Zero Separation by Philip Donlay

weren’t going left to right: she was thinking, processing—or comparing something. She glanced up one more time, then, as if immensely pleased with herself, slid her chair back. Something had piqued her interest and Donovan couldn’t help but feel like the stakes had escalated.
    â€œYou know what? I think we’re finished here. You can go now, Mr. Nash,” Montero said. “I think I have what I need.”
    Donovan was instantly suspicious of her sudden shift of demeanor. He stood before Montero could slide the papers inside her folder and managed to see what she’d been looking at. The top sheet held six photos—mug shots. At the sight of the photo on the upper-right corner, he was forced to use every ounce of his self-control to remain passive. The photo was of Robert Huntington—the man Donovan used to be. He saw the word “deceased” stamped across the top. Montero closed the folder, snatched the recorder, and their eyes met. She tipped her head slightly and strode from the room.
    â€œI guess that’s it, Mr. Nash. We’re almost finished.” Turner stood. “Wait here while I get someone to type up your statement, and then I’ll need you to sign it for me.”
    Donovan nodded absently and tried to gather his thoughts, puteverything into perspective. His heart sank when he remembered the flashlight; it had no doubt been logged into evidence and dusted for prints. They’d run what was probably a partial print and gotten multiple hits. He tried to imagine what Montero was thinking. Surely she’d dismiss Robert Huntington as belonging to the print. How could she possibly think for a moment that a dead man had left a fresh fingerprint at a crime scene?
    Since the mug shot had been taken, he’d aged nearly twenty-five years and undergone months of facial reconstructive surgery. He’d changed his name, and possessed not only a complete new identity, but a carefully thought out past as well. With nearly unlimited financial resources at his disposal, it was as perfect as it could be. He’d never seen any reason to bother altering his finger-prints. But once, a long time ago, he’d been arrested and finger-printed.
    As with most memories involving Meredith, he could remember it like it was yesterday. The images never dulled or faded with time. In fact, they seemed to expand and sharpen in his mind. Details he wished he could forget were but a thought away.
    It was a Friday afternoon when they raced north out of Los Angeles in his meticulously restored 1961 Ferrari 250 GT. The gleaming red convertible was the latest addition to his car collection, the special roar from the V-12 engine brought a smile to his face each time he pushed the gas pedal. She’d insisted that they both needed to get away and a road trip would be a perfect way to unwind. Once they were out of the city they picked up the Pacific Coast Highway and headed north. Meredith loved the speed and the adventure and egged him on. Donovan could easily picture the scene. They roared down the breathtaking ribbon of highway with the top down, her auburn hair whipping in the wind as she raised her hands into the slipstream and let out a yell of pure joy.
    A city limit sign flashed past, and before he could slow down, he was clocked going sixty miles an hour over the speed limit. The police immediately arrested him and threw him in jail. Meredithwas a different story; they recognized her and she was treated like visiting royalty. She’d signed autographs while Donovan sat in a cell. It had taken a few hours before she’d been able to secure his release, but the damage had been done.
    Whatever joy his memories of Meredith brought him was always short lived. As usual, he paid for his visits with the inevitable countdown toward her murder. Their trip in the Ferrari took place six months before she was murdered. The contrast of her happiness on the wind-whipped Pacific Coast