"Got a minute?" Stefan Warner stuck his head inside the library door.
Giles looked around. "Yes. The bell doesn't ring for another fifteen minutes."
Warner stepped inside the library. "Nobody back in the stacks?"
Giles glanced over his shoulder. "No."
"Okay." Warner leaned on the counter. He wore a yellow sweatshirt with a screen printed griffin and the word 'Guelph' on it.
Giles nodded toward the shirt. "Alumnus?"
"What?" Warner glanced down. "No, it's just a cool shirt. It seems your tip might be right on the nose."
"Might be?" Giles's eyes widened and he adjusted his glasses.
"Well, there's definitely some sort of presence at the docks that's not there to fight. Now, why they're there, what their purpose is, we can't know that, not from simple observation."
"I understand." The Watcher's voice was dry and sarcastic. "But you would agree that the docks have become the focus of some sort of purposeful activity?"
"Or inactivity but, yeah, I'd go that far." Warner pursed his lips. "Anything else we can do for you?"
Giles ignored the mocking subtext of the question. "I do have a question, one that's begun to bother me quite a bit in the last few days."
Warner's brow furrowed. "Okay… shoot."
Giles occupied his hands by shifting books on the counter. "You and Ms. Hollis have entwined yourself quite deeply in our… situation here. She is even serving as a sort of foster parent for Cordelia. You said that Gerard asked you to watch out for me as a personal favor, but the Watchers Council functionally no longer exists, and you are still here. You were, in your words, already assigned to Sunnydale. It has occurred to me that you have never shared the nature of that assignment, outside of its relation to a prophecy, which, let's be honest, in our line of work is a very broad statement that covers everything and nothing."
"Oh, you're waiting for me to say something. Sorry, I got a little lost in the monologue."
Giles sighed. "I believe we both would agree that we are approaching a critical moment. I am simply trying to ascertain whether, at that moment, you will be on our side, so to speak, or will we be at cross-purposes."
Warner folded his hands and bumped them on the countertop. "I understand you. There are enough moving parts here to give Rube Goldberg a headache. I can't share the exact nature of our mission– Don't look at me like that- but, I will assure you that, when it all goes down, we'll be there. You can count on us."
"Us? The Chevaliers du Croix?"
Warner stood up and stared at the librarian. "No, more solid than that. We will be here. Matti and me. Personal promise." He grinned suddenly. "I could spit in my hand and we could shake on it if that makes you feel better."
Giles sighed and shook his head. "No need. I'm not at all sure saliva-based contracts are binding."
"Sir?"
Suarez looked up. A broadly-built officer stood in the doorway to the meeting room, a piece of paper in her right hand. He motioned for her to come in. "What is it?"
"This came in this morning. It doesn't seem like anything special, but I kinda heard that you were looking for incidents that fit a specific profile."
Suarez leaned back in his chair and stroked his chin. "True." He nodded toward the incident report. "Since you thought I'd be interested, why don't you summarize it for me."
She put the report on the table. "Officer responded to a call out in Whitney. Ambulance rolled, too. Scene was a house party, where the officer found three vics, all white males between eighteen and twenty-four." She glanced down at the paper. "All were taken by ambulance to Henderson Hospital."
"Okay, so a house party got out of hand and turned into a fight. Where's my angle?"
The officer nodded. "The report says that all three vics claim to have been assaulted by the same girl."
Suarez sat up. "Girl?"
"Yes, sir. Between eighteen and twenty-four, dark hair, medium height, a 'psycho bitch babe' according to another party attendee who recalled seeing her."
"'Psycho bitch babe'?"
"Yeah, apparently he danced with her and she turned down his ultra-smooth attempts at seduction. Forcefully, it appears. Said she was real hot, but, quoting, 'batshit crazy'."
Suarez picked up the report. "Thanks, Officer…?"
"Wilson. Shonda Wilson."
"Wilson. Good call."
She took a step away from the table. "I didn't know you made detective."
He shook his head. "I haven't, but I was already a member of this little pool party, so when it became an actual… thing, I got bumped up to acting detective."
She smiled. "None of the real dicks wanted the job?"
"Nicely phrased. Thanks again. Hey, on your way out, could you see if Kasabian's at his desk? If he is, tell him I need him."
"You got it, sir." She winked and left the conference room. Suarez close-read the report, interrupted by a tap on the doorframe. Kasabian stepped inside and dropped into one of the visitor chairs.
"You rang?" he drawled, working a toothpick at the corner of his mouth.
"Yeah," Suarez said. "What's your load today?"
Kasabian shrugged. "Nothin' that's on fire."
"Okay." Suarez thrust the report across the desk. "I need you to go out to Henderson Hospital and interview three assault vics."
"This have anything to do with Snow White?" Kasabian asked, picking up the paper.
"Snow White… I like that." Suarez tapped his pen on the table. "The vics' description of the assailant is consistent with Baby Huey's. I'd like to get their statements, then see if that adds anything."
"You're workin' this dead-ender pretty hard," Kasabian said as he hauled himself to his feet.
"Not really." Suarez glanced from side to side. "But if we're gonna CYA, let's really CYA, you feel me?"
Kasabian touched an eyebrow with a forefinger. "'deed I do." He folded the report and put it in his jacket pocket. "I think I'll just make a trip of it and go to Ilopango for lunch."
Suarez gave a 'who cares' shake of his head. "Knock yourself out, big man. Just get back in time to fill me in today, okay?"
Kasabian chuckled, a sound like gravel and sand in a coffee can. "You know it." He sauntered out of the meeting room.
Suarez reached into a box on the floor and took out two boxes of pushpins.
"This is painful. It's like watching someone torture an animal." Willow grimaced as she watched Cordelia. Willow and Xander sat on one of the lounge sofas. The brunette cheerleader stood across the foyer, facing a poster, arms crossed and one foot tapping. The poster announced the nominations for prom queen and contained four head shots. One of them was Harmony Kendall; none of them was Cordelia Chase.
"Really?" Xander swung his head in Willow's direction. "'Cuz, I agree with you that this is hella awkward, but it's several notches below puppy torment."
"Okay," Willow conceded, "but it's hard to watch."
"Then don't watch," Xander said. As if to lead by example, he turned his attention to a comic book pulled from his backpack.
"I can't look away," Willow moaned.
"That's your problem, not mine."
"You're suddenly very heartless." Willow poked him with a forefinger.
"I disagree," Xander said. "I have a heart, I have a very big heart, but she's made it very plain that we are anathema in Chase world."
"Anathema? That's a pretty big word."
"I might have heard it used in a movie I watched last night." He turned a page in his comic. "Okay, I understand your point. Prom queen has been Cordelia's destiny since… forever, I guess? Now, she's not even nominated. Yes, it's the ultimate high school dis, but only if you move in those circles. I mean, are you upset that you're not nominated?"
"No." Willow shook her head but kept her eyes on Cordelia. "But I never would be."
"Exactly." Xander craned his neck. "Where's Buffy? Isn't she your usual sounding board for these issues?"
"She's busy," Willow replied.
"Anyway, back to my point. You are not disappointed, because you never expected to be prom queen, because you don't run in that crowd, and your life goals are higher."
Willow's face scrunched. "I'm not sure I know where you're going."
Xander looked at her and grinned. "Oh, trust me, I don't either, but when has that ever stopped me?"
"Do you think she's going to explode?" Willow said, the skin around her eyes tightening. Cordelia spun away from the poster and stalked toward them, her face dark with suppressed fury. Willow held her breath, but Cordelia passed them by, unseeing. Their heads swiveled to follow her passage.
"I think it's just a matter of time," Xander conceded.
Kasabian leaned against the doorframe, his weight supported by a forearm. "You, my friend Suarez, are either very good, or very lucky. You are gonna come out of the shitpile smelling like lavender."
Suarez looked up. "Lavender?"
Kasabian pushed off the doorway and shrugged. "My girlfriend's into essential oils. Anyway, this little field trip today is going to make us golden boys for a while."
"How?"
Kasabian lowered his bulk into a chair and shifted his weight, clearly enjoying his ability to withhold information. Finally, comfortable, he said, "Well, the three young squires who got their bells rung are all students from ASU, here for a weekend of partying and… other entertainments." He smoothed his mustache with thumb and forefinger. "One of these young men has a grade four concussion, the second one has a grade three concussion and, I'm quoting the ER staff here, 'one badly swollen testicle, but otherwise fine'."
Suarez's eyes widened. "'One' testicle? What about the other one?"
Kasabian shrugged. "The ER doc thinks it'll be okay when they find it."
"Ooooh," Suarez shuddered.
"Yeah. Our third Romeo has a fractured orbital, that's eye socket to you and me, a fractured zygomatic maxilla, that's his cheekbone, and a nose that's apparently just a bag of Silly Putty."
"Wow," Suarez said, "but how does this make us look good?"
Kasabian leaned back in the chair and smiled. "It turns out number three's mama is some sort of Arizona state legislator. She was there, lawyer in tow, about to raise holy hell about her little baby's assailant hasn't been brought to justice, when in strolls I, a member of Las Vegas' finest, partnering with the community."
"No."
"Oh, yeah. She's very impressed with how seriously we're taking this terrible attack on her boy."
"Nice. So, what was the gist of the interviews?"
Kasabian grimaced. "Well, it was going swimmingly… lots of 'look what that bitch did to my face', 'you gotta catch that bitch', 'that bitch has to pay'."
"So, he's a wordsmith."
"He did confirm that the assailant was a single girl, armed with a beer bottle. He kept saying that, like it explained how she took down three guys almost twice her size. Mom's attorney stressed that he wasn't admitting any involvement, which was pretty funny if you looked at his face, but it seemed weird until little Timmy referred to another girl."
"Another girl?"
"Another girl, which was the point at which Mom told her baby boy to shut up and Mr. Attorney declared the interview over."
"Oh… well, that wasn't bad."
Kasabian scoffed. "Who do you think you're talking to? The other two jamokes didn't have attorneys. Now, the one guy's brain is pretty scrambled, but Chief One-Nut's fairly coherent. It appears that there was another female in the room, but Mommy's Boy was totally not about to commit aggravated sexual assault."
"Yikes."
Kasabian nodded. "Yikes, indeed. I figure we hold that little tidbit in reserve in case we need it. Anyway, the descriptions of the assailant match Baby Huey: medium height, pale skin, dark hair and eyes, tattoo on the right upper arm… plus the whole beating the shit out of guys MO."
Suarez nodded. "Good job, man." He dropped his pen on the table.
"What's with the arts and crafts project?" Kasabian jerked his chin toward the wall.
"That?" Suarez got up and stood beside the display. "I've color-coded the attacks by date. The black ones are the oldest, the green are the mid-period, and the reds are the newest incidents." He picked up a red pushpin and pressed it into the map. "That's last night's. When Robertson and Arakelyan finish looking through the reports, we'll add them." He stepped back and looked at the board. "I'm already seeing a pattern, though." He turned to Kasabian. "How many security cameras do you think are along this line?" He indicated a row of pins.
"I don't know," Kasabian said as he stood up, "but I think I might know of one pretty close to last night's tango."
"Think we could get a look at it? I'm not asking for any warrants?"
"Not a problem," Kasabian said. "I know the guy."
"You mind taking a look?"
"Not a problem. I'll do it tomorrow, lunch time."
"The sun is nice today." Buffy turned her face up as she and Willow strolled along the sidewalk. "Too nice to think about English 4."
"I don't know," Willow said. "I'm looking forward to 'The Demon Lover'."
"Hits a little close to home." Buffy's nose scrunched.
"Oh, sorry," Willow said. "Hey, the prom theme is out."
"Dare I ask what it is?" Buffy asked.
"'Back to the Future," Willow replied. "And the look is '80s"
"Wait a minute," the Slayer said, swinging to the side and leaning against the wall. "Since most of the movie is in 1955, shouldn't it be a '50s theme?"
"That's what I say." Willow waved a dismissive hand.
"What's what you say about what?" Xander said, walking up behind them.
Buffy made a windshield-wiper motion. "Prom theme."
"Oh, yeah, 'Back to the Future'. Real winner there." Xander shook his head.
Willow looked indignant. "It's confusing. I mean, I like the movie–"
"Love the movie," Buffy said. "Michael J. Fox, tiny hottie."
"-agreed, the movie is great, but it's not an '80s movie. I mean, it is, but, but,,,"
"Like American Graffiti is a '70's movie, but it isn't a '70s movie," Xander offered.
Buffy looked back and forth between her friends. "Grease isn't a '70s movie."
"Yes." "Exactly!" Their replies overlapped.
"So, who…" The Slayer's voice trailed away and the trio looked over the rail as Harmony strode past on the ground floor, trailed by a bevy of toadies and hangers-on. Buffy, Willow, and Xander exchanged looks.
Xander shook his head. "Forget it, Jake, it's Chinatown."
