Prologue
It’s been eight years since my family fell apart.
First, my father, an NYPD cop was shot down in an abandoned warehouse. Murdered. Slaughtered. Eight months later, my mother followed, claimed by cancer. Or maybe by grief.
The person, or people, behind my father’s killing were never found. The detectives said it must have been someone he had crossed, someone he had arrested and put away.
Five years after that, I stumbled on a key and a black leather notebook. The final entry read only: Ga, 9 p.m., 4110 1st Ave.
Maybe it means something. Maybe it means nothing.
