Five-Ring Circus by Jon Cleary Page B

them?”
    â€œI’d close the door. They don’t pay you for being a hero. Welfare doesn’t stretch that far.”
    â€œIt’s been a pleasure meeting you two gentlemen,” said Sheryl, rising. “If anyone comes around asking questions about Mr. Zhang, get in touch with Sergeant Napolani, will you? In the meantime, who are the agents for the flats?”
    Kip named them. “They’re just off Campbell Parade. They’ve probably already got the flat listed for rent again.”
    â€œYou’re a cynical lot, you Maoris,” said Napolani.
    â€œWe learned it from the pakeha.”
    Gail and Sheryl, in an unmarked car, followed Napolani in his unmarked car down the hill and to a street that ran off the esplanade. Napolani pulled into a zone reserved for disabled drivers and Sheryl squeezed the second car in behind it. At once, as always, a parking officer, another Maori by the look of him, was standing at the kerb, charge-book in hand.
    â€œI take it youse can read?” He nodded at the sign.
    Sheryl produced her badge. “We’ve got to get our daily quota, just like you. You want us to pinch you?”
    He held up both hands in surrender. “I was just standing here minding my own business, officer . . . How long you gunna be?”
    â€œTen minutes, the most,” said Napolani, coming up behind the parking officer. “G’day, Charlie, we’ve got some business across the road. We’ll limp across there if you want us to be disabled.”
    â€œWhat’m I gunna do if some little old lady on crutches turns up? Okay, but make it quick.”
    The man behind the counter in the estate agency was more welcoming; he thought they were prospective buyers till Napolani showed him his badge. “There’s been what ? A murder? In one of our properties? Oh Jesus, that’s going to be a dead loss for a coupla months.”
    Napolani gave him the bare details.
    â€œ I can’t remember everyone on our books—what’d you say his name was? Zhang?”
    â€œYou have a lot of Chinese tenants?” said Gail.
    â€œWell, no, not a lot.” He was a young man who looked as if he might never sit down; he kept moving from foot to foot, his hands played a noiseless tune on the counter. He wore a bright white shirt and a tie that lay on his chest like a limp bouquet. Behind him two girls at computers had stopped to listen to the talk of, migod, murder! They couldn’t wait to put it on the real estate Internet. “We got thirty or forty blocks of flats on our books, Chinese tenants come and go. Bondi, you know, it’s sorta transient, people come and go.”
    â€œAll the blocks of flats,” said Gail, “who owns them? Particularly Mr. Zhang’s block?”
    The young man looked over his shoulder at one of the girls, who instantly punched her computer keys. Then she said, “It’s one of half a dozen blocks owned by the same man. Mr. Feng. Mr. Charles Feng.”
    â€œWhere does Mr. Feng live?”
    The girl glanced at her computer again. “He has two addresses. One in Chinatown and the other out at Drummoyne. We send the rent cheques to Drummoyne.” She gave a street address.
    Gail Lee and Sheryl Dallen exchanged glances and Napolani caught the look. But he asked no question, just said to the young man, “I’ll be back in a minute—”
    â€œLook, I’m busy—”
    â€œSo’m I.” Napolani followed the two women out of the agency. “What’s on? Who’s Mr. Feng?”
    â€œHe was one of the three men shot last night at the Golden Gate,” said Gail.
    III
    â€œMaybe it’s the wrong time,” said Gail Lee.
    â€œThere’s never a right time for this sort of thing,” said Malone.
    Gail and Sheryl Dallen had reported back to Homicide from Bondi. Sheryl had been told to go off duty but to remain on call. Malone and Gail had driven out to