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

reached across the aisle, and grabbed Jack’s belt as the limo made a right onto Admiralty Way and took a gentle curve past the moored yachts.
    Jack said, “This show business is okay,” and closed the distance in a heartbeat, their bodies melding, his lips moving from her lips to her ear, down the sculpted arch of her neck, and then dropping lower. A man on a mission.
    Susan sucked in a ragged breath and let out a moan that could have suggested pain, but was the opposite.
    She clicked off the overhead lights.
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    Jack was the first to exit the limousine, not comfortable having someone open a car door for him. He had wild bedroom hair, blinking eyes, and a crazy grin as the paparazzi’s flashes strobed. Outside, a crowd waited for a glimpse of the new “It” girl.
    One of the photographers thrust his camera inches from Jack’s face and snapped a series of photos, temporarily blinding him with the flashes. When his vision cleared, the man had disappeared into the crowd, leaving Jack pissed off he’d let his guard down. He turned back toward the limo and reached his large hand into the car.
    Susan, powdered and perfect, demurely exited the stretch, held on to Jack’s arm while he parted the seas, and nodded to security as they entered the art gallery on Abbot Kinney.
    The gallery echoed with muted excitement. Thirty-foot ceilings, white plaster walls, concrete floors, and oversized canvasses. Their dramatic primary colors seemed to take on a life of their own glowing in the pin spotlights.
    The crowd was as colorful as the oil paintings, populated with every sex, color, ethnicity, and age: actors, artists, agents, lawyers, writers, wannabes, and the press. The glue that bound the group together was having enough money or political cache to get an invite to the opening. A very self-satisfied group, Jack thought.
    An agent from CAA stepped rudely in front of Jack and corralled Susan, immediately joined by a small group just waiting to pounce. Everyone wanted a piece of Susan Blake, as if her success might rub off on them and change their lives. It was fine with Jack. No biggy. He winked at Susan, grabbed a surprisingly good glass of red, and walked the perimeter of the room, casually taking in the art.
    Each canvass featured groupings of elongated abstract figures, their bodies alien, Jack thought. One particular painting caught his eye and held it. In it two figures were standing shoulder to shoulder, looking beyond a picket fence at a lonely grouping of gravestones next to a red barn and stylized trees. Like father and son, he thought. No faces on the figures, but they gave Jack a sudden jolt of emotion.
    Across the room, he found Susan glancing his way, while listening to a man with striking red hair. He was so tall and thin, he could have been the model for the painting. He was dressed in a tight-fitting black sports jacket, similar to Jack’s, pointed black boots, but his black and purple silk button-down shirt probably ran him five hundred bucks. Business must be good, Jack thought. Susan smiled and gestured for Jack to join them.
    Jack was more than comfortable letting Susan do her own thing—these were her people, after all. He knew there might be blowback coming his way just escorting the star, but he felt great, light on his feet, and a little buzzed. What the hell, he thought as he crossed the room and sidled up to Susan.
    “Jack, I want you to meet Terrence Dirk. He owns one of the most forward-thinking shops in Santa Monica. He has offered to take a look at my living room and help me out with a few design ideas I had. If I’m going to be staying longer than originally planned,” she said, raising her eyebrows, “I want to make the house my own. And he did such a great job with Henry Lee’s beach home.”
    If Terrence Dirk was good enough for Henry . . .
    Jack proffered his hand. Terrence shook with more pressure then expected. That was accompanied by the steely look in the man’s eyes that Jack