped in the pro shop.
The golf pro confirmed Randy's tee time. He gave us an estimate of where he thought Randy might currently be on the course. He gave us a map and the keys to a couple golf carts. We hopped in and raced down the concrete path, backtracking from the 18th hole.
The electric carts whined as we weaved down the path alongside green fairways, winding our way to the 15th green.
Two carts were parked by a sand trap, and a foursome played out the hole. One of Randy's buddies tended the pin while he sunk a 12-foot putt with a smooth stroke.
The little white ball fell into the hole and rattled with a satisfying clunk.
Randy had a wide smile on his face and pulled a triumphant fist. His grin soon faded as we approached the green. His eyes rounded. It was clear by our demeanor we were here to bring him in.
"Randy Murdock, you’re under arrest for the murder of Skyler Locke,” I said.
His jaw dropped, and he blinked rapidly. "That's incorrect. You've got the wrong guy."
Faulkner slapped the cuffs around his wrists and ratcheted them tight while his friends looked on in dismay.
"Don't say a word," one of them cautioned. “I’ll call Carl.”
I assumed Carl was an attorney friend of theirs.
Faulkner escorted Murdoch to the golf cart and sat him in the passenger seat. Erickson climbed onto the back of the vehicle where the golf clubs would normally reside. He held on tight as Faulkner drove down the path toward the clubhouse.
"You're making a big mistake," Murdoch’s friend said.
I shrugged and walked down the slope of the green to our golf cart. JD hopped behind the wheel, put it into gear, and mashed the pedal, spitting a few blades of grass.
Club members gawked with wide eyes as Faulkner stuffed Randy into the back of the patrol car near the clubhouse. This kind of thing was a rare sight at the posh country club.
At the station, Murdoch was processed, printed, and put into an interrogation room. At this point, I didn't expect him to talk, but it was worth a try.

34
Randy Murdoch looked a little peaked under the pale green glow of the fluorescent lights. Sweat misted on his skin, and his nervous eyes surveyed us with trepidation as we entered the room.
The chair squeaked across the tile as I pulled it away from the table and sat down across from him.
"I'm not saying a word without an attorney present."
He didn't specifically ask to speak with an attorney. "Okay. That's fine. But just FYI, we know you were having an affair with Skyler Locke.”
He balked. "That's preposterous. I barely knew the girl."
"I thought you said you didn't know her."
He swallowed hard.
"We’ve got an eyewitness that saw you pick her up in your red Cadillac. You took her to the beach. You did something you shouldn't have under the pier.”
His face went long, and his eyes widened. He was silent for a long moment. “An eyewitness from 30 some-odd years ago? No way that holds up. And the statute of limitations has long since expired.”
“First-degree felony where the victim was under 18. No limitations.”
Randy swallowed hard.
“She was pregnant with your child."
His throat tightened again. "You can't prove that."
"Actually, we can. I'll get a court order for your DNA. It's not looking good, Randy.”
The sweat on his brow intensified.
“You know what I think? I think Skyler told you she was pregnant, and you freaked out."
He said nothing.
“I think you were worried that your entire life would come crumbling down. You’d go to jail, your wife would leave you, your business would collapse. So you killed Skyler, stuffed her in a barrel that you had around the warehouse, took her out on your boat, and got rid of her."
He shook his head. "I did no such thing."
"Why don't you do us all a favor and come clean? Cooperate, and maybe we can get you some kind of deal. You can live out the rest of your days in a minimum-security prison. Hell, it might almost be like a country club."
I pulled out a DNA testing kit that contained a swab sealed in a container. I put on a pair of nitrile gloves, tore open the package, removed the sterile Q-tip, and said, "I need to swab the inside of your cheek. It will only take a second, and it won't hurt."
"No."
I will go to the judge, and I will come back with a warrant for this. We will prove that you’re the father."
He glared at me, silent a long moment.
"Fine. Take your sample. But I didn't kill Skyler, and you can't prove that I did. When this is all said and done, I'm going to walk out of here, and you won’t be able to touch me."
I grinned. "Wanna bet?"


35
We dropped the DNA sample at the lab, filled out after-action reports, then headed to Diver Down to get something to eat. We took a seat at the bar, and Teagan had two beers waiting. “What's with the glum faces?"
I shrugged. "We just arrested an 80-year-old guy for murder.”
"The barrel girl?"
I nodded. "The guy got away with it for 30-plus years. If all goes as planned, he'll spend his last days in a 6x8 cell."
“That should be a reason to celebrate. Late justice is better than no