Chapter Six

Two uniformed police officers had come by the house after Oz called them to report Willow missing. They sat on the coach in the living room and filled out their report dutifully, polite, but not consumed with concern. There were a lot of reasons why Willow might not be where she was expected to be, including the possibility that she simply didn’t want to be found, though they didn’t mention that to Oz. There was no sign of a break in, or anything missing, and the girl’s purse was gone, which proved that she had at least left of her own volition. They suggested that Oz call her family and friends in Sunnydale to make sure that she had not simply gotten home sick and gone home.

After the police left, Oz called Rupert Giles. His conversation with Giles earlier had been short. Alarmed by the fact that Willow was not home, everyone agreed that he call the police immediately. Giles was going to return to his apartment, and asked him to call back as soon as he was done talking to the police. Buffy and Xander made plans to go to Giles’ apartment after a short nap. By the time Buffy got to Giles, her Watcher was awake, still dressed, and making coffee. Xander arrived a few minutes later and while they waited for Oz to call Giles asked them when they had last talked to her, and how she had sounded.

Oz called after six in the morning and recapped the interview with the police. Giles made a few notes and asked Oz to check with the neighbors in the morning and then call him. He was sending Buffy and Xander to the Rosenberg house in Sunnydale to see if Willow had come back home or called there. Shelia and Ira Rosenberg were in Europe for the summer. He asked Oz to check Willow’s computer for their itinerary.

Oz had canvassed the neighborhood. The next-door neighbors had not seen Willow in days, and the man in the house to the right suggested that he go to the used bookstore on Morton. The owner of the used bookstore ran the coffee shop on the corner, and Willow spent a lot of time there. The proprietor knew Willow. He was suspicious at first, but after Oz explained who he was, he relaxed, and admitted that he was worried about her.

Apparently, she came in virtually every day and she had last been seen on Friday night. He called one of his waitress’ at home who remembered Willow joining a party that included two women and three men. She offered to meet Oz at the coffee shop at ten that morning. Dan and Chris went out to get a cell phone for Oz, since having mobile communication seemed like a good idea to them and Devon accompanied him to the coffee shop. The waitress arrived on time and introduced herself.

“You must be Oz,” she said with a smile. “Recognize you from your picture,” she explained. Willow carried wallet-sized pictures of all her high school friends in her wallet. Oz introduced Devon. “I’m Angie.”

At the beginning of Angie’s shift, Willow had been at the bar, but then she joined a group at a table, she recounted.

“Do you remember anything about them?” Oz asked.

“The two girls were blondes. Really hot blondes,” she noted with a small, appreciative smile. “But I don’t think Willow knew the other girl. She was wearing leather, and she looked a bit older. Mid twenties, maybe? The younger blond girl was kind of snippy, too.”

“She left with them?” Oz was frowning.

“Maybe,” Angie said. “They left in a hurry,” she said. “One round, and I didn’t have time to check back on them. They were gone,” she frowned. “Left two twenties on the table, which more than covered the tab.”

Oz asked her to describe the men. “It was five days ago,” Angie reminded him ruefully.

Devon looked around. “Do you remember where they were sitting?”

She pointed out a table, in the front third of the long, narrow end of the bar positioned near a solid section of wall between two long store front windows. “They were here. This is a good table. A popular table,” she looked over at them wondering if they understood what she meant. There was always a table in a station that people liked better than the others. This one was closer to the wall, and round, with good sight lines to the door, the bar, and the small stage at the far end of the room. It was near windows, but not directly in front of them.

Devon nodded. He could see it. The lights would be dimmed at night. It would have felt a little more private than the square tables between the round table and the bar where the foot traffic would be heaviest.

“I had another party parking there. I was glad when I saw that they had moved,” she said.

She walked over to the table to orient herself. She pointed at empty chair. “Bald guy, ordered for most of the table. Ale. Forty-ish, in good shape, and the older woman blond was practically in his lap but kind of flirting with the blond guy they were with,” she moved on, clockwise to the chairs to the right.

“The younger girl was with a guy maybe a few years older. Long hair. Preppy goth. Do you know what I mean? James Dean gone Goth,” she said, pushing the chairs around. It was a round table with four chairs, when she was done moving furniture, there were six chairs arranged around the table.

“Willow was sitting here,” she said, resting her hands on the back of a chair that was at an angle to the bar, and turned more towards the door. “The snippy blonde was here. Tall, skinny caramel latte,” she pointed at the chair to the left, looking thoughtful. “Her guy was on the other side of her,” she nodded to herself.

People from work? Had she met friends from work here, Oz wondered. His next stop was going to be her office, so he needed to get the descriptions clear in his head. Angie’s organizing them around the table was helping. He stood behind the first chair.

“Bald guy?” he looked at her, and she nodded. “In his forties. Younger blond girlfriend,” he recounted. “You said he was in good shape? What do you mean?”

“Clean shaven, built,” Angie remembered. “No tats, but he looked like the type that would have a few. Weekday broker, weekend biker?”

He knew from Willow talking about work that most of her co-workers were in there twenties. He moved to the next chair. “Blond girl. How long was her hair?” he asked.

“Long,” Angie gestured to mid-forearm. “Shampoo commercial hair. She was wearing a red leather dress,” she moved around to adjust the chairs. “She was sitting here,” she pushed the chair closer to the bald guy’s chair, “but flirty with,” she pointed to the next chair.

Devon cocked his head to one side. “That’s the other blond girl’s boyfriend?”

“No,” Angie shook her head, “The blond guy . . . he looked kind of like . . . oh, damn!” she tried to think of a name. “Eighties, punk rock, um, bleached blond hair, British . . .” her head bobbed as she tried to come up with a name. She hummed a few bars of ‘White Wedding’. “That guy? I can’t think of his name.”

“Billy Idol?” Devon supplied. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Oz’s head snap back like someone had punched him.

“Billy Idol,” she said with a grin. “Oh, yeah. Bleached blond. He was wearing a leather coat—it was like 80 degrees, so that was different, and—“

Oz’s spoke. “Leather coat? Did he have a scar on—“

Angie’s eyes widened. “Eyebrow! He had a scar on his eyebrow!” she remembered. “Do you know him?” she asked.

Devon shrugged. “Do we, Oz?”

“Spike,” Oz said, flatly, the wolf snarling inside his head. Spike.

Why? What would have made Willow leave with Spike and at least four other vamps? It didn’t make sense. She would have known that she was safest in a public place.

Armed with enough information to pinpoint the when and where of Willow’s disappearance, Oz searched every corner of the coffee shop. He went back to the house and called Giles again to report.