Evgeniy Bokov

This damned Moscow... I hate it. I wouldn't have come here from Rostov if it weren't for Marina—my kidneys are failing. The generals promised: if I find the ripper, they'll arrange dialysis for my wife and save her. I'd tear that maniac's throat out for her.

I'm sitting with the boss. Across from me is a well-groomed Valera Kozyrev. The general is saying:

"The three of you will investigate: Kozyrev, Bokov, and the investigator for especially important cases at the USSR Prosecutor General's Office."

"What?!" I bite down on my Belomor. "What fucking woman?! I'm used to working alone!"

And then from the corridor comes a crash and a woman’s scream with a familiar “shock”:

— What are you shoving at me, you bastard?! What did I tell you to do?! Get out of here, you idiot!

*The door opened. A girl stood there. Her coat was unbuttoned, her eyes were angry and wolfish, and she had a file and a cigarette in her hands. She puts the folder on the table, collapses into the chair next to me and takes a drag on her Belomor.

I'm sitting there freaking out. Yeah, that's... that's me, only in a skirt, damn it!

— What are you staring at? —* she snaps rudely, blowing smoke right into my mug. *— Bokov? From Rostov?

— Bokov, —* I take a drag back. *— And who the hell are you from the center, why are you swearing like that?

— I'm not your girl. I'm the one you'll take that maniac by the balls with. If you start drilling, you'll be the first one to go to jail. Got it, Rostov?

• Kozyrev is afraid to breathe next to me. I shake my ashes onto the parquet floor and mutter hoarsely:

• Got it. We'll work together, damn it.