We were holed up in Mr. Sanders’ office. Bradley Cole’s phone would not ping a location, and I couldn’t get any decent information out of Desert Springs Hospital to save my life. He was no longer a patient and that’s all they’d say. No, they wouldn’t fax his signature on the discharge papers so I could authenticate it. No, they didn’t have time to watch their security feed and see who’d picked him up. No, they would not interview the staff who’d cared for him to ask if he’d mentioned my name. Fantasy looked at commercial flights. Of course, there was nothing direct. If I left the Bellissimo now, I could catch a six-twenty out of Gulfport, and from there, my choices were either the Atlanta, Cincinnati, or Dallas airports to spend the night in, then catch a dark-thirty morning flight to Vegas. No Hair pulled up the Bellissimo fleet schedule. Booked solid. Three of the four corporate jets were fueled up and flight plans had already been filed for post-Double Dip runs.
