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anything, except to charge crack sellers with seconddegree murder. Crack abusers died off eventually, if they didn't break the habit. But legislation like that was unlikely. He would select Sergeant Armando Quevedo and Detective Bob Levine for his committee. The three of them could go out for a few beers at Larry's Hideaway, kick the idea around, and then come up with a meaningless report of some kind. Hoke hadn't been out drinking with Quevedo and Levine for some months now, and this was a reasonable excuse to have a few beers and shoot the breeze with his old buddies. He was getting too housebound for his own good.
    It was unfair of Bill Henderson to make him the chairman, but Hoke didn't resent the appointment. He knew that if he had been in Henderson's position, he would have appointed the first man he happened to see, too. The idea was stupid in the first place. A committee like this one was just busywork, another public relations ploy the new chief could hand out to the media to make it look as if something were being done about drug abuse. Education didn't work, Hoke thought as he stubbed out his butt in the ashtray. He knew he shouldn't smoke, and he knew he shouldn't drink, but that hadn't stopped him from smoking and drinking. So far this year thirty-six Miamians had died from smoking crack, but crack use increased daily.
    Hoke returned to his office and slipped into his leisure suit jacket. He decided to drive over to the Metro Justice Building a little early because it was difficult to find a parking space over there. The phone rang.
    "Hoke," Ellita said, when he picked up the phone, "you know the house across the street, the run-down place that's been for sale for the last year?"
    "What about it?"
    "A man moved in this morning. They unloaded a van of furniture earlier, and the guy who moved in has a little Henry J. It looks like a brand-new car."
    "You must be mistaken, Ellita. They haven't made any Henry Js since the fifties."
    "It's a Henry J, Hoke, and it looks like a new one. After the van left, the man brought a dining room chair out to the lawn, and he's been sitting and staring over at our house for the last hour. The grass over there's a foot high, and he looks funny, just sitting there in a chair and staring at our house."
    "What about it? If he bought the house and moved in, he's entitled to sit on a chair on his front lawn, whether he mows it or not. I'm glad the house finally sold. Now someone'll have to take care of the yard."
    "I don't like it, Hoke. I know he can't see me, or anything like that, because I'm here inside. But every time I go to the front window and look over at him through the curtains, he's staring directly at our house. He's wearing a dark blue suit, and it must be ninety out there in the sun. It bothers me."
    "What do you expect me to do about it, Ellita? I've got to go to court this morning."
    "I thought maybe you could find out who he is."
    "Hell, you can do that yourself. Call the realtor and ask him. The sign out there was Paulson Realtor, wasn't it?"
    "I already called the realtor, and they let me talk to a Mrs. Anderson. She's the woman who handled the sale, but she wouldn't tell me anything. She said if I was interested, the neighborly thing to do would be to go over and introduce myself. Then if he wanted to talk about himself and why he bought the house, it would be up to him."
    "That seems reasonable, Ellita. Why don't you do that?"
    "I don't know. It's just that he looks so weird over there. Like a sitting statue or something. Wearing a blue suit."
    "Look, I've got to go to court. If you're afraid of him, take your pistol along--"
    "I'm not afraid of him. It's just that it looks--Never mind. If your case is continued again, will you come home for lunch?"
    "I don't know. I'll try to call you from the courthouse."
    As Hoke suspected it would be, the case was continued, although the angry judge said it would be the last time. The new lawyer, a young woman from the public