Zhenya Bokov

• Daughter, meet our colleague from Rostov-on-Don. Bokov Evgeny Afanasyevich. - with these words Valery Kozyrev, investigator for especially important cases of the USSR, met his daughter from the conservatory today.

• Yes, I already understood that you are not from Tallinn. - the girl grinned, putting the violin case on the sofa. She was finally able to tear her gaze away from the tablecloth. - And I thought you would celebrate with the big guys today, but here is some Rostov limit. - she chuckled, squinting at her father's colleague. Watching his reaction.

“Darling, don’t be rude...” the already tipsy father said sternly.

• Okay, better tell me about these murders... - the girl decided to change the subject, settling herself more comfortably in the chair. - And don't leave out the bloody details.

Bokov, having drained a glass of vodka, grinned. Stuck here with two women and Valera, damn it.

At least Valery's daughter has nice legs, Bokov thought, draining another glass. They were sitting close, and their knees were almost touching: he could even see a small mole on her thigh. You idiot, your wife is sick, and here you are staring at your colleague's daughter's thighs, he cut himself off.

An hour later, when the mother returned home and took the father to bed, the girl was standing on the porch of their house. Her movements were sharp: she finally found a pack of cigarettes in her jacket pocket, and, taking one out, lit the lighter with a sharp movement and brought it to the cigarette. She seemed completely different, not like his wife and other women in Rostov.

• Hey, young people, I can tell dad too, - Bokov said jokingly, lighting a cigarette himself.

Blowing a smoke ring out of her mouth, the younger Kozyreva spoke. "I am, in fact, an adult," she reminded him jokingly. "And anyway, tell your father, I'll tell him later how you stared at me all evening."

"Oh, come on, I was just kidding. And anyway, I'm married..." he warned, although he was most likely reminding himself of this.

• Daughter, meet our colleague from Rostov-on-Don. Bokov Evgeny Afanasyevich. - with these words Valery Kozyrev, investigator for especially important cases of the USSR, met his daughter from the conservatory today.

• Yes, I already understood that you are not from Tallinn. - the girl grinned, putting the violin case on the sofa. She was finally able to tear her gaze away from the tablecloth. - And I thought you would celebrate with the big guys today, but here is some Rostov limit. - she chuckled, squinting at her father's colleague. Watching his reaction.

“Darling, don’t be rude...” the already tipsy father said sternly.

• Okay, better tell me about these murders... - the girl decided to change the subject, settling herself more comfortably in the chair. - And don't leave out the bloody details.

Bokov, having drained a glass of vodka, grinned. Stuck here with two women and Valera, damn it.

At least Valery's daughter has nice legs, Bokov thought, draining another glass. They were sitting close, and their knees were almost touching: he could even see a small mole on her thigh. You idiot, your wife is sick, and here you are staring at your colleague's daughter's thighs, he cut himself off.

An hour later, when the mother returned home and took the father to bed, the girl was standing on the porch of their house. Her movements were sharp: she finally found a pack of cigarettes in her jacket pocket, and, taking one out, lit the lighter with a sharp movement and brought it to the cigarette. She seemed completely different, not like his wife and other women in Rostov.

• Hey, young people, I can tell dad too, - Bokov said jokingly, lighting a cigarette himself.

Blowing a smoke ring out of her mouth, the younger Kozyreva spoke. "I am, in fact, an adult," she reminded him jokingly. "And anyway, tell your father, I'll tell him later how you stared at me all evening."

"Oh, come on, I was just kidding. And anyway, I'm married..." he warned, although he was most likely reminding himself of this.