A/N: This was supposed to be a one-shot. So far, I have seven chapters written with a total of over 10,000 words. We'll see where this goes.
I try to keep the characters acting like themselves, but I will shamelessly admit that I take great pleasure in meddling.

"I'm a hard worker, and I'm discreet."

Karen Vick took her time sizing up the girl seated opposite her desk. "Discreet?"

Deep breath. "I mean to say that I don't go telling work stories to impress my friends. Delicate situations at the office stay at the office." The chief began tapping her fingers on the desk. "To be completely honest, I know that things may happen here at the station that you don't want the general public knowing about until you can control the information, and you can trust me to keep silent."

"Just what do you mean by 'control the information?'"

Backpedal, backpedal! "Only that in order to be effective at keeping the peace, you need to maintain an image of control at all times. Even when you're not sure you have a handle on everything." Vick leaned back in her chair, visibly more relaxed. Time to move forward again. "I appreciate that completely, and I would never contradict that image to anyone."

The chief glanced back down at the small stack of papers on her desk. "You have a doctorate in psychology and a masters in criminal justice. Why, may I ask, are you currently unemployed?"

The woman smiled sheepishly. "I don't want to teach, and nobody is really hiring right now. Most police departments aren't looking for a full-time staff psychiatrist..."

"Which is why you're offering your services as a secretary?" Chief Vick smiled a little wryly. "Tough break, Miss Scott. Your recommendations are outstanding. I wish we were looking for a psychiatrist, but we already have one we hire when needed." She studied the résumé for another long minute, the applicant's stomach churning nervously. Finally, the chief stood. "Welcome to the Santa Barbara Police Department."

...

"Usually it's people calling in tips, or calling to talk to someone else in the station. You know how to direct calls?" The new hiree nodded enthusiastically. "Great. Anything you're not sure of, you direct to one of the officers or to the detectives." The female officer smiled shortly at the new secretary. "Other than that, you'll probably be running copies, shredding old documents, that sort of thing." A quick glance around the reception, then, "Good luck."

Melody Scott watched the retreating figure of the officer for a moment, then turned her attention to the desk in front of her. Its contents: a telephone, a desk calendar, a pack of post-it notes, and a mug full of half-chewed pencils and a lone blue pen. Delightful. She planted herself in the chair and set her purse on the desktop, wincing at the high-pitched squeal of the chair's back adjusting to her presence. She pulled out a package of new pencils, a small framed picture, and an antique-looking engraved pen just before the phone rang. Well, here goes nothing. "Santa Barbara Police Department, how may I help you?"

"I'd like to speak to Officer McNab, please. This is his wife." The voice on the other end of the line was warm, easy. It was no emergency call; Melody guessed that Officer McNab would be happy to hear from his wife.

"Just a moment please, I'll direct your call." One quick glance at the desktop, then another more critical look. There was no list of extensions anywhere to be found. Presumably the cop who had answered phones before Melody had known them all. Whoops. "Umm, pardon me Mrs. McNab, but you wouldn't happen to know your husband's extension, would you?"

A light laugh. "I thought your voice was unfamiliar. First day on the job?"

"More like first minute," Melody admitted with a tinge of embarrassment that she hoped wasn't evident over the phone. "I'm really sorry about this."

"Oh, don't be! I think his extension is 133."

A wave of relief washed over the secretary. "Thank you, just a moment." She placed the woman on hold, dialed the extension and buzzed the desk. "Officer McNab?"

A goofy-looking officer in the corner of Melody's vision picked up his phone. "Yes?"

"Your wife is on line one."

A wide grin broke out across the officer's face. "Great! Thanks!" Melody hung up just as McNab connected with his wife, feeling a great sense of accomplishment. This was immediately followed by another flush of embarrassment, and quickly she jotted down a note to ask the last officer who had phone duty for a list of all the station extensions.

Leaning back in her squeaky chair, Melody surveyed the station. It was eight thirty AM; nothing was really happening in Santa Barbara at the moment. Might as well do secretarial things. The woman rose from her chair and went in search of the coffee maker. She eventually found it, half empty and cold with little bits of lint beginning to float at the top. Melody wrinkled her nose and took the pot to a nearby sink, emptying it and scrubbing it quickly for good measure. She returned to the coffee maker with a pot of water at the ready. The machine was a bit old, but straightforward enough as far as preparations went. The girl set to work making coffee, not paying attention to the sound of footsteps behind her.

...

The first thing Detective Lassiter noticed was the smell of ground coffee. This confused him, for a variety of reasons. First, he was usually the one to make a new pot of coffee in the mornings, unless O'Hara got to the station before him, which was something Lassiter made sure did not happen frequently. Second, he had a cold and hadn't been able to smell anything for a week. This had also made him unbearably grumpy and short with everyone on staff, including his partner; enough so that the Junior Detective had requested today off so she could build up her "Carlton immunity," as she so delicately put it. So two strikes against O'Hara making coffee.

The second thing Lassiter noticed was the humming. Someone was very clearly humming, which was just not something that was done around the station. Upon further investigation, it was country music. A song that Carlton had heard once on a radio station in someone else's car, right before he had written a ticket for the driver. Puzzled, he rounded the corner to the coffee maker and stopped in his tracks.

Light brown hair held back by a black headband, brushing just past shoulders covered by a dark blue knitted top. A pleated, brown knee-length skirt outlined curves in just the right way. Destroying the womanly image was a pair of childish, flat, denim-looking shoes with bows on the tops. Carlton would have choked on his coffee if he'd had any to choke on.

Coffee. This girl was making coffee. This girl that he had never seen before was in the Santa Barbara Police Station, tampering with the Law Enforcement's coffee. Lassiter snapped back into detective mode. "Can I help you?" It came out more accusing than intended.

The girl jumped, startled, and turned around to face the detective. Carlton found himself staring into a pair of deep blue eyes behind squareish-framed glasses and lost his train of thought again momentarily. He cleared his throat. "Who exactly are you, and why are you making coffee?"

Melody felt her face flush. "I'm sorry, um, I'm Melody." His eyes were crystal clear blue. "Melody Scott." He stood almost a head taller than her. "I'm the new secretary." God, was he always this intense? "I was just making coffee?" Brilliant. It has been established that coffee is being made.

Lassiter blinked. "Secretary?" Finally, he regained control of his head. "Well. All right then. Keep up the good work." He turned and walked to his desk. Keep up the good work? The hell was that? Carlton sat down and began to occupy himself with the cases still on his desk from the day before. It wasn't until he had rearranged all the pencils in his mug that he realized he hadn't introduced himself.