Page 357 of Devil’s Disciples

I wasn’t thrilled about a five-month-old head being parked in my driveway. I’d chosen to relocate to the beachfront getaway to stay one step ahead of the police, not give them an invitation to raid my home for evidence.

I drank the shot in one gulp and wiped my mouth on the back of my hand. “You don’t say? Any idea where the rest of him is?”

He looked like he was going to puke. “Hands and feet are in there, too.”

I swallowed a mouthful of bile. “What about the rest?”

“There’s only one more piece,” he said. “Cash has got it in the bed of his truck.”

I suspected at ground level it smelled pretty fucking ripe. Luckily, the fifteen pots of freshly-planted marigolds were keeping the roofline from falling victim to the dead cop’s stench.

“All the fucking cops will have to do is follow the trail of swarming flies,” I muttered. “What the fuck were you thinking, Bake? Coming here?”

“Last I remember, you said you wanted to be involved,” he grunted. “Consider yourself involved. And, for what it’s worth, it doesn’t stink.”

“According to who?” I asked. “All that hair on your face is blocking your nose. The son-of-a-bitch has been dead for five months. Depending on where’s he’s been—”

“Encased in concrete.”

I was impressed. Not a lot, but for having Cash involved, I felt that I should at least pat him on the shoulder the next time we saw each other.

“All of it?” I asked.

“All the pieces I brought. That poor Shovel’s weighed down pretty good.”

I closed my eyes and drew a slow breath through my nose. The marigold’s pungent odor was something I’d grown to enjoy. I’d purchased them because of their ability to withstand the full sunlight of the roof deck and to ward off insects.

They, like Baker’s Shovelhead, were a simple reminder that not all of nature’s beauty appealed to every one of a man’s five senses.

“What are you thinking you’re going to do with ‘em?” I asked.

He glanced around the roof deck and then met my gaze. “Can’t have ‘em at the shop, we know they got a warrant for that place once, and they’ll get another if they need to. If they know where you live, they know where all of us live. Only place I can think of, until we decide what’s best, is to leave them here.”

“No,” I snapped.

“Goose,” he pleaded. “It’s the only safe place.”

I widened my eyes. “Safe? Leaving a cop’s body parts here isn’t safe.”

“This place probably isn’t even in Ghost’s name yet. Hell, there wasn’t enough time to get the deed transferred before he died. I doubt they even know Ghost was living here. They damned sure won’t be able to get a warrant in Abby’s name. I think this is the only logical place to leave ‘em.”

My natural response was no. Thinking about matters logically told me he was right. Leaving the chunks of concrete anywhere in public would make them free reign for the cops. Having them on a piece of property required a warrant.

Getting a warrant for a piece of property that wasn’t in my name would be impossible. Leaving them would be the only logical thing to do.

I forced a sigh. “You’re right.”

“Where are we going to put them?” he asked.

“What do they look like?”

He chuckled. “Chunks of concrete.”

“God damn it,” I complained. “Are they shaped like a wad of shit, a sphere, a triangle, what?”

“Perfect squares,” he said. “He formed them up with wood.”

“How perfect?”