Page 125 of The Session

“I bet Mr. Sweeting knows.”

“Then that’s between you and him.”

“But I also bet that if you were motivated—pardon me—if you were instructed, you could probably find out quickly.”

“Unless you’re hiding an inspector’s badge on you somewhere, I don’t think that’s likely to happen,” Rolle said, crossing his arms.

“Back in the States, I used to work as a paramedic, and every week there would be at least one or two overdoses. I noticed they happened a lot around bars—not usually in them, but outside or in cars nearby. I asked a police officer about that once, and he explained to me that the fastest way to find drugs is to ask somebody who sells another vice; in that case alcohol: hence, bartenders.”

“I’ve heard that too,” Rolle replied.

“I’m guessing it depends here. If you’re a local, you probably get it from someone else; if you’re a tourist, you’d probably get it from a bartender or someone at a resort,” Mark thought aloud. “I don’t think Kevin would go to one of the local suppliers because that would draw Sweeting’s attention, and Sweeting would make sure someone at Summit Strategies knew. So that suggests that if Kevin was using, he’d be going to a bartender. Does that make sense?”

“I follow. Maybe you should consider becoming a detective yourself, since you seem to enjoy this process so much. Of course, the question I would ask you is: Why would a rich kid be using fentanyl?”

“Sometimes it’s just convenient, but yeah, that’s a good question too.” He remembered something and pulled his phone out of his pocket. He scrolled through the photo album, searching for the photographs he’d taken when he was inside Kevin’s house. He pulled up the one he was looking for. It was a photo in the home, a black-and-white picture of a woman holding a drink at a beachside bar.

“Do you recognize this place?” Mark asked.

“It looks like one of fifty places around here.”

“What about the woman?” Mark asked.

Rolle studied the image for a moment. “I think I’ve seen her. She’s a bartender or manager over at Sandy Cove.”

“Would you want to drive over there with me?” Mark asked.

“Definitely not. In fact, I’m going to do you a favor and forget we ever had this conversation.”

“Well, thank you for your time and for answering my questions.”

“You were never here, Mr. Greenley. I never answered any questions—especially any about buying drugs,” Rolle snapped. “But good luck.”

Mark grabbed a yellow sticky note and wrote down his phone number. “If anything comes up, just let me know.”

“I’m going to throw that away the moment you walk out the door,” Rolle chirped.

Mark smiled. “Well, I can always call you, then.”

“Please don’t.”

Sponsor

Mark could understand why Constable Rolle didn’t immediately recognize Sandy Cove Bar—it looked like every other palm-frond-covered, open-air bar on the island, except this one wasn’t open yet when the Summit driver dropped him off.

Mark was hoping either the place or the woman in the photograph was special to Kevin. As he approached the empty hut, he looked around for a manager to ask about the woman. Then he heard the clink of bottles.

“Hello?” Mark called.

“One second,” a woman’s voice answered from behind the bar. A moment later, the woman in the photograph emerged holding two bottles of gin.

She stared at Mark for a moment and did a double take.

“Jesus,” she whispered under her breath.

“You okay?” Mark asked.

“Yeah, sorry. You reminded me of somebody. Crazy. I’m Lisbeth. Who are you?”