Counting to Infinity

by J. L. Abramo

  “Absolutely.”

  “Well, then,” Eddie said, “let’s start from there. It’s eight thirty. We have about ninety minutes before we need to be in front of Lansdale’s office building.”

  So, over more coffee and great homemade apple pie, we spent the next hour or so working up a strategy.

  The office of Lansdale and Sons was located on the 300 block of South Wacker, in the shadow of the Sears Tower. Eddie Hand had been watching the building for two days, since first getting a call from Tom Romano just before Darlene and I left for Santa Monica. Eddie drove us downtown in his Pontiac. I gazed out at Lake Michigan and could think of only two words to describe the lake.

  Very cold.

  “The last two mornings at exactly ten,” Eddie said, “Battle has come out of the building to pick up bagels at the shop across the street. If it’s not a daily ritual, it’s going to put a serious kink into our well-laid plans.”

  “No kidding,” was all I could come up with.

  Eddie pulled into a Standing Only parking spot in front of the deli at seven minutes before ten. He pulled an official-looking parking permit from the glove box and put it on the dashboard.

  “Stand over there, in the vestibule of the Payless shoe store,” Eddie said, pointing across Wacker. “When Battle comes out and starts across, get into the building. How much time do you think you’ll need with Lansdale?”

  “Can you give me fifteen minutes?”

  “I’ll give it my best shot.”

  “How are you going to delay Battle?”

  “Let me worry about that,” Eddie said, “get over to the shoe store.”

  It was two minutes after ten when Battle appeared, a very long two minutes. As curious as I was as to how Eddie was going to handle his end, I tore my attention away from Battle and quickly ducked into the office building.

  I checked the building directory and took the elevator to the twelfth floor.

  I was greeted in Lansdale’s office with a stunning smile from a woman who would have looked much more at home in front of lights and cameras than behind the large reception desk. Her teeth alone could have sold millions of tubes of Crest.

  “May I help you?” she asked, with a voice that I recognized from my call to Lansdale from San Francisco. Her voice alone could have sold anything.

  “I’m here to see Max. I’ll just go on in,” I said, and headed quickly to the door behind her before she could finish her protest.

  “Ah, Jake,” Max Lansdale said when I walked in, not seeming all that surprised to see me, “it’s too bad I just sent Ralph out for bagels. If I’d known you were coming, I would have asked him to bring you one.”

  I plunged into my speech before I forgot the gist of it.

  “Mr. Lansdale. I saw Stan Riddle while he was still able to talk, and he admitted that he had never actually bumped into Harrison Chandler. Riddle said he fabricated the story to separate you from a buck or two. Which means that I have no leads yet as to the whereabouts of Chandler, nor do I have confirmation that the man is alive. But the course of events has piqued my curiosity, so I’ll continue the investigation.”

  I took a short pause for emphasis.

  “However, the ground rules will have to change or you can go fuck yourself.”

  “My goodness, Jake, you are a constant amazement. I’m so disappointed that Ralph is missing part of this.”

  “I’m banking on Ralph missing all of it, and there’s not much time,” I said. “Hold the editorial and let me finish.”

  “By all means, Jake, continue.”

  “I’ll take you on as a client under my standard terms. Save your threats. Get over your big bully act, it doesn’t suit you. And leave the women out of it entirely, it’s a sign of weakness. Pick on someone your own size. Threatening the ladies won’t inspire me to work any harder, it only pisses me off. Give me some time and I guarantee that I’ll locate Chandler, if he’s alive. Fuck with my friends and I guarantee you’ll never find him.”

  “How can you be so sure, Jake? There are plenty of other private investigators out there.”

  “Sure, and you’ve used almost all of them the past eight years and found nothing. I’m the only one who has a chance of flushing Chandler out if he’s alive, and you know it or you wouldn’t have gone through all this trouble to coerce my help.”

  “I’ll grant you a little time, Diamond, and I’ll back off your girlfriends if it upsets you so much. But I would still like more than simply a money-back guarantee. I promise that if I’m dissatisfied, Ralph Battle’s face will be the last thing you ever see.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. “Give Ralph my best.”

  I walked out of Lansdale’s office. The cover-girl receptionist, Jill Ballard if the nameplate on her desk was any indication, showed her teeth again. I stopped at her side for a few very quick questions.

  “This must be a wonderful job, Ms. Ballard,” I said lamely. “How long have you been working for the firm?”

  “Six years, Mr…?

  Jake Diamond. So you were around when Mr. Lansdale’s brother was killed. It must have been horrible.”

  “Actually I missed that scene by a few days, thank God.”

  “Oh?”

  “The woman who was here before me left her job right after the shooting. I couldn’t blame her.”

  “Do you know her name?”

  “I never met her. I do know her name was Katherine Carson, and she was called Kit.”

  “Kit Carson?”

  “Scout’s honor,” she said.

  “I don’t suppose you know where she went?”

  “Sorry, no clue,” she said. Her phone rang. Ballard answered with the stock greeting, listened for a moment, set the receiver down. “Eddie says it’s time to go, Jake,” she told me.

  I thanked her, hurried out into the hall, and made it into the stairwell just as Ralph Battle arrived. I ran down to the floor below and caught the elevator down to the lobby. Eddie had the car idling out front and I hopped into the passenger seat.

  “How’d it go?” he asked as he pulled away from the building.

  “Either I bought some time, or a down payment on a bucket of cement.”

  I quickly summarized my short talk with Lansdale.

  “Did you get anything out of Lansdale that was helpful?” Eddie asked.

  “I didn’t ask anything straight out.” I said. “I didn’t want to push it too far or make him doubt my single-mindedness. But I did learn a few things. I’m not sure if Lansdale believed me when I told him that Riddle admitted lying about running into Chandler, but I could tell that Lansdale knew, one way or another, that Riddle had never seen Harry Chandler. And Lansdale didn’t appear very surprised about Riddle’s death. I did my best to draw Lansdale’s attention away from Darlene and Sally and at me. I appealed to his dignity, but that assumes he has dignity. I really don’t understand why Lansdale is so convinced that I’m his best chance at locating Chandler and Joe Clams, but since you and I agreed that it’s our only playing card at the moment, I reinforced the idea.”

  “Well, I’d say you made the best of fifteen minutes.”

  “I did manage to squeeze in a few words with his receptionist. It seems that the woman that had the job before her, who was in the office when Lansdale’s brother was killed and identified Harrison Chandler from a photo, left immediately after the shooting. I wouldn’t mind talking with her, but finding her might be tricky.”

  “I’ve got a friend in the Chicago PD, tools of the trade,” said Eddie. “Maybe he can help. We can at least get a look at the file on the Randolph Lansdale murder case. When we get to the police station, let me do all the talking.”

  “With pleasure,” I said.

  We headed out State Street to Central Station.

  We found Detective Lieutenant Daniel Washington behind his desk in the corner of the Homicide squad room on the second floor. Eddie Hand and Dan Washington had grown up together in the same neighborhood on Chicago’s North Si
de. After they did a few minutes of catching up, we got down to business.

  “I remember the Lansdale case well,” Dan said. “I did the initial interviews. The receptionist described the two men, and the next day she identified Harrison Chandler from a photograph. We got the search for Chandler to the LAPD, and before I could get out there we received word that Chandler had been killed. I did go out to San Francisco for a few days, to work with the SFPD trying to locate the second man, but nothing came of it. We were almost certain that the second man was Louie Vongoli’s son, but that and four bucks will get you a hot dog at Comiskey.”

  “Any idea where I could find the Carson woman?” I asked.

  “Not offhand,” Washington said. “I tried to reach her shortly after the shooting. Nothing official, the case was more or less closed, but just to find out how the woman was doing. She had naturally been very disturbed about the incident, and I usually follow up, see if counseling might be recommended. She was gone, from the office and from her place in town. No forwarding address. It made me curious for a while, but not enough to take time away from the more immediate issues that come up every day. I haven’t thought about it since. Any particular reason you’re interested in finding her?”

  “Nothing I could put a finger on,” I said. “Just seemed odd that she disappeared.”

  “I can look into it, if I can find time,” said Washington.

  “I’ll do the same, Jake,” Eddie added.

  “Thanks, I really appreciate your help,” I said. “Do you think it would be possible to see the photograph that was used to identify Harrison Chandler as one of the men Carson saw in the office that day?”

  “Sure,” Washington said. “I’ll call down and have it scanned for you. I’ll get you a hard copy and also put it on a disk so you can re-size it if necessary.”

  Washington called down to the Records Department and ordered the copies.

  “Anything else we need, Jake?” Eddie asked.

  “Can’t think of anything—I probably will the minute we get into the car. Thanks again, Lieutenant.”

  “Thank Eddie,” Washington said. “For a box seat to the Cubs opener I will help anyone Eddie brings in. Give me a call if you think of something else. I’ll let Eddie know if I find anything on Katherine Carson.”

  Eddie led me down to the Records Department and less than five minutes later we walked out of the police station with an eight-by-ten color copy of the photograph and a floppy disk.

  “Well,” I said, looking at the photo when we were back in the Bonneville, “it may not help, but at least now I know what Harry Chandler looks like. I don’t recognize the building behind him, not that I know downtown Los Angeles all that well.”

  “Let me have a look at that,” Eddie said. “That’s the Chicago Sun-Times Building, Jake; what made you assume it was taken in Los Angeles?”

  “I don’t know. Probably something that Max Lansdale said when I first talked with him at the airport on Monday. I can’t remember.”

  “It’ll come back to you,” Eddie said. “Let’s get back to my place. We can put the photograph up on my computer and take a closer look. See if there’s anything there that helps jog your memory.”

  “Jesus, I’m in my early forties and I’m already forgetting things from three days ago.”

  “Wait until you reach fifty,” Eddie said. “You’ll need a map to find your way home. Come to think of it, would you mind grabbing the Chicago city map from the glove box?”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Kidding about what?” Eddie asked.

  Ten minutes later, Eddie had found his way back home, and we were looking at the photograph on Eddie’s twenty-five-inch computer monitor.

  Harry Chandler was standing in front of the newspaper building with his back to the entrance.

  “I would guess this was taken in August, possibly September, judging from what the people on the street are wearing,” Eddie said.

  “Does Chandler look to you like he’s waiting for someone?” I asked.

  “Hold on, I can zoom in on his face,” Eddie said. “It looks to me as if he’s reacting to something behind him. What do you think?”

  “A sound?”

  “Maybe, let’s see what’s back there.”

  “Look at this guy,” I said. “He seems to have just come out of the building, and is moving toward where Chandler is standing.”

  “I recognize that guy,” Eddie said, zooming in on the man’s face. “Jesus, that’s Phil Cochran. It had to be no later than late September 1995.”

  “Why’s that?” I asked. “And who the hell is Phil Cochran?”

  “Cochran was a crime reporter for the Sun-Times. In late summer of ’95 he wrote a piece theorizing that Simon Lansdale might not have died of natural causes. It created a commotion, to put it mildly. The newspaper got all sorts of grief for running the thing, and when Cochran couldn’t back up any sources to even suggest the possibility, he was canned outright. No appeals. The pressure was coming from everywhere, all the way up to the mayor’s office.”

  “Do you think there was anything to it?” I asked.

  “Hard to say. Phil was famous for stirring things up and wasn’t above substituting wild speculation for news.”

  “The story that I heard had Chandler working for Max Lansdale, trying to find out if Randolph was still tied up with the Italians. What if Max was really looking for some kind of hint that his brother killed the old man to take over the helm?”

  “Go on,” said Eddie.

  “So Chandler snoops around and maybe teams up with this Cochran character for background. Maybe they stumble across something, no matter how weak, and Cochran jumps the gun with a story, shooting for a Pulitzer. What happened to Cochran?”

  “No one knows,” said Eddie. “He got drunk for a few weeks after he was fired and then he disappeared.”

  “And a few months later someone puts a bomb under Chandler’s bed in L.A.”

  “Slow down, Jake, you’re beginning to sound like a reckless newspaperman.”

  “Do you think that Cochran is still alive somewhere?”

  “Haven’t given it much thought in a very long time, and very recently you’ve had me wondering about whether or not Kit Carson is still with us. Not to mention Chandler himself. I don’t know, Jake. This whole business is beginning to look like some kind of mortality study, and we don’t even know if anyone, dead or alive, can do anything to help you out from under Lansdale’s thumb. I’d even venture to speculate that the more you find out, the deeper in shit you’re going to be.”

  “Good point,” I said. “So what do I do?”

  “I say you go back to California and try to get your friend Lieutenant Boyle to roll over. I’ll see what I can do to discover the fate of Phil Cochran and Katherine Carson, with help from Dan Washington, but I think that finding Harry Chandler is your best bet. Particularly since that’s what Max Lansdale is paying you to do.”

  “If you’re suggesting I not get personally involved, Eddie, I think it’s a little late for that,” I said.

  “I’m only suggesting that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line,” Eddie said, “and the line between Boyle and Chandler seems like the best route right now. How about some lunch? What’s your fancy?”

  “How’s that Chicago-style pizza I’ve heard tell of?”

  “Well, all I can say about it is that it’s better here in Chicago than in most places. Myself, I’d prefer a slice from any corner joint in Brooklyn.”

  “You’ve been to Brooklyn?”

  “Sure. My father took me to see the Cubs play at Ebbets Field a few times. More recently, I was there working on a joint case with the NYPD, Brooklyn Homicide Squad. They were looking into a Chicago drug dealer as a possible suspect in a shooting out there. Sometimes it’s easier for them to call in a private operator than to try working out the logistics with the local cops.”

  “Why do you think that Max Lansdale called in a
PI from L.A. to scout his brother? There are probably plenty of able investigators here, if you’re any indication.”

  “That’s very kind of you to say, and you’re correct, there are plenty of good investigators here. But I thought you said that Lansdale answered that—something about his brother taking mysterious trips to L.A.”

  “That’s it.”

  “What’s it?” asked Eddie. “I’m not that good.”

  “Lansdale said that the receptionist identified Harry from a photograph from his brother’s camera, implying that it was taken the previous weekend, when he claims Randolph was in Los Angeles. The same weekend that the bomb went off at Chandler’s place. That’s why I thought the picture used to ID Harry was taken in L.A. and was surprised that it was this one, taken here in Chicago.”

  “Do you have a camera, Jake? Have you ever had a roll of film going for months before you shoot it all and get it developed?”

  “Granted, but why would Randolph be shooting pictures of Chandler in Chicago in September? Months before he knew about what happened when Harry met Carla?”

  “Maybe he suspected, back then, that Chandler was romancing his flame.”

  “Or suspected that Max had a PI on his case. Didn’t you say something about lunch?”

  I suppose I expected Chicago-style pizza to be very thick, that a leftover slice could be used for a step exerciser. In fact, the deep-dish concoction looked more like the pan it was baked in. The crust was a thin circle with high sides, creating a large crusty bowl into which the ingredients were poured. First in was the cheese, followed by the Italian sausage, which Eddie claimed was a must, red bell peppers, and portobello mushrooms. Finally, tomato sauce covered the works. We sat at a pizza parlor not far from Eddie’s place and the ballpark. Eddie assured me that the pie was as good as any you could find in the city, that it was shipped in dry ice to customers all over the country.

  “I could have one delivered to me in San Francisco?”

  “Sure, if you don’t mind paying forty bucks.”

  “For forty dollars, the thing had better do my laundry when it gets there.”