My Name Is Venus Black(76)

She thinks for a second. “One weird thing is that he didn’t ask to look at the garage. And don’t most men really care about that? Then again, I didn’t offer…and maybe by then he knew he didn’t want it, so it didn’t matter.”

“What else was weird?”

“Now that you ask,” she says, “he was weird about Leo’s room. Like it made him really sad.”

I feel a flutter of alarm. “Keep talking,” I say, setting down my fork and moving the wine bottle out of reach.

“He said he got my phone number off the sign in the yard, but I don’t think it’s on there—I haven’t checked.”

“Seriously?” I ask.

“I didn’t have a chance, because you showed up!”

“Please excuse me for a minute.”

I go to the closet, grab my coat, and go out the front door to check the sign. When I sit down again at the table, I tell her, “The only number on there is the realtor’s.”

“Why would he lie?”



Okay, now I’m getting a little mad. “So you’ve got a strange guy from California who gets your number from somewhere and takes a tour of the house and doesn’t look at the garage and acts sad in Leo’s room. Doesn’t that all add up to super suspicious to you?”

Inez looks hurt. “Now that you say it that way,” she says.

I couldn’t believe it, but then again I could. “What did he look like? What was his last name—surely you got that,” I pressed.

Her hand went to cover her mouth, and I knew she didn’t. “I got his first name! It was Tony. He seemed so nice. His name was Tony and he was really handsome.”

“Okay. You got a first name. Handsome. Didn’t it occur to you that maybe he’s related to Leo’s disappearance? What if the milk carton flushed him out?”

Our eyes meet and something sparks in the air. I can tell she feels it, too. We both know what I just suggested could so easily be true.

Who knew I was such a great detective? God knows I’ve been grilled enough times in my life, but now I turn every instinct I have toward getting what I can out of Inez.

“What about a phone number? Did you get it?”

“It never occurred to me. He said he’d call….”

I heave a sigh of frustration. “What kind of car did he drive?” I demand.

She thought for a second. “It was a black truck, and there was a business logo on the side—but it wasn’t just letters; there was a fancy design.”

“What did it say?”

“It was too far away to read out the window, but I recall it being all scrolly and pretty, like the words were part of the art.”

“What make or model of truck? Like a Ford?”

She looks at me blankly. “I don’t pay attention to stuff like that. It was a plain truck, older model, I’d guess. Not huge, only one-seat-up-front type. I think…”



“What about him? What did he look like besides handsome? Did he have any distinctive things about him?”

She perks up, relieved to have something more to add. “He had dark hair cut short and styled all nice. He definitely had tattoos. I saw one on his wrist when we shook hands goodbye. And one peeking out above his collar. But he wasn’t the kind of guy you normally associate with tattoos.”

“Tattoos of what? What did they look like?”

“I have no idea,” Inez says, shaking her shoulders. “It was just brief flashes of color I noticed.”

“Okay,” I say, frustrated. “So what else? What about his hands? Were they rough or dirty like a labor person or soft like a desk job?”

“His hands were nice,” she says. “Normal. I don’t think he had any rings on, either. He wasn’t like some biker dude.”

“Didn’t you ask what he did for a living down in California?”

Inez takes a deep breath. Clearly the answer is no. “I’m sorry, Venus. I didn’t think of it. I didn’t want to be nosy because I didn’t want him to get nosy.”

She looks so sheepish, I almost feel bad for her.

“But wait! Oh my God, Venus! I remember in the bedroom when he saw my messy closet, he mentioned something about being creative. He said he was some kind of artist, or maybe he said he was kind of an artist.”

“That’s good!” I exclaim. “We’re putting together a lot here. We are calling the police. Right now.”

“And I can already tell you what they’ll say,” she says. “Without a license plate or a last name or anything to go on other than an artist in California named Tony— Wait!” she screeches. “Oakland! He was from Oakland!”

That helps, knowing the city, assuming the guy was being honest. But then Inez admits how many goose chases she’s sent the cops on over the years. “I can already hear Detective Pete saying, It’s too bad you don’t have a license plate to go on. Or even a last name. There’s a lot of Tonys in Oakland. And why would a kidnapper tell the truth about where he’s from?”



I sigh heavily and sit back.

“We can still call the police if you want,” she says. “We can call right now.”

Thank God I came when I did, because we haven’t lost much time. “But I don’t trust the police to get right on this,” I tell her. “Here’s what we’ll do. Tonight you’ll call the police and fill them in. But in the meantime, I’m going to Oakland. I came here to get bus fare for California, anyway. But a bus isn’t going to help me with the search. I see you still have your Honda.”