Ann walked over to the purse. Its braided shoulder strap was tattered near the silver hook that attached it to the pouch. “Has anyone gone through this?”
“Not yet,” the tech said. “I can do it now if you’d like.”
“That would be great, thank you,” Ann said.
The technician switched on a light table and removed the items in the bag one by one. The contents were standard. Red lipstick, drugstore brand. A comb and small brush. Tissues. Dozens of crumpled receipts. Gum.
“What about a wallet?” Ann asked.
“No sign of one,” the technician said.
Was the wallet another trophy? Or had the killer taken it to slow the identification process? That supported the theory that the victims could be connected.
The technician reached in the side pocket, removed a Polaroid picture of Dana Riley, and carefully laid it on the table.
“A Polaroid picture,” Ann said.
Bryce studied the image of the smiling woman’s face. “This was taken at the crime scene.”
“Are you sure?” Ann asked.
“Very. I’ve walked it several times.”
It was jarring to see the dead woman’s smiling face and bright eyes looking directly into the camera. Her skin had a rosy glow, and her full lips bore the red lipstick. Silver earrings dangled, and her long light-brown hair was swept up into a ponytail. The print’s background captured an obscured sunset marred with haphazard scratches.
“What’s with the marks on the image?” Bryce asked.
“Some Polaroid artists do that to create an effect,” Ann said. All the marks angled toward Dana’s face, hinting at the knife wounds that would soon take her life.
Ann was convinced more than ever that the image she had found near the Anaconda site was of Tuesday’s victim.
“Be sure to dust that for prints, ASAP,” Bryce said.
The technician acknowledged him with a nod and bagged the picture.
The collection of receipts proved Dana had indeed stopped for gas multiple times between Maryland and Montana. There was also a receipt from Nashville dated two weeks after Sarah Cameron died. Dana had been within driving distance of Knoxville around the time Sarah had vanished. All the receipts were signed D. Riley.
Ann reopened the social media app on her phone. She typed D. Riley. She pulled up a profile picture featuring a woman who matched the mug shot. “Here she is.”
Bryce leaned toward her and studied the image. “Damn.”
She scrolled back through D. Riley’s account, finding pictures that detailed the story of someone who was going on a trip. The journey appeared to begin in June in Maryland with the image of a suitcase in the bed of this truck. The caption read: WESTWARD HO!
The next pictures were selfies taken on Lower Broadway, the music district of Nashville, and then more images marking Dana’s path through Missouri, Kansas, Nebraska, and Wyoming. The images were not particularly remarkable, but they all featured her smiling face.
“The posts continue into early July with Dana,” Ann said. “But after the day her body was found, the pictures continued but were of random shots of food, flowers, and road signs.”
Bryce studied the images. “That land’s west of Helena. I’ve driven across this state enough to know most of it by heart.” He pointed to the last shots. “Those images were taken right outside of Missoula.”
“You think this Dana Riley was traveling with her killer all the way from Maryland?” Towzer asked.
“Maybe,” Ann said. She scrolled back through the pictures, retracing the soon-to-be-dead Dana back through time. The pictures would have to be analyzed in detail, but at first glance she saw nothing indicating the identity of Dana’s traveling partner.
“As soon as I have her Social Security number, I’ll search her credit history and get a warrant for her financial transactions,” Bryce said.
It was a trail of digital bread crumbs, but it was at least a path they could follow.
“Helpful to know if Dana had family or friends back in Maryland,” Ann said. “I’d like to talk to them.”
“That is already in the works,” Bryce said.
“Good.”
She approached the vehicle and peered into the dirt-streaked window. The forensic tech was clearing the vehicle’s interior, but it still contained discarded clothes, fast-food wrappers, an unopened box of Twinkies, and a couple cases of beer.
“There has to be someone living who can speak for Dana,” Ann said.
“Going to the bar will mean a two-hour trip to Helena,” Bryce said.
“That’ll be worth it,” Ann said. “Drop me at my house, and I’ll drive up there.”
“You can ride with me.”
“Then you have to double back.”
“Not a problem,” he said.
The two thanked Towzer and the technicians, then left the forensic center. They climbed into Bryce’s vehicle. He switched on the radio and started driving.
As Bryce drove, Ann glanced out her window, watching Missoula buildings be replaced by the jutting rocky landscape along I-90. “Are we going to pass your ranch? You said you’re between Helena and Missoula.”
“When we get on Route 12, we’ll be close to the turnoff.”
“I never get tired of seeing this land,” she said. “There was a time when I dreamed of living anywhere but here. Now, I can’t imagine anywhere else.”
“I’ve seen a lot of the world,” he said. “I can say it doesn’t get any better than Montana.”
“Spoken like a true cowboy.”
Bryce easily found the barn-style building that housed the Red Horse when they arrived in Helena.
Out of the car, Ann checked her watch. “It’s eleven thirty.”
“Best time to talk to a bar owner. They’re usually the one on-site, and the music isn’t blasting, so you can hear yourself think.”
“You’ve been here before?” Ann asked.
“A few times.”
They crossed the sidewalk, Bryce opened the front door, and, removing his hat, he followed behind her.
The bar was still, the jukebox silent, and the barstools, leather booths, and floorboards were soaked with the lingering scents of whiskey and cigarettes. She had not been in a bar since college and had forgotten the thrill of walking into a place alive with music and people. After Nate was born, she had been too busy caring for him and going to school. Late nights at the bar with the other graduate students required time she did not have. And now, the last thing she wanted was to show up in a bar filled with university students.
“Hello,” Bryce said as he rapped his knuckles on the bar.
Glasses clinked in the back room, and a young woman holding a tray of tumblers appeared. She had on shorts and a snug tank top, and she sported a tattooed sleeve on her right arm. “We don’t open for another six hours.”
Bryce held up his badge. “Looking for Tate Andrews. I have questions about Dana Riley.”
“Tate said the police came by last night. Tate won’t be in until three. But I know Dana. I’m Stella Andrews, Tate’s sister.”
“What do you know about her?” Bryce asked.
“She arrived at the beginning of the tourist season and said she’d work for tips. Normally, we don’t do that, but it had been a long, cold winter, folks were coming out in droves, and we were slammed. We needed the help.”