The Same Mistake Twice (3 page)

“It’s Diana Andrews.”

He never spoke when listening would do the job. She pictured him the way she had seen him almost ten years earlier—average height and build, average amount of hair graying the average amount for a man in his late forties. Eyes that penetrated much deeper than average.

“The way I remember it,” she said, “I have a couple of favors in the bank.”

“That depends.”

She told him.

“That,” he said, “will put me in the black, as far as favors go.”

“Fair enough.”

“Okay. I can handle them.”

He hung up before she could thank him. She pressed the plunger and dialed Tillotson’s number.

“You have my list?”

“I’m working on it. But I may have something for you.”

“Okay.”

“If that pager was involved, there’s a good chance Gary Rennert was too.”

“Thanks. I really want to mess with the kingmaker of Sussex County.”

“Sorry. But it’s like you always say—follow the evidence wherever it leads you.”

“You don’t have to enjoy this so much,” he said.

“I’m not enjoying it at all.

“Why do you think he’s involved?”

“Nothing specific, just a numbers game. He sent a lot of work my way back when I was starting out. You know, guys who needed to be entertained. He would give them my pager, but they didn’t use it unless they had to change their plans.”

“This is not good news, hearing you work for him. How did I miss that?”

“I did work for him. After a while I started getting enough business on my own, and I was less available. At some point he stopped calling.”

“I assume he knows to expect me.”

“It wouldn’t make any difference if he didn’t. But if any of those men he sent me are out of circulation, he’ll know.”

Tillotson’s breathing sounded frustrated in her ear.

“Well, if I gotta, I gotta.”

He hung up.

Chapter Five

Tiptoeing around Rennert should keep Tillotson busy for a while, but what should she do? One moment she had no idea. The next, she had a plan.

“A guy at work,” was what Rebecca Grogan’s husband had said about a possible lover. Who had made all those calls from the home number, if Rebecca went to a job every day?

Diana started the trip back to her car. The Driscoll Public Library wasn’t far, but she felt too impatient to walk. She parked in the rear lot and circled the building to the front entrance. One of the library’s two public access computers was free. Diana called up Yahoo and tried some searches.

First she found out that Rebecca Grogan worked as a hospital financial administrator, which probably let her keep nine to five hours.

Next, Diana tried combining Grogan and the town of Driscoll. Two clicks, and she had a possible answer to the mystery pages. Two years earlier, one Tracy Leblanc had married Dexter Grogan, son of John and Rebecca Grogan. Dexter was unlikely to be much older than his mid-twenties, which made him a teenager at the time of the harassing calls. During the summer vacation he could have had time on his hands and a shortage of adult supervision.

Someone cleared a throat behind her. Her time must be up. Diana slid out of the molded plastic chair and moved to the window that looked out over the library’s rear parking lot. She had made a little progress, but how could she verify that young Dexter had made the calls? Would she have to turn her discovery over to Tillotson and hope he was impressed?

Then she realized that she hadn’t searched for Dexter Grogan alone. She was annoyed with herself, because she would have to wait for the computer again. Was it time to acquire her own PC? Using it for business would be like keeping a file of evidence for the cops, but it might help her in other ways.

The latest Ann Rice novel had finally come off the reserve list. She sat for an hour, pretending to read the book as she considered what she had learned.

Dexter, not John Jr. It told her something about the Grogans’ marriage. Dexter was probably named after someone from Rebecca’s family. Diana was ready to bet that John had given up on a legacy out of prudence.

The computer became free again. She sat at the keyboard and resumed searching.

In 1988, nine years earlier, the Driscoll High School football team had gone ten and two behind the passing of quarterback Don Rennert and the scoring of wide receiver Dexter Grogan.

Oh, she thought. I’m not sure I like that.

Maybe Gary Rennert’s son and Rebecca Grogan’s son were only colleagues on the field, but Diana hoped that ten years of hooking had taught her something about men. Young male athletes tended to bond fiercely. When had the two boys become friends? Could the Rennert boy have been involved in making the calls to her pager? If he had, his father probably knew about it. Gary Rennert made a good living from knowing things.

In which case, Diana might just have warned him that an old problem was coming back to life.

She decided to get a look at Dexter Grogan. His unusual first name helped her search for him. He and his wife lived in Lakeview. Their address looked like a step up from his parents’ circumstances. Someone was helping the young couple, or Dexter was doing very well on his own.

She cleared her search history and left the library. It was time to visit Lakeview.

The younger Grogans lived in a neighborhood that she knew well. Two doors away lived a client whose name would end up on Tillotson’s list if she didn’t solve this case. The client was at work, she hoped.

Diana didn’t envy people who lived here on raw properties carved out of the forest. Her rented Cape Cod fit her just right, while the houses in this neighborhood looked bloated and soulless.

A new Maxima sat in the Grogans’ driveway. Diana watched the house for a moment and wondered what her story should be.

She climbed out of her car and approached the house. Still wondering what she would say, she rang the doorbell. A young blond woman pulled the door open almost before the chimes had stopped.

“You’re not the plumber.”

The young woman’s voice sounded ragged. She started to close the door.

“Like me to take a look?”

Diana knew she had a tendency to blurt. Sometimes it even helped.

“Are you a plumber?”

“I know a little about it.”

“Why would you want to help me?”

“Maybe you’ll listen to a proposition I have for you.”

“I doubt I’m interested in buying anything.”

“All you have to do is listen.”

“And who are you?”

“I’m Diana.”

The woman stared at her for a moment. Diana tried to look trustworthy. She already looked female, which might help.

“Well, Diana, this is the second day in a row the damn plumber has stood me up. At this point I’ll take a serial killer with plumbing skills. Come on in.”

The young woman led Diana to the stairs, straight ahead. They climbed to the second floor. Diana took a quick look in both directions and counted six bedrooms.

“Big family?” she said.

“That’s the plan.”

Not “my plan.”

The bathroom was huge. Diana sized up the fixtures. Good. Everything was Kohler, and she had learned on Kohler.

“The faucet is messed up,” said Tracy. “You have to turn it a hundred times to get hot water. I couldn’t get it to work at all this morning.”

“What about the other bathrooms?”

“This is my bathroom, with my tub.”

Diana was getting the idea. It was the principle of the thing. No one else cared enough about Tracy’s bathroom to get it working.

“I think I know what your problem is,” said Diana.

She didn’t plan to explain how she knew. She had a regular client, a plumber, who always had her come to his shop for a two-hour date. He spent most of the time demonstrating his new toys, while she smiled and pretended to find it all fascinating.

“Where’s the shut-off?”

“That much I know,” said Tracy.

Five minutes later she returned. Diana unscrewed the face plate and nodded.

“The fixture is roughed in too far. I can adjust it a little for a better grip, if you have a wrench.”

“I’ll get it.”

The young woman returned with the tool. Diana did what she had to do and reinstalled the face plate.

“That’ll hold temporarily, but you need an extension. Kohler makes them. Go turn the water on, and I’ll make sure the fix worked.”

Tracy left the bathroom again. Diana turned the handle, and water gushed. In a moment it turned hot, almost as hot as the tears that leaked from Tracy’s eyes when she returned and saw the results of Diana’s work.

“Thank you. I can get through the day, at least.”

The tears started again.

“I’m sorry. This is getting to me. Thank you. That was a big help. I wish I had been born handy, but I just wasn’t.”

“I’ve picked up a few pointers,” said Diana, “but l couldn’t call myself handy.”

“Well, you’re better at it than my husband.”

Tracy’s disloyalty seemed to shock her, but only for a moment, which obviously shocked her more.

“Nobody can be good at everything,” said Diana. “It’s not a crime.”

She couldn’t believe her luck. She could encourage Tracy and pry without looking nosy.

“I wish he could stick to something long enough to get good at it.”

Diana looked around.

“You seem to be getting by. What does he do?”

“That’s a good question.”

“How so?”

“I’m not sure what he does. I just know who he does it for.”

“Who’s that?”

“Gary Rennert.”

“Then there must be something he knows how to fix.”

Damn it, Diana thought. There goes the Queen of Blurt again.

Tracy gave her a stiff look.

“I take it you’re a local girl.”

“Driscoll all the way,” said Diana. “I’ve heard about Gary Rennert all my life. He got my grandmother her job in the high school cafeteria.”

“Then why are you badmouthing him?”

“It’s not like she didn’t work for her money.”

Diana felt like slapping her own face. She had talked herself into the house and right back out again.

“Wait a minute,” said Tracy. “Did you go to Driscoll High?”

“Class of ’Eighty-Seven.”

“My God. You might even know my husband. Class of ’Eighty-Nine.”

“Then he was a sophomore my senior year.”

“Oh, so you wouldn’t remember him. That’s not the way it works.”

“I can’t say I would have noticed younger boys,” said Diana.

But then it occurred to Diana that some young men had an eye for older women. In her business she had learned to turn down younger clients. They were too much work, and they tended to misunderstand her business. She did what she did to pay the bills. Clients got no discount for being young and cute.

Suppose Dexter Grogan had noticed her in high school and then found her again right after she graduated. He could have found out about her line of work through stalking her that summer.

Tracy led the way downstairs to the kitchen, which was also huge. She made coffee. Diana took a stool at the butcher’s block center island.

“So what else do you do…?”

“Diana.”

“I’m sorry. You told me that. I’m Tracy.”

I know, Diana stopped herself from saying.

“I’m a personal trainer. Matter of fact, that’s what I came about.”

The lie came easily enough to make her feel guilty.

“I’m going door to door recruiting new clients.”

“That’s a new one. Mormons and vacuum cleaner salesmen come with the territory, but never a door-to-door personal trainer.”

“That’s why I’m trying it—to crack a new market.”

She looked at Tracy and had to force herself to continue.

“If I hang around the club waiting for them to come to me, I’m limited to people who are already working out. Or trying to, anyway. This way I might change somebody’s life.”

She grinned at Tracy, who smiled back.

“How’s it working?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Then I should let you go.”

Tracy looked desolate.

“I’m in no rush,” Diana said.

“I wish I could get back into shape.”

Diana couldn’t think of much to say. She stood.

“Drop in anytime,” said Tracy. She looked away, as if she had heard herself begging.

“By the way,” said Diana. “I know a good plumber.”

She recited the phone number from the panel of Anne-Marie’s van. Tracy gave her a strange look. Who knew even the most reliable plumber’s number by heart? Diana couldn’t explain that ten years of hooking had given her instant and total recall of things like that.

Until, as she had told Tillotson, she didn’t need the information anymore.

That raised another question. Why did she think she owed Anne-Marie a referral? She would have to think about that one.

Chapter Six

The man in the doorway looked familiar. Beefy and florid in the face, he shook the hand of a shorter, slighter man. As Tillotson approached the house from the curb, the big man turned and noticed that he had company. He gave a meaningless smile and nod and strode past Tillotson and down the front walk to a black Crown Victoria. A man in a matching black suit pushed himself upright from the rear door he was leaning on and opened it. The big man didn’t have to break stride as he stooped to climb into the car.

Tillotson placed the man. He had seen him on the news posturing self-righteously in Trenton over school vouchers or some such thing

The smaller man had already gone on to his next item of business, which was Tillotson.

“Mr. Rennert? I called earlier.”

“Detective Tillotson.”

Rennert offered a hand. “I’m sorry. I should have introduced you to the State Senator.”

“I can’t vote for him. I don’t live in his district.”

Rennert smiled.

“What a pleasure. Most people wouldn’t have known that much. Come in.”

Rennert led the way to a small room on the first floor. It was furnished as a no-frills office, but it didn’t have the feel of a room where anyone spent much time. There must be someone waiting in Rennert’s real office, someone who wasn’t as public a personage as the State Senator.