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"They probably ate tainted fish on whatever deserted island they hung out on," said Pitt, tiring of the game. "How would I know? If you want a scenario, hire a screenwriter."
The interest in Victor's eyes blinked out. He relaxed in his chair and sighed dejectedly. "I thought for a second you might have something, a gimmick that could get me and the department off the hook. But your theory went down the drain like all the others."
"I'm not surprised," said Pitt with an indifferent grin.
"How were you able to switch off the power within seconds of entering the control car?" Victor asked, bringing the interrogation back on track.
"After piloting twenty different aircraft during service in the Air Force and civilian life, I knew where to look."
Victor appeared satisfied. "One more question, Mr. Pitt. When you first spotted the blimp, from what direction was she flying?"
"She was drifting with the wind out of the northeast."
Victor reached over and turned off the recorder. "That should do it. Can I reach you at your office number during the day?"
"If I'm not there, my secretary can track me down."
"Thank you for your help."
"Nothing substantial, I'm afraid," said Pitt.
"We have to pull on every thread. Lots of pressure with LeBaron being the bigshot that he was. This has to be the weirdest case the department's ever encountered."
"I don't envy you finding a solution." Pitt glanced at his watch and rose from his chair. "I'd better get a move on for the airport."
Victor stood and reached across the desk to shake hands. "If you should dream up another plot line, Mr. Pitt, please give me a call. I'm always interested in a good fantasy."
Pitt paused in the doorway and turned, a foxlike expression on his face. "You want a lead, Lieutenant?
Run this one up the flagpole. Airships need helium for their lift. An old antique like the Prosperteer must have required a couple hundred thousand cubic feet of gas to get her in the air. After a week, enough would have leaked out to keep her grounded. Do you follow?"
"Depends on where you're heading."
"There is no way the blimp could have materialized off Miami unless an experienced crew with the necessary supplies reinflated the hull forty-eight hours before."
Victor had the look of a man about to be baptized. "What are you suggesting?"
"That you look for a friendly neighborhood service station that can pump two hundred thousand cubic feet of helium."
Then Pitt turned into the hallway and was gone.
"I hate boats," Rooney grumbled. "I can't swim, can't float, and get seasick looking through the window of a washing machine."
Sheriff Sweat handed him a double martini. "Here, this will cure your hangups."
Rooney ruefully eyed the waters of the bay and drained half his drink. "You're not going out in the ocean, I hope."
"No, just a leisurely cruise around the bay." Sweat ducked into the forward cabin of his gleaming white fishing boat and turned over the engine. The single 260-horsepower turbocharged diesel knocked into life. Exhaust rumbled from the stern and the deck throbbed beneath their feet. Then Sweat cast off the lines and eased the boat away from the dock, threading through a maze of moored yachts to Biscayne Bay.
By the time the bow skipped past the channel buoys, Rooney was looking for a second drink. "Where do you keep the courage?"
"Down in the forward cabin. Help yourself. There's ice in the brass diver's helmet."
When Rooney resurfaced he asked, "What's this all about, Tyler? This is Sunday. You didn't drag me away from my season box in the middle of a good football game to show me Miami Beach from the water."
"Truth is, I heard you finished your report on the bodies from the blimp last night."
