“What was that for?” he asked, when her hands were back by her sides.

“That was to make your words believable,” she said, grinning. “I tried it out last week on a policeman who stopped me because my tags had expired.”

“It worked?”

“You betcha. I didn’t get a ticket. And I did go right to Davy and get new tags the next day.”

“So, does my believability expire?”

“No spell lasts forever without reinforcement,” she said. “Not that I know of, anyway.”

He got into his car feeling a bit . . . jaunty, which was an adjective he’d never thought of applying to himself. He had a good lawyer and a good witch and a kick-ass adventuress on his side. He listened to NPR on his drive to Bonnet Park, convinced it would make him feel smarter. The Dallas traffic almost popped the balloon of his confidence, but he negotiated it with some finesse and pulled into the visitor’s lot ten minutes early.

As if she’d planned it to the second, a Lexus pulled in beside him, and out of it stepped Magdalena Orta Powell. It must be her; she looked like a distinguished lawyer. He decided she was in her midforties. Her hair was short and styled perfectly, her makeup was good but understated, her skirt was a beige cotton blend and fitted her curves unapologetically, and the short-sleeved brown and white patterned blouse with its big brown buttons was attractive but definitely on the ladylike side. Her brown heels were attention-grabbers. Manfred felt certain he could not have taken a single step wearing them.

“Mr. Bernardo?” She shook his hand. Her grip was firm, but she didn’t squeeze. She stood back and gave him a head-to-toe scan. Manfred had wisely eschewed his public “all black” look for his police visit, instead wearing a pair of khakis and a white linen shirt with subdued palm trees all over it. “No jewelry aside from the piercings, good,” she said. “The piercings are bad enough.”

“But they’ll believe me,” Manfred said confidently. He didn’t know what Fiji had done to him, but he wished he could pay her to come over and do it every morning.

“Are you on drugs?” his lawyer asked sharply.

“I never use drugs,” he said. “And what do I call you? I can’t say ‘Magdalena Orta Powell!’ every time I want to get your attention.”

“Ms. Powell will do just fine,” she said. “Shall we dance?” She pointed up the walkway to the glass doors into the public safety building. “This is less intimidating than going into the Dallas police headquarters,” she added, “but don’t be fooled. This is professional law enforcement, and they hate having a messy case on their hands.”

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” he said, with great certainty.

“I wish I could guarantee that meant you wouldn’t end up in jail.”