Dressed to Kill. - assassination-

Stepan Ilkovich, as known as Still, as known as Doloto, as known as Step, as known as Stiopa-Opa, as known as Major Hortovenko, got into hot waters. Yesterday's hasty evacuation from the Emochka's bedroom  (it's good that they didn't came across with Arkady Borisovich, this holy man) was only a prelude to the morning events.

Early in the morning they called him to the scene. There was homicide. On the terrace of his own house in a rocking chair they found the body of a well-known man in the city Gurenko, the former first secretary of the Zhytomyr regional committee of the Communist party. The coroner found that he was killed by a single shot to the forehead at about eleven o'clock at night. Nobody heard the shot. Likely it was a bullet from a sniper rifle with a silencer. Surely it's been a contract killing. What a fuck!

Ce la vie. A man came out of the bedroom to smoke a cigar on the terrace, sat down in a rocking chair, and here we are. Who ordered your killing, Comrade Gurenko?

Stepan Ilkovich launched thin pianist fingers into thick, slightly gray curly hair. He starts recollecting yesterday's embarrassment. Luckily Innusya heard the water gurgling in the bathroom . At first he thought Emma was back. He looked out into the corridor. Noticed the suitcase and case AB. His heart sank a little. Quickly dressed. Major Hortovenko made the bed with professional movements. They came out on tiptoe. The water no longer gurgled in the bathroom. Stephan listened. A thin ear caught the splash of water, and a thin sense the smell of sherry. He closed the door quietly. They vanished into thin air. God bless you, Major Hortovenko! Thanks a lot Mr.God!!!

"Oh, Miss Inna, Miss Inna, what a golden bell you are," Stiopa-Opa mentally recited. Do you think that only psychopaths fall into the trail? There are different people. There are even such aesthetes in it as Stepko Khortovenko, a former student-philologist of the first Mohyla Academy graduates.

The phone was charging. The battery has already sat down from the flurry of calls. The entire former partner nomenklatura wanted to know how the investigation into the assassination of their former party boss was going on. The body is still at autopsy, foolish bastards. Investigation?. Contract killing. Hang on!. No traces at all!

The cell phone rang again. The major rose slowly. Approached. Emma's number appeared on the display.

- Stefan, you're blood bastard, what a fuck you're doing? Emma's angry voice was heard.
- What happens, dear Emmie?
- Emmie? Are you crazy? Are you fucking whores in my bed?
- Whores?" What are you talking about? - he sounds like the embodiment of innocence.
- Stefan, you are dead!"


That was the end of the call. Stepan Ilkovich approached the safe, took a bottle of unfinished whiskey, poured half a glass and started sipping it.