RANSVESTIA

rather than going out. "I believe she is out," her voice was almost a whisper. "I can take a message."

"Ah," Hamilton considered for a moment. "Yes, very well then. I am Sergeant Tyler Hamilton of the Homicide Squad." He waited while the woman's eyes opened wide to read his I.D. card. “I wish to talk to Mrs. Lucas about a murder last night in Mrs. Vane's apartment."

The woman's expertly made-up eyes registered great shock. She nervously clutched at her gloves. Wide-eyed she looked at Hamilton. Mentally comparing the description of Mrs. Vane and the woman before him now, Hamilton said quietly, “You are Mrs. Vane, aren't you?"

The look in the woman's eyes told its own story. With the exper- tise of long practice, Hamilton ushered the woman into the house through the wide hallway and into a tastefully furnished living room, where, with his overcoat removed, and ensconced in a leather rocker, he tried to set his target at ease. The woman opposite him, however, her dark blue, two-piece suit buttoned up to reveal only the collar of a white silk blouse, was so obviously ill at ease that Hamilton decided to be as indirect as possible.

"You work here for the Lucases?" he queried. She shook her head, her eyes downcast on her high heeled, dark blue, suede shoes.

"Perhaps you could explain your relationship to them?" his gen- tle query was met by a tense licking of her well-shaped reddened lips. "Th-they are friends of mine," she whispered tensely.

Hamilton nodded. Many questions flooded his mind, but it was time to press his case further. He reached into his pocket, extracted a photograph of the murder victim, and held it out to his companion.

"Perhaps you recognize the person in this photograph," he said.

She took the photo. The shock ravaged her face. Tears formed in- stantly in her eyes and she looked around desperately for a hand bag or something to wipe her eyes. Hamilton quickly proffered his handkerchief.

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