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said, as flashing lights rounded the corner. “Not even in California.”
    6. Problematic Identifications
    And so I learned a few things. First, the cops in California were far more suspicious of magicians than ones in Georgia. Second, even suspicious cops will get over it—just like my Dad taught me, cops respond to “polite, no sudden moves” and a glimpse of a police booster card no matter what state you’re in. And third, when Jewel gave her witness statement, her real name wasn’t the stage-friendly Jewel Grace . . . but a more normal Jewel Anne Grass lin.
    “Annie,” I said with a smirk, looking over the statement. “Little Orphan Annie—”
    “Oh, bite me,” she said, embarrassed. “It’s a common name—and what’s wrong with having a stage name, ‘Dakota Frost?’ What’s your real name, anyway?”
    “Dakota Caroline Frost,” I said, handing the statement back. “Huh. Interesting.”
    “Interesting?” the officer—Illowsky, according to her uniform—asked. She was thin as a bird with a pleasant, weathered face. At first, she had been skeptical of our outlandish story, but when the man who’d called in the attack from one of the row homes came down to make a statement, that had greased the wheels of her belief. “What’s interesting, ma’am?”
    “The witness statements,” I said. “Different from the ones we use in Georgia, but still recognizable. Thanks, Officer Illowsky—and for the quick response.”
    “No problem, and it’s Susan,” Illowsky said, her eyes lighting up a little. The smile quirked again, and she asked, “Why the interest, ma’am?”
    “She’s a cop,” Jewel said. “A magical cop.”
    “I am not, ” I said.
    “Yes you are,” Cinnamon said. “Sort of a magical enforcer.”
    “No, I-am-not-a-cop-or-enforcer,” I said firmly. “I’m just a tattoo artist—”
    “Saving my ass? Trying to set up national rules for the use of magic?” Jewel said, folding her arms, her hands seeming to weave through each other as she did so. “You’re more than just a tattoo artist. And for that, I am graceful, Dakota Frost. Grateful. Sorry.”
    Officer Dean, Illowsky’s partner, returned from his squad car. He was a tall, gray-haired black man, thinner than Susan, with a young-but-drawn face and a similar perpetual almost-grin. “They’ve swept the neighborhood now,” Dean said. “If they’re on foot, we’ve lost them.”
    “But,” Jewel said, frustrated, “can’t you, like, go after them?”
    “We did,” Dean said, “we swept with three cars, but these guys sound careful. Large group, identical clothes, getaway car hidden out of sight—and if they ditched the hoodies, or hopped in separate cabs, they’re gone. And they were all new to you, except this Daniel guy, so—”
    “I know our descriptions are sketchy,” I said, “but it was just over so fast—”
    “Not your fault,” Dean said, “but we don’t have enough to start a manhunt. We’re dealing with an assault with minor scrapes, and a possible illicit-use-of-magic misdemeanor that could easily turn on you. I don’t like seeing you targeted, but there’s not much more we can do—”
    “Unless,” Illowsky said to Jewel, “you want to officially ask for more protection. We can run you down to the station, file formal charges against this Daniel fellow, maybe even get started on the paperwork for a formal restraining order—”
    “I’d . . . rather not go to the police station tonight,” Jewel said.
    “Few people want to,” Illowsky said, eyes scanning the air. “Your assailants were men, and you’re women with a child in tow. It’s an abuse of the system, but we can run you by a battered women’s shelter, let you stay overnight for some peace of mind.”
    “No thanks,” I said quickly, raising my hands, conscious of my tattered jacket. “And not just because I’d like to get back to my bodyguards—I seriously need a change of clothes.”
    “And I’ve got some