Stray Bullets by Robert Rotenberg Page B

desk jammed into one corner and a steel chair in front of it. A mop and bucket were in the other corner.
    “This is most terrible tragedy,” Mrs. Yuen said the moment she’d closed the door behind him. “Poor family.”
    Above the desk Greene saw a formal photograph of a much younger-looking Mr. and Mrs. Yuen, with two daughters by their side. They were flanked by two older sets of parents. Also on the wall werefour cheaply framed “Certificates of Excellence” from Tim Hortons headquarters, congratulating the Yuens on their work as “Top Franchisees.”
    “We put life saving into business,” Mrs. Yuen said. “Have won many award. Follow every rule in franchise agreement. This very clean store. We work every day. Seven days every week. We are Hong Kong Chinese. Parents care for children. What happen now?”
    The words spurted out from the woman like water bursting through a hole in a dam.
    “In my experience, people tend to forget this kind of tragedy very quickly,” Greene said. “Your business might suffer for a few days, but I hope not long after that.”
    Husband and wife traded looks.
    “The best thing you can do is help us with our investigation,” Greene continued.
    “Yes,” Yuen said. “My husband and I both pass citizenship exam with perfect mark. He no speak English much but he read very well. No problem with police ever.”
    Greene smiled and pulled out a sheaf of papers from the thin briefcase that he usually carried with him. “These are the initial statements taken by the police two nights ago. We interviewed every employee and customer we could find. The manager on duty said neither of you were here.”
    The couple looked at each other again. “My husband insist we both leave for two daughter ballet recital. First time in three year we not here during day.”
    “My father came to this country with nothing,” Greene said. Young cops were taught at Police College to never reveal personal information about themselves to the public. They were supposed to remain cool and aloof. Greene broke the rule all the time. “He made many sacrifices, but he never sacrificed his family. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
    Mr. Yuen looked at Greene and smiled.
    “One of your employees, Jose Sanchez, we can’t find him. I understand he was the baker.”
    “Donuts not baked at this location,” Mrs. Yuen said. “Dough made at factory. Delivered five thirty in morning and we reheat. Everything preset so real chef not required. We pay minimum wage. Not look very carefully at qualification.”
    Or their immigration status, Greene thought. Everyone had theirown fears when the police showed up, and he could see Mrs. Yuen break into a sweat. The air in the small room felt close.
    “I’m not from the Labour Department. Or the Immigration Department. My only concern is this murder investigation. Did Mr. Sanchez show up to work today?”
    “No. And no call. Tried to reach through cellular telephone many time. No answer.”
    He reached back in his case and pulled out a file. “I’ve looked at his employment records you gave Officer Kennicott.”
    “Yes,” she said.
    Greene sat in the chair and opened the file. It had almost nothing in it. Jose Sanchez, or whoever he was, claimed to be twenty-eight years old and born in Lisbon, Portugal; had a high school education; had experience as a chef and a baker working in restaurants; spoke English, Portuguese, French, Italian, and Spanish; and came to Canada six years ago. He was hired seven months before, passed his three-month probation period, and was now a full-time employee. The only piece of identification he’d given was a photocopy of a social security card with his name on it. No picture. Greene was sure it would be a fake. They were ridiculously easy to get.
    “He said that he spoke five languages.”
    “Talk to many customer,” Mrs. Yuen said. “We speak only English and Cantonese. He very good worker.”
    “I don’t imagine you ever saw where he