She had used the word, squirming as I questioned her about Vorobeichik. ‘I don’t remember, didn’t see, don’t know. I don’t feel comfortable talking about such things out loud. My conscience will be nagging me for talking about such things on my own with a man.’
I raised my voice and said sternly that we were talking about the death of a person. Who should at least be remembered kindly. And that I wasn’t a man to her. I was an investigator, an officer in the Soviet police force. Or was she unaware that justice must prevail? With or without remorse.
And she let that “nix” pass her painted lips with such relish that I remember it even now, and shudder.
The third point went effectively unanswered.
In response to a direct hint that Lyuba might have developed feelings for Petro, even though
