Dead Is Dead (The Jack Bertolino Series Book 3) by John Lansing Page A

I’m getting from this conversation.”
    “What?”
    “Jeremy’s a dick.”
    Chris coughed a laugh and his young face relaxed some, but Jack had a feeling there was more to the story.
    Jack sighed, trying to push aside his personal feelings. “He makes your mother happy, Chris. Leave it at that. Your life plan won’t be derailed by Jeremy. So, try not to engage the man on that topic.”
    “Well, that’s not going to be a problem.”
    “Okay . . .” Jack said, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
    “Mom kicked him out of the house.”
    “Huh.” Jack had to assimilate this unexpected turn of events. He had never been a fan of Jeremy’s. Thought he was pretentious, but understood the man served a useful purpose. Namely, keeping his ex-wife in check at times of emotional stress. Jack didn’t get the hysterical calls anymore.
    “And now Mom’s doubling down on phone calls,” Chris said, almost in an echo. “I’ve got a new girlfriend at UCLA, and I don’t want to share the guilt, but . . .”
    “Point well taken, son. Let’s give it a couple of days and see how it shakes out. You keep doing your thing, and let me worry about the rest.”
    Chris was clearly relieved by this offer. “Okay. Uh, thanks, Dad. Later.”
    Chris clicked off, leaving Jack staring at his own reflection in the computer screen. He was not thrilled at learning his wife was at loose ends. No good could come of it.
----
    “Are you decent?” Susan Blake asked over the phone.
    “I am,” Jack answered, smiling despite his gloomy mood.
    “Too bad.”
    “What’d you have in mind?”
    “You have a sports coat? Grab it and meet me downstairs. I’m going to kidnap you.”
    “Best offer I’ve had all day.”
    Susan Blake might act a bit crazy, but she was talented, sexy, and a breath of fresh air after the emotional politics of Jack’s family.
    Jack brushed his teeth, hand combed his hair, stepped into some Cole Haan shoes, grabbed his black Armani sports jacket that dressed up his black T-shirt and jeans, and headed out the door in under five.
    Susan Blake sat in the back seat of a stretch limo idling in front of Jack’s building. The driver opened the door for Jack, who ducked and stepped in.
    The cabin looked like the inside of the private jet Jack had confiscated from a Colombian drug lord in the early 2000s. Ostentatious, a bit decadent, sexy but inviting, with light jazz emanating from hidden speakers. It was all burl wood, gold appointments, and plush rugs. There was seating for eight and a fully stocked wet bar. Jack would discover later that George Litton, the head of Epoch Studios, had provided it for their traveling pleasure.
    “Perfect,” Susan said, giving him the once-over.
    Jack said, “Back at you.”
    Susan could dress up a diamond, he thought. She was a knockout, framed in the plush honey-colored leather seat. The amber lights in the compartment were dimmed except for one spot that lit her face and those killer eyes. Jack had learned on the movie set that actresses always found their key light. Jack brushed her lips and sat back in the seat across from her, letting the tension of the past twenty-four hours drain away.
    The blacked-out privacy partition between the driver and the rear of the car was securely in the up position. The limo glided silently away from the curb, and Jack saw an opened bottle of Dom Pérignon chilling in a silver ice bucket next to two crystal champagne flutes.
    Jack picked up the thick green bottle as Susan began to rhythmically drag her silk dress up over her milky thighs, swaying to the funky jazz bass guitar line. He put the bottle back on ice, never breaking eye contact, but knew from the increased beating of his heart that the only thing Susan was wearing under the her dress was her abundant gifts from God.
    “You make me wet,” she whispered, her eyes crinkling into a sly smile.
    Jack never broke eye contact, but couldn’t hide his physical reaction. Susan leaned forward,