I took the Big Sur Highway north to Sunnydale. As long as I was renting a car, I figured I might as well enjoy the drive. According to my California map, Sunnydale officially had a population of 32,614, although the city was also home to several colleges, the biggest being UC Sunnydale with an enrollment of over 15,000, so the number of people in the city at any one time was probably a good deal more. There was also a small army base, Fort Wilkins, located 14 miles to the north. The city itself was shaped like an uneven barbell with developed east and west ends, and a strip (appropriately named Main Street) that connected the two ends. The east end was by far the larger end, containing almost all the residential areas, all the universities and colleges, and downtown. The west end was connected to the ocean, and consisted primarily of shipping docks, warehouses, and shipping and trading companies. The strip between the two ends was Generica, lined with convenience stores, hotels, and strip malls, as well as Sunnydale's actual mall.

Joyce Summers owned a small art import gallery located in the west end. I'd called her before I left from Boston. She did not sound enthusiastic, but she agreed to meet me at her office.

The art gallery was housed in a red brick building located in the only part of Sunnydale's west end that could be considered upscale. It was next to a coffee shop and another art import gallery. The name on the sign said simply, "Joyce's".

Inside, the gallery itself was well laid out, clean, and eclectic. It smelled of several different types of incense. A man of about 30, with the left side of his head shaved and the jet black hair on the right side of his head cut in a pageboy, was polishing some statuary and looked up when I walked in. I introduced myself, handed him my card, and asked to see Joyce Summers.

He looked me up and down.

"You don't look like an art collector." His voice was soft.

"I am offended by your judging me on appearances. How do you know I don't collect art? You should see my collection of velvet prints of Elvis and poker playing dogs."

Half hair didn't smile, but he didn't scowl either. So far as I could tell, he had already lost any interest in whatever else I might have to say.

"I'll see if she's in."

"That's all right, Alfonse. I'm expecting Mr. Spenser."

Alfonse nodded and went back to taking statuary out of a crate, polishing it, and putting it on the shelf.

Joyce Summers, I immediately decided, was much better looking than her successor. A tall woman with light brown hair that curled around the shoulders, she was well shaped, if slightly matronly in appearance. She was wearing a grey jacket with matching skirt, and a bright lime green blouse. Her makeup was light and tastefully applied. She wore simple earrings and a white bead bracelet on her right wrist. When she shook my hand, her grip was firm.

"Mr. Spenser, I'm Joyce Summers," she said. "We can meet in my office, it's upstairs in the loft. I've found it possible to have private conversations there even without the full walls."

I followed Joyce up a wooden spiral staircase to her loft. She had a simple oak desk, and on that desk there were some statues that looked to be from Africa, maybe the Caribbean. Also prominently displayed were school pictures of two girls. Buffy's picture was different than the one Hank Summers showed me. The new picture showed a young woman who was still very pretty, with slightly shorter blond hair. She had matured considerably. The other picture was of a girl with long brown hair who looked to be in elementary school. Dawn Summers. Joyce's office was bordered by a dark wood planked half-wall that came up to just above my waist. Looking over it, one could see into almost the entire gallery.

Leaning against the half wall opposite of the stairway, by a small file cabinet, was a tall, rangy looking man. He looked to be in his forties, had oval rimmed wire glasses and close cropped brown hair. In spite of the fact that it was June in southern California, he wore a full grey suit with vest over a blue shirt and a darker blue tie. He was about my height but probably gave up thirty to forty pounds to me. At first, I thought he might be an accountant or a lawyer. He might have still been an accountant or lawyer, but he was also more than that. When he looked right at me, I realized that this was a dangerous man.

"Mr. Spenser, this is Mr. Giles," Joyce said. "He is here as a….friend of Buffy's."

Giles and I shook hands. His grip was very strong.

"Mr. Spenser," he said. "A pleasure."

He spoke in a crisp British accent, and his tone made it clear that he was unsure as to whether he would really find it a pleasure to meet me.

Joyce motioned me to a client chair in front of her desk. She sat behind her desk. Giles resumed his post at the half-wall.

"So Hank hired you to look for Buffy."

"He did."

"Would have been nice if he had consulted me," she said. "Considering that he hasn't shown much other interest in her this year."

"Can't say that I disagree with you," I said. "Still, I would guess that you would be very interested in finding your daughter."

"Absolutely."

"I'm pretty good at tracking people down. I can help."

Joyce closed her eyes and took a deep breath. I couldn't tell if she was trying to keep from crying.

"What can you tell me about the day she ran away?" I said.

Joyce looked at Giles. Giles gave a light cough and looked at me. Joyce was clearly deferring to him.

"Then again," I said, looking at Giles. "Maybe I should start by talking to you."

Joyce looked from Giles to me. I looked at Giles. Giles picked an imaginary piece of lint off of his jacket sleeve with his left hand. I noticed that his index finger and middle finger were in splints. Then, he looked up at me.

"First of all, Mr. Spenser, I want you to understand that I am in no way placing Mrs. Summers under duress. She is free to speak to you about Buffy as much as she would like."

"That's mighty kind of you, considering she's the mother and you're…what are you again?"

Giles smiled tightly, but his eyes glittered. "As Joyce said, I am a friend. I am also the librarian at her school."

"And yet, here she is looking to you before deciding what to say."

"Joyce is looking to me because Buffy's situation is, shall we say, complex. I have some knowledge of that situation that she does not, so she is looking to me for advice as to what to say. But, just to be clear, I am using no threat, real or implied, to control what she tells you."

I could tell he was telling the truth. It was also clear he understood how this situation might be seen by someone in my position.

I tried to think about what to do next. It was clear that there was quite a bit that they weren't going to tell me. On the face of it, that made no sense. A runaway teenage girl was at risk for all sorts of hurt. I decided to see what they would tell me, and see if I could learn anything from what they wouldn't tell me.

"So, the day before Buffy ran away, a girl was found dead in the library," I said.

"Yes," Giles said. "That's correct."

"A student?"

"More like a visitor."

"This visitor have a name?"

"Kendra. No last name."

"And where did she visit from?"

"Jamaica I believe."

"What was someone from Jamaica doing in Sunnydale High?"

Giles didn't say anything.

"Did it have something to do with the reason Buffy ran away?"

Giles still didn't say anything.

"Jesus Christ," I said. I looked at Joyce.

"Do you have anything to say to me at all?"

Joyce looked at me. "Buffy and I had a fight, the night before she ran off."

"What was the fight about?"

"I tried to forbid her from going out that night. She left anyway."

"And?"

"When we were arguing, I told her that if she went out the door, not to come back."

Joyce placed her head in her hands, but she didn't cry.

"I was angry, but I really didn't mean it. Unfortunately, Buffy was and is a 17 year old girl, Mr. Spenser. She is many other things, but she is still a girl, and I'm afraid she took my words at face value."

Joyce took a deep breath and looked at me. She remained composed.

"Why did Buffy feel it was so imperative to go out that night?"

Joyce looked at Giles, who shook his head.

I sat and waited, but nobody said anything. Nobody was going to say anything. I got up when I couldn't stand it anymore.

"If you think of anything you can tell me, give me a call." I handed Joyce my card. I didn't even bother with Giles the scary librarian.