Page 14

CHAPTER TWELVE

Nick

I stared wide-eyed at the name and date on the passport and licence. When I’d first found them, I hadn’t even thought to check the details.

A glass of water appeared under my nose and my gaze snapped up. I thought about slapping it out of Madigan’s hand but I accepted it instead, figuring I could use the distraction to calm the fuck down.

He spoke while I took a long swallow that tasted like dirt in my mouth. “You said you found these in Davis’s research folder?”

I nodded and slid the glass back on the table. “If you really want to be helpful, you could offer me a beer.”

Madigan’s gaze narrowed. “Only if you agree to bunk down in my spare room tonight.”

I bristled. “I don’t need mothering. I’m a grown man.”

To which he folded his arms and stared at me, impassively. “I think you could do with a bit of mothering.”

I stared back.

He raised a brow.

I groaned. “Jesus Christ. Fine. If it’ll get me a beer, then mother me all you like. Lord knows I didn’t get enough back in the day.”

Madigan flinched, his expression mortified. “Shit. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Your mother… I didn’t mean?—”

“I know you didn’t.” I met his gaze. “Now grab us that beer. I need something to give me courage while I google this damn name.” I waved the licence in front of him. “Just another fucking secret to add to the pile, right?”

Madigan squeezed my shoulder and I had to shut my eyes, the kindness threatening to blow me wide open.

He warned, “Don’t start without me.” Then he headed for the kitchen.

While Madigan was gone, I studied his home in more depth. The house was neat as a pin, something I approved of, but it was the natural light streaming into the open space via skylights and large picture windows that really stole the show. It bounced off the towering ceilings and ivory walls, adding an art gallery feel to the place. It could’ve been cold and uninviting but for the wealth of books crowding shelves and bookcases and sitting in neat stacks on every table. They softened the space, creating warmth and welcome, and my brain itched to peruse their titles to learn more about the man who owned them.

In addition to the books, bright colour leaped from an eclectic selection of art and photography that graced the walls. Much was nature based, but not all. A vintage Gone With The Wind movie poster sat alongside what I thought was a samurai sword, which in turn sat next to an impressionistic coastal painting. They shouldn’t have worked together, but they did.

The art was a little dramatic for my tastes, which ran to the more predictable and mundane, if I thought about art at all. But in this space, I had the sense that everything had been considered and chosen with care. Nothing contrived. Nothing done simply for show or to impress. Madigan had created a comfortable space to live—tasteful, careful, blunt, eclectic, and warm. It was a reflection of the man himself, and it gave me pause.

Madigan’s reappearance interrupted my musings. “Low alcohol,” he declared, handing me a beer.

I groaned because, of course it was bloody low alcohol. “Good god, man. Is there anything in this house that isn’t healthy? Because if there is, I want some of that shit right now before I explode and disappear in a puff of biodynamic BPA-free smoke.”

Madigan sat in the chair opposite instead of back next to me. “I have a collection of excellent red wines and single malt whiskies that would likely fit the bill.”

I blinked, appalled. “Then why are we drinking this godawful toilet water? It’s probably made of quinoa or kale or something equally trendy and disgusting.” I held up the can of beer and squinted at the alcohol percentage. “Three. No, two?—”

“Would you like to borrow my glasses?” he offered blandly.

I waved him off. “I can see perfectly well, thank you.” I peered at the ridiculously tiny writing. “Yes, two percent alcohol.”

“Two point five,” he corrected smugly, and I rolled my eyes.

“Point five percent of nothing is still watered-down piss. For all we know, it simply sat next to a decent alcoholic brew on the truck and absorbed a few fumes along the way.”

Madigan’s green eyes danced. “True, but I’m not wasting excellent wine or whisky on your jaded palette.”

I grinned. “You are such a pretentious little shit, aren’t you?”

He raised his beer in a toast. “I’ll drink to that.”

We reached across the coffee table and clinked bottles, and as much as I hated to admit it, the beer wasn’t as bad as I’d feared. Not that I was sharing that little titbit with Madigan. “Right—” I spun the laptop to face me. “Let’s see what we can dig up for Miles Morrison.” I searched the name and scanned the results. “Not much is the short answer.” I turned the laptop so Madigan could see better. “Not in New Zealand at least, and there’s no photo that resembles Davis.”

Madigan reached for the passport and held various pages up to the light. “Whoever is responsible for this knew what they were doing, which only makes the fact it has an expiry date in the past and therefore can’t be used all the more confusing.”

I blinked. “It has what?”

He shot me a look. “You missed that, huh?” He held the passport out and I squinted at it. “Your glasses are on the coffee table.”

“I can see just fine.” I couldn’t, but given enough time, the blur slowly came into focus. “Why get a false passport that you can’t use?”

“Good question.” Madigan returned the passport to the coffee table and handed the driver’s licence to me. “Same deal. It all looks genuine except for the expiry date being in the past.”

I took a closer look at both the licence and passport. “How do you know it’s a good fake? I wouldn’t have a clue what to look for.”

“I don’t, not for sure,” he amended. “But part of my job is spotting document forgeries. Not the digital stuff, obviously, but the rest of it is like a sixth sense. You get a feel for it.”

I sat back and studied him. “Okay, but I need details.”

He crossed his legs, drawing his suit pants tight across his... never mind. “There are different types of counterfeit documents, whether they’re ID or a family tree or birth certificate or whatever. There’s a genuine document used by a wrong person. A genuine document that’s been altered. And then there’s a fake or counterfeit document, which could either be the document itself—” He tapped the passport with his finger. “—or the credentials used to acquire it like a false birth or marriage certificate. You’re a forensic accountant. How do you know when you’re onto a dodgy money trail? Is it just numbers or do you get a sense that something isn’t adding up, pun intended?”

I thought about the Spidey senses that crawled up my spine whenever I read through a set of accounts that on the surface look perfectly above board but weren’t. “Both, I guess.”

“Exactly.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “In my job, I don’t just work with books. I conserve maps, contracts, treaties, journals, diaries, wills, birth certificates, all kinds of documents. And part of the process involves determining what’s original and what might’ve been added at a later date, changed, or doctored. Sometimes you might even want to preserve the actual doctoring because it tells a story. Like a family tree that’s been altered to erase a problematic line or to prove royal lineage—ink, paper, style, all play a part. Following so far?”

I nodded.

“Good. Now, I’m familiar with some of the technology applied to modern identity documents. There are obviously digital components that aren’t in my skillset, but I have a passing familiarity with them and a lot of the same critical thinking applies. Just like my trained eye can recognise a poor forgery of the seventeenth century, I get the same sense of relative authenticity with a modern document as well. Doesn’t mean I’m right, because it’s not my wheelhouse, but it doesn’t mean I’m wrong either. And my intuition is telling me that these—” He indicated the passport and driver’s licence. “—are either legit, or they’re highly skilled work.”

I wasn’t sure what that meant but it didn’t sound promising. “So, they’re not cheap knock-offs. Not something Davis might get done for a prank.”

Madigan gave a tight-lipped shake of his head. “No, Nick. These aren’t prank material.” He got to his feet and waved his hand for me to follow. “Bring the passport and I’ll show you.”

I immediately jumped to my feet. “Where are we going?”

“To my studio.” He crossed the room and turned right into a hallway, passing two bedrooms and a laundry. This part of the house had the same feel as the rest, light and airy with bright artwork on the walls, the only difference being a stone-coloured carpet instead of wooden floors. At the end of the hall, Madigan stopped in front of a keypad beside a closed door.

I’d been so busy gawking that I needed to grab Madigan’s waist to avoid slamming into the back of him. He tensed, his fingers hovering over the keypad. Only then did I realise just how close we were standing. His silver-tipped hair almost brushed my face, curling on his collar like it was overdue for a cut. And before I could stop myself, I’d drawn in a musky hit of cologne and perspiration that was surprisingly appealing.

“Sorry.” I took a big step back. “Not looking where I was going. I do believe that’s generally your forte.”

Madigan huffed. “Funny guy.” Then he tapped in the code and the door to what had once been the garage swung open.

I followed him inside, enjoying the rush of cool, dry air against my skin. “You have pretty good security.”

Madigan flicked a series of switches and the room lit up. “I work on some valuable books.”

My gaze travelled the spacious room, its various workstations, tables, sinks, hoods, and a ton of unfamiliar equipment. “No windows?”

He shook his head. “Natural light is a book’s worst enemy. The studio lighting is specially designed. You have to consider spectral distribution and diffuseness?—”

“The what?”

He waved dismissively. “You don’t want to know. Suffice to say even the workbench lighting is designed to ensure the right angle and distance to ascertain textural and colour changes. The room is kept to an even temperature of around 16 to 21 degrees Celsius with low humidity. We use fume hoods for certain processes and a lot of the chemicals require special storage. We have drying racks, book cradles, laying presses, board cutters, light boxes, mobile trolleys, bolts of linen and leather and cloth, and areas for gold tooling and photography. There’s fire suppression equipment, a separately monitored security system, a wash-up area, and tons of storage sealed against dust. On top of all that, there’s enough electrical sockets to satisfy a small hospital.”

“I had no idea.” I walked slowly around the room with fresh eyes, taking a closer look at some of the equipment.

Madigan shrugged. “It took me six months working with an architect to get the space exactly right, but I couldn’t afford to make a mistake.”

I snorted. “I bet he just loved seeing your name in the appointment book.”

Madigan chuckled. “Pretty much. But without the right environment, I may as well not bother. No one would entrust me with an important document or book. And even with all of this at my fingertips, there’s still some stuff I need to use the university studio for. Hence, a little lecturing in return for access.”

I raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m guessing you won’t be moving anytime soon.”

Madigan trailed his hand over the closest workbench, a caress as much as anything, and I couldn’t look away. “And you’d be right,” he answered simply. “A lot of people envision book restorers working in dusty old basements, but it couldn’t be further from the truth. Clean, dry, cool, well-ventilated spaces with no natural light are an absolute must. UV is like cancer to old documents and books. That’s not to say it doesn’t have its uses, but we control exactly what wavelength we use and for how long.” His cheeks flushed bright. “You shouldn’t let me go on. Let’s have a look at that passport.” He held out his hand. “A little UV light should bring some of its security features to life.”

I handed over the passport and followed him to a worktable. “Is this your spot?”

He nodded distractedly. “Gazza’s bench is over there.” He tipped his head toward a corner where three tables formed a U. “When he first started working for me, he was a lot closer. Now he prefers to keep me at arm’s length so I don’t offer unsolicited advice.”

I chuckled. “You? Never.”

“Smart-arse.” Madigan opened a drawer and fished out a small handheld unit that I guessed was a UV light source. “This’ll do the trick.” He plugged it in, killed the rest of the studio lighting, and then began running the light over the passport pages.

I moved closer so I could peer over his shoulder. “Holy shit.” I stared in wonder at the various elements of the passport that had suddenly come to life. A kiwi and silver fern sat to the right of the photo, and many other designs popped up as Madigan flicked through the pages.

“Pretty cool, huh?” He glanced over his shoulder, putting us almost nose to nose. He blinked and quickly turned back, clearing his throat. “They change some of the design features every few years to keep ahead of forgers. At one time, they used a special ink that disappeared at 27 degrees. A border agent could put his finger over it and check if it disappeared when it warmed up. The very idea punched all my book conservator nerd buttons, I can tell you that much.”

I stood to the side and caught the boyish grin on his face. He was so obviously in his element that it was almost impossible not to smile as I watched him work, muttering to himself and making notes.

“So, what do you think?” I asked when he finally turned the studio lights back on and spun to face me.

“I don’t know what the recent security markers are, but I can say the passport has all the major ones I do know about, and a few I don’t. It’s either the real deal done through the passport office with fraudulent documents and a carefully crafted identity history, or it’s a really good forgery. And I mean really good.”

“How so?” I leaned against the table with my arms folded.

Madigan rolled back on his stool, his hand lightly resting on the passport. “These days you can’t get away with simply using a dead person’s identity. It’s way more complicated than that. The embedded chip and other security markers are highly technical and shrouded in secrecy. The New Zealand passport is one of the most highly valued passports to hold in the world. Kiwis can mostly travel anywhere without raising too many suspicions, so the passport office takes security seriously. If this is a fake, then it hasn’t been done by some weekend hobbyist looking to make an extra buck. This is skilled professional work, and that comes at a price.”

I thought about the new credit card Davis had and all the other weird shit I’d discovered, and something cold wormed its way through my belly. “It doesn’t make sense. Even if Davis was having an affair, why would he need these?”

Madigan shrugged. “I don’t know. Identity fraud is a big business. Steal someone’s identity and you can steal their entire lives, digitally at least.”

I shook my head. “But these aren’t Davis’s details against someone else’s photo. These are new details against his photo. He created a new identity for himself .” My throat closed over. “Why would he do that?”

Madigan sighed. “Again, I don’t know. But a good place to start might be getting them properly checked out. Samuel could help you with that.” He clearly read my expression because he added, “Or maybe someone from your financial unit? They could point you in the right direction.”

I slow blinked and shook my head. “Yeah, right. Can you just imagine how that conversation would go? Lots of questions that I have no answers for, like why did your husband have a forged passport and driver’s licence in his possession, and how long have you known about it? Not the best look for one of their forensic accountants. Especially since I don’t know the why behind it all. I don’t want to think Davis was involved in anything illegal, but I’m starting to wonder if I even knew him at all. And now that he’s dead, I don’t want to stir something up that might come back and bite me on the arse.”

Madigan studied me. “So you ask Samuel. Because if you don’t do anything, it might come back to bite you anyway. Then you’ll be accused of hiding it as well.”

“Samuel’s already checking with the traffic case officer. He said he’d go over the details of the crash and what they found, again.” I remembered my promise to call him when I was done at the caravan and silently cursed.

“But he doesn’t know about all this, does he?” Madigan pointed out.

“No.” I pulled out my phone, winced at the number of missed calls, and left it on the coffee table.

Madigan glanced at the screen, his expression impassive. “Seems you have a habit of ignoring people. I guess that should make me feel better.”

And there it was. The awkward subject we’d been avoiding all evening. But instead of being a grownup about it, I rolled my eyes and said, “I don’t, as it happens. Only when it comes to you.” I regretted the outburst the instant the words came out of my mouth, even more so when the sting of them hit Madigan’s eyes.

He unplugged the light, returned it to the drawer, and pushed the passport my way. “You’ll be needing this.” He got to his feet and started toward the door.

“Madigan, wait.” I grabbed his wrist and he came to a reluctant stop.

His gaze dropped to my hand and I released his arm and stepped back. “I’m sorry.” I ran my clammy hands down my jeans. “I don’t know why I said that.”

Madigan watched me closely, those clever green eyes making me squirm. “I don’t believe you.”

I didn’t blame him. “That doesn’t make it untrue.”

He watched me a few seconds longer, then his shoulders slumped and he stared up at the ceiling for what felt like an age. Eventually he looked back to me. “I want to be your friend, Nick, but you’re not making it easy.” He hesitated, like he was choosing his words carefully. “You might be here of your own volition, but it feels like you’d rather be anywhere else.”

I flinched, shocked that he’d seen through my bullshit so easily. A pit formed in my stomach. I felt raw and seen in a way I hadn’t for a long time.

“That’s not true... well, not entirely,” I admitted. “I do want to be here, Madigan, but I... I can’t... it seems like whenever we’re in the same room you...” I scrunched my eyes shut and dragged both hands down my face. “Dammit, I’m fucking this up.”

The studio fell quiet bar the muted sound of cicadas singing somewhere in the evening heat. Somewhere I’d rather be. Anywhere but with Madigan Church.

Madigan tapped his socked foot against my calf and I opened my eyes. He smiled gently. The kind of smile that wrapped around your heart like cotton wool. The kind that promised you a soft place to fall if only you’d take a chance.

Trouble was, I didn’t know if I could. I didn’t know if I was ready. I didn’t know if I was capable of more than grief and anger. In that moment or ever again.

The smile faded and Madigan extended his hand, palm up. I stared at it for a long moment, then slid mine atop his, revelling in the way his warm fingers closed loosely around mine.

“I get that you’re grieving,” he said softly, pulling me closer. “And I totally understand that you’re all over the place emotionally. But I’m not twisting your arm to be in this friendship, Nick, if that’s even what this is. You only have to say it’s not what you want and we can stop it right now. I’ll miss your company, but I don’t want a friendship that feels like I’m on retainer, ignored most of the time unless you need something from me or have nowhere else to go, like today. You’re only here because you think Davis was having an affair and I’m neutral ground.” He arched a brow and waited.

Heat rushed into my cheeks because he was right about everything except the neutral part. Madigan was anything but neutral ground for me. I nodded reluctantly. “I’m sorry.”

He let out a heavy sigh. “Well, at least you’re honest. And to be fair, it normally wouldn’t bother me. But this friendship with you, it’s—” He trailed off, and as I watched him struggle for the right words, I suddenly understood. The puzzle pieces clicked and I knew. I knew he felt it too. This strange thing between us. It wasn’t only me.

“Complicated?” I offered.

Madigan froze, his gaze intent upon my face. “Yes, Nick. It’s fair to say it’s... complicated.” He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to.

I sighed and the words just came. “Yeah, for me too.” I squeezed his hand before pulling free of his grip and tucking both hands in my pockets.

He took a step back, his eyes not once leaving mine. “Is it really?” A challenge more than a question. A challenge I was surprisingly prepared to accept.

“Yes.” I pinned him with an equally intent look. “More than you realise.”

He swallowed hard, his teeth worrying his bottom lip. Then he drew a breath. “And?”

And there it was. The door I’d been standing outside for months. “ And you confuse me, Madigan,” I answered as honestly as I could. “This whole thing—” I waved a hand between us. “—confuses me. I’m a mess, as you’re no doubt aware. Too much of a mess to feel safe about taking that kind of step. Especially now, with all this going on. I’m angry and hurt and it would be so easy to?—”

“I wouldn’t let you,” he broke in, his eyes flashing with annoyance. “For all those same reasons you mentioned. I don’t want to be a refuge or a Band-Aid. I’m simply wanting to know if I should walk away.”

Should he? It was a valid question, the bluntness of which was so very Madigan, I almost smiled. A direct hit in a circuitous conversation of insinuation and allusion that we somehow both understood.

I didn’t answer straight away. He was offering me an out, a solution to the back and forth I’d been doing in my head since New Year. Since I first realised he’d somehow slipped under my skin to become my go-to person in a crisis. Guilt about Davis had stayed my hand back then. Disappointment and hurt stayed it now. I studied this man who I’d done nothing more than hold hands with and marvelled how the question had even come about.

“I can’t promise anything ,” I managed in a whisper-thin voice. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to. I don’t even know if I want to. So, for your sake, maybe it is better if you walk away.”

His challenging gaze burrowed into mine. “Do you want me to?”

A groan escaped my lips and my attention slid from him to the floor. “Why are you doing this? I’m not worth it. That’s not?—”

“Do you, Nick?” he snapped. “Do you want me to walk away from whatever this is? Yes or no.”

My gaze snapped up, my answer out before I could stop it. “No.” The force of the word circled the studio like a summoning. “No, I don’t. Although I’m not sure that’s the best thing for either of us.”

Madigan slow blinked and his shoulders relaxed. “Maybe not. But I can work with that.”

I tucked a stray silver lock of hair behind his ear. He leaned into the touch before catching himself and straightening, cheeks flushed. My heart skipped uncertainly in my chest and I dropped my hand. “You need to know that I won’t mean to hurt you, but it might happen regardless, and I’ll be very sorry about that.”

Madigan’s head tilted to the side and he studied me. “That goes both ways, Nick. You’re not in charge here, at least not as much as you seem to think you are. Don’t ghost me again or I will walk away, understand?”

His determined tone brooked no argument, and it hit me like a ton of bricks just how much I didn’t want that to happen. “I won’t. But I’m not ready for anything more. Not yet. So, can we pretend this conversation didn’t happen, at least for a while?”

Madigan’s mouth tipped into a smile. “What conversation?”

I returned the smile and gave him a gentle push toward the hallway. “Come on. I’m hungry. Do you wanna cook or should I?”

He shot a horrified look over his shoulder. “Set you loose in my kitchen? Have you lost your mind? You’ll need an induction course and a health and safety briefing at the very least before I let you anywhere near my copperware. No, Nick. I’ll cook while you call your brother-in-law. Then you can do an internet search on the name Lachlan K starting with an Auckland parameter first, then wider if you need it.”

I groaned as Madigan closed the door and set the alarm. “Hang on.” A crease formed between his brows. “It is Davis’s laptop, right?”

“His old one, yes, but?—”

His eyes sparked. “Did you check the search history and bookmarks on the new laptop?”

“I just skimmed through,” I flustered. “ Then I got pissed off that Davis hadn’t asked me about money laundering and left it for later. To be honest I thought I’d have time?—”

“And then it was stolen, I know,” Madigan broke in. “But we don’t know when all this started. Davis might’ve done some preliminary research on his old one.”

“Shit.” I followed him up the hall. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Because you’re Sherlock not Watson,” he said starchily. “It’s all those drugs.”