Page 58 of The Meaning Of You

“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 forMiles 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 marriagecertificate. You’re a forensic accountant. How doyouknow 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?—”

---