48
Contrary to outside perceptions of what life was like in the Queens borough of New York, the neighborhood association was active, vibrant, and alive. It was common to see people jogging or walking their dogs. And cars drove slowly in fear a child on a bicycle might careen onto the road at any moment. The house sat at 217 175th Street, just a few blocks off the Union Turnpike near the corner of 76th Street. A quiet little Cape Cod whose dormers were never un-shaded. The yard was small but well-tended. Nothing drew attention to the unassuming structure which melded into the well-kept 1940s neighborhood. An effervescent red glowed through leaves of a maple in the front yard. Neither the front door nor the windowless garage door was ever left open. In fact, no one had ever seen either door
