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Gurnov followed a crushed-rock path that wound through the snow-covered park-like area and out to the boardwalk. A stiff wind was coming down the Delaware River. The cold cut to his bones.
As he walked his eyes scanned the area. He did not notice another soul anywhere.
He approached the dog park. It had artificial turf, a series of wooden ramps for exercise, and an oversized red plastic fire hydrant in its center. It was surrounded by a four-foot-high fence, in each corner of which was a pole that held a plastic bag dispenser and, below that, a trash receptacle.
He walked toward the closest pole,
took one of the small bags—I cannot believe I’m doing this—and tied it to the handle. Then, turning up the collar of his coat, he walked to the boardwalk and out on the short pier.
It, not at all surprisingly, also was deserted.
And colder, if that’s possible.
He passed a series of iron benches, then came to the end of the pier. There, next to the last bench, he saw the heavy metal trashcan. It was square, with a horizontal slit on each side just below its flat top.
A gust of wind blew, and he stepped quickly to the can.
He tried stuffing the bag into one of the horizontal slits. It would not fit.
Damn it!
His hands bare, he moved around the stacks of cash, then folded the bag over and tried shoving it in the slit. It still did not fit.
He looked at it for a long moment, considered throwing the cash bundles in loose, then decided against that. Then he grabbed the slit—the cold metal almost burning his bare skin—and with some effort pulled up the heavy lid, tilting it. He shoved the bag in through the gap, then dropped the lid back in place with a loud clang.
What if she cannot get that out . . . and if she does, then I have to dig out the bag she puts in?
Damn this!
The wind gusted again.
He turned his back to it, crouched, and tried to light a cigarette. It took three tries, but he finally had it going. He stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets and started off the pier.
—
Matt Payne had already started to open his door as Jim Byrth brought the SUV to a skidding stop in the casino parking lot. They both jumped out. Then Byrth gave Payne a thumbs-up gesture as they heard the faint wop-wop-wop of the rotor blades of the police helicopter coming from the direction of Northeast Airport.
When Payne had called in for backup, Kerry Rapier said he also would alert the Aviation Unit to have Air Tac One circling nearby.
“That helo will light up the place like it’s daytime,” Rapier had said.
Byrth and Payne, guns drawn and staying in the shadows, began running toward the river. As they’d planned in the SUV after pulling away from the Fishtown dive bar, Byrth moved southward, to the far side of where the pier went out from the boardwalk, and Payne to the north.
—
After a ten-minute circle of the parking lot, Dmitri Gurnov flicked the butt of his third cigarette into the dog park.
And then he noticed a man standing on the boardwalk. The man held one of the casino’s bags.
And then Gurnov recognized what was tied to its handle.
I will be damned! He has the money!
He reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out the Sig 9mm.
As he approached the man, he raised his pistol.
He heard someone behind him yell.
