And so the "bulldog of Rochester" was on the case.

The chief hardly had time to provide her with a map of the city and a new radio to contact them with before she was out the door, straining her ears and scanning the crowds for anything out of the ordinary. The goggles were on, toggling between views: body heat, x-ray vision, ultraviolet, thaumaturgical--that mode that could see magic particles and masses of magic, and had proven to be probably the most useful in her chases back in Rubato. There was a faint trace of... gray? Just little bits, like dust, in that view, scattered along the street.

With nothing else to go off of for the moment, Tracey followed it, bumping into people and stands with no magic to boast and therefore no presence in the magical view of things. After bumping into a display of melons, and paying the vendor back for the sixteen (Tracey had counted and insisted it was more like ten, but when the man started to shout in another language, she simply gave in to shut him up) melons that had rolled off down the street to be crushed, she began to lose the trail. The magic was still there, yes, but... it didn't go in any single direction, and it seemed to cross over itself and double-back, like the source had been all over the city.

She remembered the file, and went to her next best lead: the bells. She hadn't heard them herself yet, but... perhaps someone else had.

And that was how the "bulldog" ended up knocking on the door of every house, asking anyone who actually answered despite seeing that it was a cop if they had heard some bells pass by. In her own roundabout way, she was working her way towards the tiny, broken-down house where the man named Richard and his five children lived.