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“You should see this, too. Especially if you are planning to be around him, Counselor.”

“To reiterate, I am Camilla Rose’s lawyer,” Grosse said as he watched Payne pulling out his cellular telephone. “Mr. Austin has his own, other representation.”

Payne nodded, then brought up the photograph he had taken of the message on the coal tower wall. He held the phone out toward them.

“Where the hell is that?” Austin said.

“We came across it at the crime scene with the two guys we were told were responsible for killing Kenny Benson.”

Austin looked back at the phone.

“I got lucky? Damn near dying is lucky? Just look at me!”

“We also were told that there may be another hit.”

“On me?”

“We don’t know.”

Austin looked at Grosse, then at Payne, and said, “Those two guys. You get them to confess? They say why they did it?”

Payne shook his head. “Dead guys don’t talk.”

Payne had an image that combined only their heads—the faces, side by side, were contorted but did not reveal the abuse—and showed it to Austin.

“Recognize either of them?” Payne said, studying him.

“No. Who are they?”

Payne saw that Austin stared at it stone-faced. He detected no reaction. Grosse, when Payne looked at him, shook his head.

“We’re working on that,” Payne said, putting away the phone.

“How did you find them?” Austin said.

“It’s what we do.”

Austin looked at him. “Real smart-ass, aren’t you? How do you know for sure they’re the ones?”

Payne didn’t answer.

“Okay, so what was used to write that message about me?” Austin said.

“A high-pressure industrial power washer. It was also used to shred the skin off the shooters.”

“Jesus,” Grosse said in a low voice.

Austin was quiet. He appeared to lose color in his face.

“The question now is,” Payne said, “were you the target? Or both you and Kenny Benson?”

“How the hell would I know?” Austin said, looking him in the eye.

Payne did not flinch.

But you do know, you sonofabitch. You know something.

Time to play a hunch . . .