Charles Cartierri demanded, his voice loud enough to be heard over the blast of rock ‘n’ roll that shook the glass walls of Bogotá’s premiere nightclub. “I have no idea, sir,” Nick Troy said. Damian noted how his friend’s eyes probed the deep shadows of the buildings across the street and flicked up and down the neon-lighted thoroughfare of the entertainment district. So, Nick was concerned—either about Tiffany’s safety or her whereabouts. Damian was concerned about both. Where was she? Why had she run away just when it seemed she might finally trust him? Could she face him only when there was no one present who might refute what she told him? “Where did she spend last night?” Sir James asked, his negligent tone belied by his tense posture. Nick’s gaze darted to Damian, then back to Sir James’ face. “I don’t know, sir.” “Horseshit, Nick,” the older man contradicted. Signaling for a taxi, he herded them into a group, then wrangled them into the cab. “I think she stayed with you and I think that’s where she’s gone now.
