Page 29 of In a Word, Yes

“I’m Lucy Montgomery, from theMessenger,” I say.

“Yes, of course.” He offers a handshake. “I remember you.”

My heart picks up speed. “Oh, you—”

He flashes a high-watt smile. “We can’t have errorists winning, now can we? Good to know you’re on the job, Lucy.”

Good grief, how could a guy with such a disarming face ever play good cop, bad cop?

“Come on back,” he says.

I’m following on his heels when he stops, darting confused looks around the room.

“It’s my shoe,” I say, nearly rear-ending him.

“Ah.” Smiling, he gestures to a blue-plastic chair inside the office and rounds the desk to his side. “Seriously, though, it sounds like we’re on the same team.”

“How so?”

“I’m kind of a grammar nerd myself.”

Maybe this guy never needs to play good cop, bad cop. He simply makes his suspect so comfortable they drop their guard and confess. In fact, I’m almost tempted to mention...

“I mean,” he continues, “not to your level, I’m sure.”

Interesting. A wee bit of verbal backtracking. A slight pinking of the tips of his ears. Shyness? Humility?

“Anyway, enough about me,” he says, sweeping a lock of hair off his forehead.

“Actually, Lieutenant Hayes—Wyatt—this interview is all about you.”

He laughs.

Ha! Look at me go!

“Where should we start?” he asks.

I gesture to the frame on the bookcase behind him. “Is that your dog?” Seems as good a place to begin as any. Except ...oh no. A sinking sensation grips my gut, and I push my glasses farther up my nose. As overdue as I am for a new prescription, I can only pray I’ve correctly identified the hairy subject pictured with him as being of the canine persuasion. What if it’s his wife?

Would a wife let him go too long between haircuts or step out the door with his uniform collar curling up like that? I would never.

Cool it, Montgomery.

Lieutenant Hayes sweeps the photo with a loving glance as he hands it to me. “Ah. This is Moby. Total goof.” Dog, thank goodness.

“What a sweet face,” I say. The animal’s bright brown eyes arehalf hidden behind dark curls. Shaggy, not unlike his human. “Must be some kind of a thing-a-doodle.”

“Right. Mostly labradoodle. Believe it or not, he was a rescue. Bad situation. Found him wandering around a meth lab in Seattle, practically skeletal.”

“Aww. And yet he’s smiling.” The photo captures the two of them in side-by-side grins. “Is that where you’re from? Seattle?” I reach for my notebook and pen.

“Oh, he definitely smiles.” The lieutenant props the photo on a corner of his desk, then half-guzzles his can of sparkling water. “Shoot, where are my manners?” He crosses the room toward a kitchenette. “I should have brewed some coffee.” He opens the undercounter minifridge. “Got some pop in here, though. Or would you like some of this fizzy water stuff—”

“I’m fine, really. I’m good.”

“Anyway, yeah,” he says, dropping into his chair, “so I was in Seattle for a good bit. But as to where Icome from...” Here he smiles. “That’d be Salem.”

I stop writing, tilt my head. “As in, Salem, Oregon? That’s where I’m from too.”