He was careful to keep his leather-strapped portfolio in plain sight in case any policemen passed by. A black man on foot in River Oaks was inviting scrutiny, but he thought his suit and portfolio would at least not immediately label him a criminal. The powers that be in the River Oaks community hired police patrols to cruise the area every hour, and their presence had increased substantially since the kidnapping. If he was stopped by the cops, he’d just immediately flash his media card.
Meanwhile, Charles walked up to the front door of the mansion Lloyd had designated. There was a brass door knocker with the last name “Gerard” etched on it. Charles rang the doorbell. He waited a few seconds, and a silver-haired woman in a lavender maid’s uniform opened the door. Charles flashed his award-winning smile and his press pass.
“Good morning, m’am. I was wondering if Mrs. Gerard is home. I’m Charles Scott with the Houston Ledger, and we’re gathering information on the recent kidnapping of the Pauley baby. I’d like to ask her a few questions.”
“My name is Helga,” she said with what sounded like an Eastern European accent, maybe Russian or German. “Please come in, sir. I’ll get her.” She directed Charles inside and motioned for him to wait in the foyer.
As Charles waited, he took in the breathtaking surroundings. The marble stairway cascaded to the second floor, and the three-tier crystal chandelier hanging from the vaulted ceiling was the largest one he had ever seen.
There were vases and artwork, obviously priceless, strategically positioned throughout the foyer area. He’d only been inside a handful of River Oaks homes, and each experience revealed the stark difference between the relatively meager dwellings of regular folks and the lavish trappings possessed by the well-to-do.
Mrs. Gerard gracefully descended the stairs and, even though it was rather early in the morning, she was already fully dressed in classic business attire. She obviously had plans to go out for the day. Her demeanor and wardrobe were that of a middle-aged woman, but Charles noticed very few facial wrinkles. His guess was that, like so many wealthy women, she’d had some plastic surgery or enhancements done. Once she reached the bottom of the stairs, she extended her hand and shook Charles’.
“Welcome to my home, Mr. Scott. As I told the police, I don’t have any information regarding the kidnapping. The morning the Pauley baby was taken was the day I usually volunteer at the Museum of Fine Arts, and I was there most of the day.”
Charles thought quickly and decided to pivot from his original game plan. “Mrs. Gerard, I’m actually working on a different aspect of the story. We also want to report on the Pauley family and their stature within the Houston social and civic community.”
“Now is obviously not a good time to question Mrs. Pauley about her social activities,” added Charles, “so we thought we would interview a few of her neighbors and friends to get their insights. Would you mind speaking with me for a few minutes?”
“Of course not. Let’s go sit in the family room,” she said, as she turned to the north side of the mansion and strolled—practically glided—toward the room where they would spend the next few minutes. Mrs. Gerard exuded the aura of old money. “Would you like some coffee or tea, Mr. Scott?”
“Call me Charles, please. As a matter of fact, I’d love some coffee. I take it black.”
As they entered the den, Mrs. Gerard used the wall intercom to give Helga instructions regarding their refreshments. She then went over to the love seat and sat down. “Please sit there, Charles,” she said, as she extended her hand and directed him to the matching love seat facing her. An antique coffee table separated them.
“I won’t take up a lot of your time, Mrs. Gerard. I just have a few questions. How long have you known Mrs. Pauley?”
“I believe the Pauleys moved into the neighborhood about five years ago. Her husband has a successful oil and gas business and travels a lot. She’s from a small town somewhere in the Midwest. Definitely new money.”
Charles smiled. He’d heard that the wealthy often distinguished between those they considered the Blue Bloods, with multi-generational property and status, versus the Nouveau Riche, whose parents were usually poor or middle-class and who tended to flaunt their wealth with ostentatious trappings and bling. He’d just never met anyone face to face who had made the comparison. To him, they all had more money than he could imagine in his lifetime, so what difference did it make?
Helga entered the room carrying a silver tray with an accompanying silver coffee service. “Will there be anything else, Mrs. Gerard?” she said as she set the tray on the coffee table.
“Thank you, Helga. No, that will be all.”
The silence hung in the air during the few seconds it took Helga to leave the room.
“As I was saying, Mrs. Gerard, I’d like to ask you a few questions about Mrs. Pauley. Do you know if she has any hobbies? What does she do in her spare time, and who are some of her close friends?”
“We didn’t exactly run in the same circles, you understand. I spend a lot of time with my volunteer work and raising funds for the underprivileged. We are also very involved with the annual Houston Livestock and Rodeo Show and, of course, with local and state politics. I’ve been state chairwoman of the Republican Women of Texas for the past five years,” she added, while Charles listened intently as she rattled off her list of bona fides.
“But I believe Mrs. Pauley was a little bit lonely.”
“Why do you say that?” Charles asked as he straightened up and leaned closer towards her.
“Well, a couple of times she came over for tea. I don’t think her husband likes her to entertain friends at their home. He seems to be very possessive, wants to keep her all to himself.”
“She told me she spends a lot of time on the Internet. She had some problems with her pregnancy when she was carrying little Hunter and was on bed rest for the last trimester, so I suppose surfing the Internet kept her from going stir crazy.”
“Once the baby came, I thought she would perk up a bit, but she didn’t. Most of the new mothers I know are quite pleased with their babies, but she seemed to be a little down after the baby was born.”
“Are you saying that you think she suffers from post-partum depression?” Charles picked up the coffee cup and sipped some of the coffee but never took his eyes off Mrs. Gerard.
“I’m no psychiatrist, but having three children of my own, I remember how ecstatic I was after each of their births. She mentioned something to me a couple of weeks ago about the burdens of motherhood. I thought it was odd that she would use the term ‘burdens.’ Odd indeed.”
“You said that Mrs. Pauley spends a lot of time on the Internet. Did she talk to you about some of the web sites she visited? Do you know whether or not she was meeting people online?”
“It’s none of my business, Charles. Adults can do as they please. But she did mention that she visited some online gambling sites—vegasgambling.com or something like that. People will do all sorts of things, especially when they are bored.”
“Online gambling sites. That’s very interesting, Mrs. Gerard. Were you ever with her when she visited these web sites?”
“Oh, goodness no. I’ve never been to her home. Most of my friends are members of the River Oaks Country Club, and we get together to play bridge or have cocktails. I invited her here a few times strictly as a courtesy, to be neighborly,” she said, as if admitting a close relationship
with Mrs. Pauley would somehow tarnish her credentials among the elite. “As I said, we don’t run in the same circles. She mentioned the gambling merely in passing. Could that be important to your story?”
“I’m not sure, Mrs. Gerard, but I appreciate your hospitality and your candor.”
“I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t use my name when you write your story, Charles. Mr. Gerard and I try to keep our names out of the papers, except in the Society and Lifestyle sections, of course.”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Gerard. I may not even need to use the details y
ou’ve given me. But, if I do, I’ll use very general terms like ‘River Oaks residents said,’ or something to that effect. I keep all of my sources strictly confidential.”
Charles rose from his seat to leave. “Thank you for inviting me into your home, and I hope I haven’t kept you from anything.”
“Not at all. The pleasure has been all mine. I still have plenty of time to get to my weekly bridge game at the Country Club. Helga will show you out.”
Helga appeared in the family room doorway, as if on cue.
As Charles went to the front door and walked out onto the porch, he reached into his shirt pocket to retrieve his cell phone. For the first time since he’d heard about the Pauley kidnapping, Charles had a sneaking suspicion that Lloyd might be right. Something was fishy about this whole thing and, as he dialed Lloyd’s number, he hoped the two of them could get to the bottom of it.
311
Gwen Richardson
CHAPTER 17
When Lloyd rounded the corner from the Gerard mansion, he walked about a block before he saw a landscaper planting begonias in the front flower bed of the home across the street. Since he wasn’t far from the Gerard home, Lloyd thought perhaps the landscaper had seen something on the day of the kidnapping. It was about the same time of the day that Mrs. Pauley said her baby had been snatched.
Lloyd knew that most of the landscapers in Houston were Mexican immigrants, some in the country illegally. They tended to shy away from the authorities for fear of being deported or, if here legally, for fear of putting some of their family members with questionable citizenship documents in jeopardy.
Lloyd hoped the yardman had a green card and that his English was good enough for them to communicate adequately. He had always wanted to pick up a bit of the Spanish language but just had never gotten around to it. He didn’t want to have to use sign language to try to decipher whatever was said.
Lloyd walked toward the landscaper and called to him, “Excuse me, sir, I’m with the Houston Ledger. May I speak with you for a moment?”
“Senor, I am working and cannot talk right now,” said the landscaper, as he spoke haltingly but with apparently decent English skills.
“Oh, it will only take a few minutes. I’m working on a story about the Pauley kidnapping and just wanted to ask you a couple of questions.”
“Well, okay, but do it fast. Mrs. Parker wants to get these flowers planted in her front yard before noon.”
Lloyd assumed that Mrs. Parker was the owner of the home in whose yard the landscaper was working. “What’s your name?”
“My name is José, Senor.”
“José, were you working outside in this same area yesterday morning?”
“Yes, sir. I always get an early start at about seven o’clock before it gets too hot outside.”
“Do you know Mrs. Pauley, the lady who lives in that house?” said Lloyd, as he pointed to the Pauley home down the street.
“I have never spoken to her, Senor, but I know what she looks like.”
“Did you see her yesterday?”
“Yes. She walks through the neighborhood with her stroller some mornings. She usually goes in the other direction, but yesterday she walked the stroller past Mrs. Parker’s house and went toward those trees over there,” said José, as he pointed to a clump of trees about one hundred yards east of the Parker home.
“About what time was that, José?”
“I’m not sure, Senor, but I was outside a couple of hours when I saw her, so it had to be about nine o’clock.”
“Did she see you?”
“I don’t think so because she did not look in my direction. She was looking straight ahead.”
“Did you see what she did once she went over to the clump of trees?”
“I really wasn’t paying close attention, Senor, but I did notice something when she walked the stroller back this way.”
“What was that, José?”
“The stroller was empty. The baby was in the stroller when she went over to the trees, but he wasn’t in there when she came back.”
“Are you sure about that, José?”
“Yes. I remember it because I thought it was very strange. But I thought maybe she took the baby over to a neighbor’s house over that way, and the neighbor was watching the baby for her. Then I thought to myself, ‘Why didn’t she leave the stroller there so she wouldn’t have to bring it back again?’”
“Did you know about the kidnapping, José? Why didn’t you report this to the police?”
“Senor, I work from seven in the morning to about eight at night. When I get home I don’t watch the news very much. We have our family meal, and it’s almost time for bed.”
“Haven’t you seen the police cars everywhere? Didn’t you suspect that a crime had been committed?”
“I’ve seen the cars, Senor, but my green card expired a couple of months ago and I don’t want any trouble. I have a wife and five children to support. Senor, please don’t say anything about me to the police.”
“Don’t worry, José, your secret is safe with me. But I appreciate the information you’ve given me. It might be helpful in solving the crime.”
“If it’s all right with you, Senor, I need to get back to my work.”
“Of course, thank you again, José,” Lloyd said as he shook the landscaper’s hand. José then went back to the flower bed and started shoveling dark mulch around the begonias.
Lloyd could not believe what he had heard. It looked as though Mrs. Pauley had indeed killed her baby, and the poor child’s remains were probably buried in the soil at the base of that clump of trees. Does your newspaper sometimes print information in stories that later turns out to be false? Hamisi’s words echoed in his mind, penetrating Lloyd’s soul with such intensity that he became dizzy.
His cell phone rang, breaking the temporary trance, and he pulled it out of his pocket. It was Charles.
“Charles, have you finished interviewing the lady at the house I sent you to?”
“Yes, her name is Mrs. Gerard and she had some very interesting things to say about Mrs. Pauley. What did you find out?”
“We may have solved this crime, Charles. I need you to walk a couple of blocks to the east and meet me on the corner of Del Monte Drive and River Oaks Boulevard. Prepare yourself for what could be a gruesome discovery.”
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Gwen Richardson
CHAPTER 18
Lloyd waited for Charles at the corner of River Oaks Boulevard as he contemplated their next move. He knew it would probably be best to contact the police, give them his information, and have them investigate the crime scene. If he and Charles unearthed what Lloyd felt sure would be the remains of the unfortunate Pauley baby, they could contaminate some of the evidence.
But Lloyd did not trust the police to charge Mrs. Pauley with the murder, nor did he trust the Harris County District Attorney to vigorously prosecute the case. The rich often got away with murder, but with Mrs. Pauley casting the long shadow of the law on all of the city’s black males, he was determined not to let her off the hook. If he brought the evidence to the authorities himself, they might even try to accuse him of being the guilty party. Having Charles with him as a corroborating witness was the best way to hedge his bets.
He saw Charles approaching from a block away. “It’s a good thing you have on casual shoes because you may have to get a little dirt on them before we’re done here.”
“Lloyd, what are you talking about? Did one of the landscapers see something?”
“He may have seen the crime in progress, but we’ll have to do a little digging to be sure.”
“Do you mean we need to interview some more people?”
“No, Charles. Actual digging, as in removing earth. I spoke to the landscaper over there whose name is José. His green card expired; so he wouldn’t go on the record with his statement, and I told him I would protect his identity. He says he saw Mrs. Pauley carry the stroller toward that clump of trees over
there and when she returned there was no baby in the stroller. I’ll bet you a hundred dollars that she buried the baby over there and then pretended he was kidnapped.”
Charles was incredulous. “Lloyd, why would she do something as monstrous as that? Mrs. Gerard said that Mrs. Pauley seemed a little depressed, but to kill her own baby? That’s horrible, just horrible.”
“I’ve heard about women who have babies and can’t cope with the pressure and the demands that a newborn requires,” Lloyd replied. “I believe the experts call it post-partum depression. Do you remember that case several years ago where a woman here in Houston drowned all five of her children in the bathtub because of depression?”
“Yes, I think her name was Andrea Yates. Even the news reporters covering that story were shocked by that one, and you know from experience that guys in our profession see all kinds of horrifying cases.”
“A lot of people have a hard time accepting the fact that wealthy people can have serious mental problems that have not been treated. But I know that no black man in this city kidnapped that baby, and the evidence is right over there,” Lloyd said as he pointed to the clump of trees José identified. “I want you to go with me to dig up the area under those trees and see what we find.”
“Mrs. Gerard did say something about a potential gambling problem the Pauley woman may have. I wonder if the two—the depression and the gambling—are somehow connected? But, Lloyd, shouldn’t we call the police first? I know they would want to keep the crime scene intact.”
“I’m not going to wait around for the police and the rest of the authorities in this town to cover up this crime. They are going to bend over backwards to pin this on the first black male they find who most closely fits the description. Can you imagine the repercussions if the police have to admit that they failed to investigate this crime?”
Lloyd was ready to do whatever needed to be done. He just had to convince Charles. “You’ve come with me this far, Charles, and since I first interviewed Mrs. Pauley I’ve been right about my suspicions. I’m asking you to help me solve this crime and heal this city. Will you help me?”
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