Tony wanted Wyatt to work for his agency, but on one condition. He didn’t want Wyatt to get his New York State private investigator’s license. Because of complications with reciprocity agreements, it limited the ability of a P.I. licensed in New York to follow cases outside of the state, and Tony didn’t like subcontracting so much.

No, Tony wanted Wyatt to work on cases as a freelance investigative journalist, saying he was working on a possible story. He could gather information the same way he always had, but instead of a story, Wyatt would write a report for Tony’s agency. The job could take him anywhere, expenses would be covered, and the pay would be good.

But Wyatt was reluctant to accept. The ambiguity of it troubled him. Being a journalist was written in his DNA, and this kind of subterfuge put him on thin ice ethically, eroding his integrity.

And that’s pretty much all I have left these days.

Wyatt looked at the bills.

It was coming up on four months since he’d been laid off from First Press Alliance. He’d sent out résumés, used online sites. He had mild interest from Reuters, Bloomberg, the Wall Street Journal, and a few papers across the country, but none of it had gone anywhere. The truth was, at this moment, nobody was hiring because everybody was hurting. The news industry was under siege; the Internet continued exacting a toll.

Now, at 42, and with more than 20 years in the business, Wyatt feared his dream job of being a reporter, the one he’d worked all his life to achieve, was coming to an end in every way. He’d started writing a mystery novel about a reporter chasing the cover-up of a murder, but had gotten bogged down.

Wyatt could survive a few more months on his Alliance severance money. And there was the insurance settlement from Lisa’s death, but Wyatt could never bring himself to use it.

That money was always going to go to Danny’s college fund.

Wyatt continued staring at Tony’s last email.

It wouldn’t hurt to have coffee with him, discuss his offer.

His finger hovered over the screen, ready to press Tony’s number, when his phone started ringing with a number he didn’t recognize.

“Is this Ray Wyatt?”

“Yes.”

“Formerly with First Press Alliance?”

Wyatt didn’t recognize the male voice; the guy sounded like a teen.

“Yes. Who’s calling?”

“Ray, this is Chase Lockner, managing editor of True Signal News in New York. We’re an online news company.”

“I’m familiar with it.”

“I’d like to talk to you about a job with us. A reporting job.”

CHAPTER 12

Manhattan, New York City

“Samantha Victoria Moore, age twenty, from Queens,” Chase Lockner said.

Lockner turned his phone to Wyatt, showing him the Boston Globe’s feature on her case.