Arrogance Is a Crime

*Author's Note: Any and all persons engaging in any sexual activity are at least eighteen years of age.

Disclaimers: This story has been edited by myself, using Microsoft Spell-Check. You have been forewarned.

Recently, BlackRandl1958 announced that a collection of authors would be presenting stories in the genre of mysteries. What a challenging genre! I love a good mystery.

I was not invited to participate; I felt absolutely no slight in not being invited. The list of authors that had agreed to participate is daunting, to say the least. Most, if not all of these authors have presented stories that eclipse any I have offered. I do sincerely appreciate the effort BlackRandl1958 puts into her challenges. And, it is up to BlackRandl1958 whom she invites.

Again, I felt no slight, feel no resentment at not being invited. But when I read the genre, I did feel challenged to come up with a mystery of my own. Hopefully, I succeeded.

*.*.*

Reynold Reynolds got out of his 1999 Cadillac El Dorado. The driver's seat had been replaced; at one time the man had weighed nearly four hundred pounds. Now, he was proud to be walking around wearing a size 38 inch waist. Last time he'd stepped on a scale, he'd weighed 227 pounds.

"Seem be stuck right there," he mused as he dragged his briefcase off the passenger seat.

He'd been at 227 for nearly a month. His buddies reminded him that muscle weighed more than fat; he was losing inches instead of pounds.

The woman that answered the door was a blonde beauty. Waist length straw colored hair, lightly tanned face, blue eyes under expertly tweezed blonde eyebrows, slim nose, pouting lips, and haughty sneer. Her breasts were full, round swells in her tailored blouse and her waist looked like she spent more than half her day in a gym. The jeans looked tailored, sewn just for this woman's dimensions.

Reynold Reynolds disliked Dianne Hebert on sight. But he reminded himself, a client was a client. He wasn't paid to like them; he was paid to assist them.

"Tammy, take Charlotte to her room, please," Dianne snapped.

"Yes ma'am," a chubby red headed young woman said, grabbing an adorable little girl and scurrying from the room.

Dianne pointed to a chair and took the couch for herself. There was no offer of coffee, water, any other refreshments.

"You, uh, on the phone, you said you think your husband, uh, John Hebert is having an affair?" Reynold said, getting directly to the point.

"Yes," Dianne said.

After a long moment of staring at each other, Reynold sighed. He pursed his lips in displeasure.

"Here's where you start talking, Mrs. Hebert. Here's where you start telling me why you are having these suspicions," he said.

"Oh," Dianne said, obviously perturbed. "I thought here was where you'd start asking questions."

"Nope," he said and waited.

"Fine," Dianne sighed. "My husband is a doctor, at St. Elizabeth Trauma Center. He's a cardiologist. A brilliant man, really. Was doing his residency at only twenty three. Believe that?"

Reynolds did write down Dr. John Hebert's name and occupation and place of employment.

After forty nine minutes in Dianne Pratt St. Charles Hebert's presence, Reynold Reynolds did not know if Dr. Hebert was having an affair or not. He did think he could almost justify it.

He also had suspicions that Dianne Pratt St. Charles Hebert had something she was hiding as well. Twice while they were sitting in the ornate, uncomfortable living room, Dianne's cell phone had buzzed. Twice she'd looked at the screen. The first time, she'd not responded. The second time she tapped out a response.

And, as Reynold was hefting himself out of the stiff chair, Dianne grabbed her cell phone off of the coffee table, to prevent him from seeing the screen. As he walked from living room to small foyer, he could see her typing out a text message.

As Reynold was shutting the front door, he saw the chubby red headed Tammy staring intently at him from a hallway. He smiled at her but the girl did not return his smile. He wondered how much of their conversation the short nanny had overheard.

In his car, which was his office, Reynold Reynolds reviewed his notes. Dr. Hebert had been born in DeGarde, Louisiana, had graduated from Cabrini Catholic High School at age sixteen, and had attended Missouri River State University. He had done his residency at Northlake Hospital in Colfax, Missouri, and had returned home to begin work at St. Elizabeth.

He and Dianne had met when Dianne's mother, Priscilla Ormond Pratt had suffered a debilitating stroke. It had been Dr. Hebert that had saved Mrs. Pratt's life.

"About two months later, I give birth to Charlotte and who should come to my delivery room but John," Dianne preened smugly.

"So he is not the child's father," Reynold stated.

"Well, no," Dianne said.

"And who is the father?" Reynold asked after a long moment of silence.

"Is that really pertinent?" Dianne snapped.

"Might be," Reynold prompted.

"The child's father is Brandon Johnson. He was a lawyer, handled my divorce from Greg," Dianne snapped.

"Greg got him a last name?" Reynold asked.

"St. Charles, what does this have to do with my husband's affair?" Dianne shrilled.

"Might have everything, might have nothing, but knowing this stuff now saves me the time of digging around for it later," Reynold said.

Now in his car, Reynold Reynolds used his cell phone to look up information. A quick check into Brandon Johnson, formerly of Johnson, Johnson & Lambert Law Firm disclosed that the attorney had been arrested and convicted of trying to hire someone to kill Dianne St. Charles. Reynold Reynolds smiled tightly; the hit man had turned state's evidence and the lawyer had been arrested as he paid twenty five thousand dollars to the hit man.

"Poor bastard," Reynold said aloud.

Reynold drove his office to the St. Elizabeth Parish Trauma Center. In the rear parking lot, the employees' parking lot, he did see Dr. John Hebert's F150 pickup truck. The arctic white truck did look odd among the luxury automobiles and the occasional sports cars along the third row, the row which was a direct path to the rear doors of the hospital.

"Yeah, can't expect doctors have to walk too far," Reynold muttered. The other seven rows had various clunkers, sub-compacts, and pickup trucks. These were the cars of the nurses, the custodians, the cafeteria workers. The true heartbeat of the hospital.

Seeing that Dr. Hebert drove a pickup truck, a working man's vehicle did afford the doctor a grudging nod of respect from Reynold.

He parked on the fifth row and prayed that no one would pull into the spot on the fourth row. He had an unobstructed view of Dr. Hebert's pickup.

The doctor was scheduled to get off at seven that evening. Reynold munched on the can of peanuts, a source of good fat. He swished a swallow of water around in his mouth and waited.

At seven twenty four, Dr. John Hebert stepped outside. He was average height, of five feet eight inches, starting to get a little thick around the middle. His thick brown hair looked badly in need of a haircut. The bags under John's eyes told the story as Reynold snapped off a couple of pictures of the man. He didn't have time to get a decent haircut.

An attractive red head came out a fraction of a moment later. She was dressed in scrubs but the baggy outfit did nothing to hide her large breasts. She turned to say something to an unseen person in the doorway and Reynold admired the full bottom in her scrubs. This was a full figured woman.

Dr. Hebert also turned to speak to either the red head or the unseen person in the doorway. Then both Dr. Hebert and the red head walked toward the parking lot.

Dr. Hebert got into his pickup truck. The red head veered toward the fifth row and got into the BMW parked to Reynold's left. She did not look over at the occupant in the Cadillac. Her attention was focused on Dr. Hebert.

Reynold cursed; he'd been watching the attractive, full-figured red head and had not seen Dr. Hebert drive out of the lot. But he had a hunch and followed the red head out of the parking lot.

She drove to an apartment complex on Garret Way in Kimble, Louisiana. And, in the parking lot of her complex was Dr. Hebert's pickup truck. It was hard to mistake the man's truck. The arctic white paint job gleamed. He also had some custom rims on the truck.

The red head parked and got out. She scurried up the stairs to Apartment 221.

Reynold sat for a moment. Then he got out and walked over to Dr. Hebert's truck. The truck was empty. The doctor might not have time to get a decent haircut, but he had the time to clean his truck. The interior was immaculate.

Then Reynold realized something. The doctor had not waited for the red head. Which could only mean that John Hebert had a key to her apartment.

The mailboxes just gave a last name of 'Gremillion' for Apartment 221. But Reynold knew, he'd been living in his home now for seven years and was still getting the occasional piece of mail for Carl Bradford, the previous owner of the house. Depending on how long the red head had been living here, the apartment management may not have had the time to change the label on the mailbox.

In his office/car again, Reynold accessed the hospital's web site with his cell phone. A search through the doctors did show a Paul Gremillion, Ob/Gyn. But the photograph certainly was not that of a sweet, voluptuous red head.

There was no listing for the nursing staff. A search of the address did show the apartment complex, but again, there was no directory of tenants.

"Bingo. B. I. N. G. O," Reynold said as he looked up her license number and saw that the car was registered to an Amy Gremillion.

"Yeah, I'd do her," Reynold said, looking at Amy's Facebook page.

Thirty minutes later, just as Reynold was debating on whether to go to Cowboy's BBQ for dinner, or just go on home for a plate of scrambled eggs, Dr. Hebert stepped out of Apartment 221. The man looked just as haggard as he had looked when he'd stepped out of the hospital. But he did have a smile on his face.

"Hell yeah," Reynold thought.

The good doctor returned home. Reynold watched as the doctor attempted to park in the garage, but another car, a Lexus had parked at an odd angle, taking up quite a bit of room. So the doctor had to park on the driveway.

Reynold Reynolds hated cheaters. Hated them with a blinding passion. He himself had been cheated on by a woman that had sworn to love him, had sworn to be faithful to him, then had cheated on him. His ex-wife had even tried to palm off her pregnancy on Reynold Reynolds. Reynold knew that he was sterile, though. A bad case of mumps when he was nineteen had robbed him of ever having his own children. His testicles had swollen up to the size of oranges, had made even walking painful.

In Dr. Hebert's case, though, after meeting the man's arrogant, cold wife, Reynold could almost excuse the man's behavior. And seeing what the man had to come home to, a woman that wouldn't even let him park his truck in his own garage, a garage he was paying for, Reynold was again almost willing to give the man a pass.

He drove home and typed out his report thus far. There had been no photographic proof. He had not actually witnessed any intimacies between Dr. Hebert and Amy Gremillion, RN. It was all circumstantial so far.

Reynold Reynolds woke up, shut off his alarm and struggled out of the bed. The mattress still had the rut he'd put in it when he had weighed close to four hundred pounds. He knew it was time to get a new mattress but had a hard time justifying putting out such an expense.

"Twelve hundred bucks? For a slab of foam rubber?" he thought and began his morning exercises.

Dr. Hebert drove straight from home to hospital. Since security was pretty tight in and around the hospital, Reynold did not attempt to gain entry. He'd noticed that Dr. Hebert had entered the rear door only after typing in a pass code on a door's keypad.

At eleven thirty, Reynold watched as Dr. Hebert got into his truck and left the parking lot. He shrugged and followed the good doctor to another apartment complex. Here, the doctor did not have a key but knocked on Apartment 4E.

A cute blonde opened the door and smiled happily. They disappeared into the dark interior.

The apartment complex's mailbox terminal disclosed that the apartment was rented to a P. Lee. A scour of the parking lot showed a nondescript Toyota compact in the parking spot for 4E and the tags came back for one Paula Lee.

Paula's Facebook page did disclose that she was a dancer at the Dead End. Her high school graduation photograph was proudly displayed on her page as well and Reynold couldn't help but smile at the cute blonde that beamed so happily, mortarboard firmly on her blonde head.

Twenty minutes later, the door opened and Reynold got a photograph of the doctor and Paula in an embrace. Then they kissed and he snapped off that photograph as well.

"Man's got good taste," Reynold muttered.

Seven days later, Reynold Reynolds again sat on the uncomfortable chair as Dianne stoically looked through his report. Then she sneered at him.

"What? There's no pictures of them doing anything, other than kissing," she snapped.

"Ma'am, there's times entered, times leaving. Unless he performed CPR the four times he was at Amy's, the two times he had lunch with Paula, they were most likely engaged in coitus. No, I do not have any pictures, but two of Amy's co-workers seemed to believe their relationship wasn't strictly professional, and Paula's roommate readily agreed that Paula was having an affair with a married doctor," Reynold said.

"But this is damned near worthless if I'm going get out of the fucking pre-nup," Dianne snapped.

"Ma'am, I got you everything I could legally get for you," Reynold said. "I am not breaking into Amy's apartment or Paula's apartment to get you photographs of them having sex."

"Oh. Is that extra or something?" Dianne asked hopefully.

"No, it's not extra, it's illegal," Reynold stated.

Dianne paid Reynold with an American Express card, complaining about the lack of hard evidence. He did point out to her that Dr. Hebert did seem to have a key to Ms. Gremillion's apartment. That in and of itself did show complicity.

"Hmm, that's true," Dianne conceded.

Reynold was on another case. He was following an employee of Kendricks Engineering that claimed he'd been hurt on the job. He had the radio on, some background noise, when he heard a broadcast from KULD, the University of Louisiana at DeGarde's radio station that made him turn the radio up louder. Reynold sat up and stared at the radio in disbelief.

"...neighbors of Amy Gremillion said they heard loud screams coming from the apartment. When the police arrived, they had to break in. There, they found the nurse dead from blunt force trauma..."

Reynold Reynolds remembered seeing a photograph on Dianne Pratt St. Charles Hebert's Facebook page. In high school, the beautiful blonde had been the captain of her softball team.

The photograph was of Dianne Pratt hitting the game tying home run in the eighth inning.

Reynold snapped off a series of photographs of his target as the man changed a flat tire on his car. The photograph of him lifting the heavy tire and putting it into the trunk of his car just negated the man's claim that he'd injured his back too severely to even stand comfortably.

"Hey, why you taking my picture, huh?" the man demanded.

"Huh? Your picture? Shit, taking pictures of your car," Reynold stated.

He got out of his car and walked over to the 1978 Chevy Impala. He pointed to the man's rear seat.

"Lost my cherry in the back of a 'seventy seven just like this. Mine was this God awful green," Reynold smiled. "Had cloth seats, just like them there."

"Yeah?" the man smiled, looking at the large back seat of his car.

"Yeah, traded it in for my Caddy there, but shit! Man, wished I'd kept that Chevy, huh?" Reynold said. "Man! Me and Terrie Carmen. Let me tell you, that girl liked to fuck!"

"Heard that," the man giggled.

"Hey, fixing go in here, shoot a little pool, have a beer," Reynold said, indicating the bar they were in front of. "First one's on me, huh?"

"Naw man, got to get home, old lady's yelling all kind of shit," the man said. "Tomorrow, huh?"

"Don't know if I can," Reynold said. "Might have to go off-shore if dumb ass Allen calls in sick again."

"Know what? Bitch can suck my dick, huh?" the man said and the two new best buddies went into the bar.

"Hey Frankie, thought you was leaving," the bar tender called out.

"Two drafts, huh?" Reynold called out.

In the three hours he and Frankie drank and talked, Reynold got pictures of Frankie bending to shoot pool and a few pictures of him dancing with a rough looking bar queen. The woman claimed to be thirty two, but even with a pound or two of makeup slathered on, the woman looked to be in her late fifties, early sixties.

"Damn, Honey, get some sun, huh?" Reynold thought as he politely turned down her offer for a dance, or a fuck.

Back in his office, Reynold quickly typed up his report, attached the numerous photographs, and saved the report. Then he called Britney Richards, the HR Manager of Kendricks Engineering and made an appointment for the next morning.

That night, Performance 12 News broadcast the same report of Amy Gremillion's murder. Neighbors reported hearing horrific screams and thuds coming from the nurse's apartment. They called 911 and the police had to break into the securely locked apartment.

"It is the policy of Performance Twelve News to report the facts and avoid speculation," the newscaster was stating. "At this time, all the Kimble Police will say is Ms. Gremillion suffered blows to head and body. The weapon is unknown and at present, the police do not have any suspects. If you have any information..."

The following morning, there had been no new leads as Reynold watched the Performance 12 broadcast. During the weather segment, Vee Aucoin did bend and stretch in front of the camera as she discussed some turbulence in the Gulf, possibly some thundershowers for their late afternoon, early evening.

Reynold shook his head and smiled as Vee practically draped herself over Thomas Kowalski, the Performance 12 Sportscaster. The meteorologist and sportscaster engaged in some playful banter, then Thomas talked about the U.L.D. softball game slated for later that afternoon.

"And in Pinoak this evening, the Pinoak Drag Racing season is officially underway," Thomas said.

"Ooh, I like drag races," Vee Aucoin smirked into the camera, low cut top threatening to let her breasts spring out. "They drive... Hard."

"Yes they do," Thomas agreed. "My wife, Mary was the guest of drag racing brothers Davey and Chad Theriot. Let's take a look."

The footage showed a petite woman cautiously climbing into a long, low slung dragster. The woman put a full faced helmet on, waved once to the camera, then Chad and David pushed the racer to the starting line.

"Damn, Mary!" Thomas exclaimed as Mary spun the large rear wheels, causing them to flame up.

"What?" Vee teased. "She does that all the time, doesn't she?"

"Yeah, taking the kids to school," Cheryl Goodwin, the female anchor agreed.

"Hey, Thomas? Wouldn't let her drive the minivan no more, huh?" Reynold laughed as he watched the broadcast.

Thomas and Mary Kowalski had five children; their children were frequent guests of the Channel 12 activities. During his broadcasts, Thomas often spoke of his wife and their children.

The lights went through their sequence and Mary screamed away a split second before the green light flickered. The sound was of a powerful engine screaming as Mary raced toward the finish line.