Page 92 of A Game of Deception
I swallowed hard and nodded, covering her hand with mine. “Together.”
Our plan was simple.Morrison volunteered at the Naples Marine Conservation Society three days a week. Today was one of those days. Perfect spot to corner him—public enough he couldn’t tell us to fuck off, but exposed enough he’d want to keep his shit quiet.
I pulled into the parking lot of the conservation center, a blue building with a giant sea turtle painted on it. Spotted Morrison’s crappy old Buick right away.
“He’s here,” I said, parking a few spots over.
Tara nodded, inhaling deeply. “Ready?”
I looked at her—this brilliant badass joining me on this truth-hunting mission.
“With you? Always.”
The place was cool and dark, with marine displays everywhere and families wandering around.
“Excuse me,” Tara approached a teenager working the front desk, and slipped him a twenty for admission. “We’re looking for Rick Morrison. He volunteers here?”
The kid barely lifted his eyes while making change. “Mr. Morrison’s running the eleven o’clock turtle talk on the east boardwalk.”
We followed the signage past outdoor exhibits featuring pools of fish, crabs, and sharks. The wooden walkway extended over a pool where sea turtles drifted without urgency.
And there stood Morrison, a tourist crowd gathered around him, rocking khaki shorts and a logo polo, playing kindly old nature enthusiast instead of the corrupt bastard who’d destroyed people’s lives.
“...and this is Daisy,” he explained, pointing to a turtle. “Found her tangled in fishing line. We’ll release her next month.”
A little girl with pigtails raised her hand. “Does she miss her family?”
Morrison smiled gently. “Sea turtles are loners, sweetheart. They don’t have families like us. But she probably misses the open ocean.”
The disconnect hit me hard—this turtle-loving volunteer was the same bastard who took bribes, falsified evidence, destroyed my life, and buried the truth about Jimmy. My blood boiled watching his wholesome act.
Tara squeezed my hand. “Easy,” she whispered. “Remember the plan.”
I forced myself to breathe as the tour group dispersed. When Morrison spotted us, his face transformed—grandpa vanished, replaced by a cold, hard stare.
He hustled the tourists away and stormed over.
“I told you to stay away,” he hissed, eyes darting around. “This is harassment.”
“We just want to talk, Detective Morrison,” Tara said calmly. “About the inconsistencies in my brother’s case.”
His jaw clenched. “I already told you. I have nothing to say.”
“I think you do,” Tara continued, cool as ice. “Your final report leaves out key conclusions. No determination of who drove, no toxicology, no witness statements. It’s incomplete.”
“Filed my report based on evidence,” Morrison snapped. “Take it up with the department. I’m retired.”
I watched him sweat despite the cool breeze. Tara’s approach wasn’t working.
Time for me to be the asshole.
I stepped into his bubble. “We’re not here about your official report, Detective,” I said, voice low and threatening. “We’re here about your ledger. And Isabel Valdez.”
The effect was fucking beautiful. Morrison went ghost-white, eyes bulging. He stumbled backward toward the railing.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he stammered.
“Pretty sure you do,” I pressed, invading his personal space. “Isabel Valdez. Stanford student you framed for drugs ten years ago. Case tossed because you manufactured evidence. The realreason they kicked your worthless ass to the retirement curb. We just had a fascinating little chat with her. Turns out she’s become a criminal justice activist. Fucking poetic for our purposes, isn’t it?”
