Flushed Out!: A Novel of International Crime and Intrigue

By E. Michael Abel

Flushed Out! is a cleverly written tale of international crime and intrigue that illustrates the notorious world of an illegal drug syndicate and its distribution operations. It will take you from Colombia, South America to the island of Curaao to Tampa, Florida - and further to New York to follow the authorities as they hunt down the felons and attempt to stop the illicit deals.
In this stupefying account of the illegal drug trade, Abel provides a descriptive and compelling insight into the hideous network of drug distribution. He introduces the readers to the Manhatan, N.Y., DEA Special Agent in Charge, Jack Finch, who devises an operation to get the Tampa, Florida-based drug transporter, Carlo Estevez, up to New York and to shut down his distribution network plaguing the Northeast Corridor of the United States: to flush him out.
Finch's plan is simple in theory but complex in its executionto intercept a shipment of drugs, make it look like a rip-off and setting up his old college classmate, Michael Boland, as a pigeon, and the man who planned it all. Timing is everything on this mission; everything needs to be in place.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 23, 2012
• ISBN: 9781479730261

E. Michael Abel

E. Michael Abel is a criminal defense trial attorney practicing in Florida. It was this unique perspective that led to his first fiction novel, Flushed Out!: A Novel of International Crime and Intrigue, which received excellent reviews from both readers and the media alike. Abel’s writing style, which he describes as a “fly on the wall” approach, places the reader right alongside his characters. His current novel, Scarpelli, proves to be equally successful. Born in New York City, Abel graduated from the City College of New York. After college, he attended the Tufts University School of Dental Medicine in Boston, Massachusetts, and then practiced dentistry. After a number of years and seeking a change in career, Abel returned to Boston and entered New England Law (then New England School of Law). Abel has also been a guest speaker, a lecturer, and an adjunct university professor who taught criminal law. He lives outside Tampa, Florida, with his wife.

Book preview

FLUSHED

OUT!

Copyright © 2012 by EMA NOVELS, LLC.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2012918834

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4797-3025-4

                   Softcover                                 978-1-4797-3024-7

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4797-3026-1

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

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Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

To Sherry: That should say it all.

CHAPTER 1

G eorge McMillan sat at his desk and stared out of his fifth-story window at 99 Tenth Avenue in Manhattan, the New York division of the Drug Enforcement Administration, and across the Hudson River to the New Jersey Palisades, waxing nostalgic. McMillan was thinking about Palisades Amusement Park where he had gone on numerous dates years ago, only for it to be torn down and replaced with high-rise condominiums, which were now staring back. The light blue memorandum stamped DEA TOP PRIORITY: EYES ONLY, which was received from the Drug Enforcement Agency headquarters in Arlington, Virginia, by fax that morning, was still on his lap. The file referenced had arrived earlier that morning.

As head of the Drug Enforcement Administration’s New York division and although only Tuesday and 10:00 a.m., his already-wrinkled white shirtsleeves were rolled up over his elbows, and his plaid tie was loosened at the neck. His black-frame reading glasses resting precariously at his hairline just above his forehead held back his gray hair, which he combed straight back, covering the small area of his male pattern bald spot.

Behind him but off to the side was the large bulletin board with numerous thumbtacked pieces of color-coded notes of various importance: the brown clipboard was holding a small stack of field reports, another one listing his agents’ assignments, and rows of photographs of different men and women of all ages, races, and ethnic backgrounds. To anyone else but George, the bulletin board was chaotic looking.

His desk was no different, perhaps even worse looking. Piles of folders, also color coded, were sitting in his two wire trays marked IN and OUT, while other files were randomly lying on the desktop partially covering his family photos. Several yellow legal pads with notes written on them, pens, pencils, and yellow highlighters were scattered; so the highly polished wooden desktop disappeared from view.

Hanging on the wall directly behind his desk was the large plaque of the DEA’s logo. In one corner, also behind his desk, was the American flag hanging from the pole, with the brass spread eagle perched on top. At the opposite corner, the DEA flag was hanging limply on a pole topped by a brass ball. To his right on the side wall and directly opposite of the window were his undergraduate college and graduate school diplomas, several DEA Certificates of Commendation, and the laminated letter acknowledging the promotion to his current position—all in matching wooden frames. On the far wall were the mandated official photographs of the president and, next to that, the official photograph of the head of the DEA. To anyone who walked in, there was no question that the office and the man who sat behind the desk represented both the power and authority of an agency of the United States government.

McMillan swung his leather chair around, leaving Jersey behind, eyed then reached for the green-colored folder, which had arrived by courier and was the subject of the memorandum.

As he read through the numerous pages, he carefully took notes on one of his yellow legal-size pads. The expectation Arlington put on him in its directive in the memo and the resulting pressure didn’t help matters either. Shit, he said in a low whisper, these traffickers are getting better all the time. He made his decision. He pressed his intercom and told his secretary, I want a meeting today at four o’clock. I want Finch and Del Rios. At precisely four o’clock, the knock on the door came, and both agents entered together. They sat in the two chairs opposite McMillan with his desk in between. George started the meeting. I received a report from Tampa, Florida, through Arlington this morning.

Both Finch and Del Rios looked at each other and thought, This must be important since it came directly from DEA headquarters.

McMillan continued. Although the FBI, ICE, and ATF have been watching regular shipments of coke and cash coming from Tampa for over a year, this is the first time we’re hearing about this and our first shot at cracking this operation. McMillan thought to himself, Such BS that our government agencies are supposed to be sharing information. McMillan went on, Anyway, it seems this crap is being distributed all along the Northeast—hell, from here in New York to friggin’ Maine. We know New York’s the first stop for most of the drugs before being redistributed farther north. It seems the plan of action so far has been to let these runs get to the final destination, hoping to backtrack the source. The FBI, ICE, or ATF—or all of them—tip off, anonymously naturally, the local authorities at the point of delivery. It seems the Feds allow local law enforcement to do what they want with these low-level pushers and are allowed to take all the credit. I don’t give a rat’s ass about the politics of it all, but according to Arlington, this hasn’t produced any results, and the Feds are getting frustrated. That’s why we’ve been asked to participate.

Here’s what we do know so far. McMillan was thinking to himself, once again, how difficult it must have been for Arlington to get this minimal

information due to the ridiculous secrecy between supposedly cooperating FBI, ICE, and ATF federal agencies and the DEA. Carlo Estevez is the receiver of the drugs coming in from overseas and the transporter from Tampa, Florida. He gets his instructions from Jorge Valdez, the middleman and the direct connection to Colombia, South America. We think Valdez is located somewhere in the Bahamas. Neither one, Valdez or Estevez, has been able to be touched, connecting them to the narcotics—too many buffers in between to lead back to them. They’re smart. What I want is for the both of you to drop what you’re involved in—I’ll reassign agents to take over your caseload. I want both of you to brainstorm an operation centered here in New York, and I don’t care how long it takes, who has to take a dive, or who has to be sacrificed and put a plan into action to get this prick Floridian Estevez into our jurisdiction and put an end to the distribution. It’s Operation Flushed Out. I want a plan in place and ready to go by the next time we find out a shipment is coming this way from Tampa. Timing is everything in this since our window of opportunity is only the time it takes for this shit to arrive in Tampa and then the time it takes to get here—a matter of a day or two-day drive at the most. The problem is we have no idea when the next shipment is due, but according to our information, it’s typically once a month to every six weeks. The last one let through was the day before yesterday. That’s why everything needs to be in place. I want us to be ready. You have hopefully a month. George realized his cursing, even while saying the words, was not because of anything personal regarding drugs, which he abhorred, but his having to report once again to his superiors that the DEA’s expectations of McMillan and his staff’s operations as always having been met with favorable results. Let’s get to work. My reputation’s on the line once again, he thought to himself.

Assistant Special Agent in Charge (ASAC) Carmen Del Rios was no taller than five feet five inches and an attractive woman, by any standard, with black piercing eyes, hemp-colored hair, and a small but distracting mole on her chin. Although short in stature, her loose-fitting top and dress slacks, supported by her holstered DEA-issued Glock 22, hid her well-conditioned, firm body of pure physical strength. She was the last to speak as she got up from her chair.

Okay, we’ll get on this right away. The meeting came to an abrupt end.

That entire afternoon both at his desk and that evening at his apartment, Jack Finch as Special Agent in Charge (SAC) of the Manhattan office concentrated on his new assignment. He wrote flowchart and after flowchart, trying to orchestrate how to devise a plan to get Carlo Estevez to New York and tie him to the drugs and cash, always shredding each rejected plan. I don’t care who has to take a dive or who has to be sacrificed or how long it takes, kept repeating in his mind. And then it came to him… and the next day couldn’t come soon enough.

SAC Finch to see you, sir. McMillan’s secretary announced over the intercom.

Send him in.

Jack came in wearing his khaki slacks, a long-sleeve plaid shirt, no tie, and, like the other special agents, his DEA-issued Glock 22 holstered on his waist with his the gold DEA badge draped over the holster belt.

What have you got, Jack?

Well, sir, it’s complicated and will take a lot of planning, surveillance, and eventually cooperation from other agencies.

Go on, I’m listening.

And a pretty good budget allowance, Jack said, saving the worst but most important fact for last.

So what’s the plan? George McMillan hated suspense when it came to business.

Well, sir, I kept thinking about your concern yesterday that you didn’t care if anyone had to take a dive or be sacrificed. I also know the objective is to get this distributor Estevez up here. So I asked myself, how can we keep our participation to a minimum, not risk exposing any of our informants and pissing off this transporter enough for him to get personally involved, yet all the while we are in control of the entire situation? Then the answer came to me—we develop a pigeon and set up a staged rip-off on the next shipment. That’s it for now.

Sounds plausible, Jack. Anyone in mind for the pigeon? Jack thought long and hard about his next response, already knowing the consequences because he already planned the details, which for now, and until his idea was accepted, he kept from his boss.

Michael Boland. He’s a guy I knew from college. Both he and his wife actually. I haven’t seen either one of them for several years, but it would be easy for me to reappear—once we get them under surveillance and get into our computer databases to gather more info on the both of them.

Go with it was George’s relieved response as it seemed headway was being made. Let’s meet this Friday for a status.

Yes, sir, Finch replied as he left the office.

Although only 9:00 a.m. on Friday, McMillan already looked like he put in a full day’s work. He checked his daily planner and realized the scheduled meeting Jack Finch previously arranged was to take place in fifteen minutes. He went to the pile of folders on all the DEA ongoing operations, which were neatly stacked on the left side of his desk by his assistant, Diane, a nightly routine that never seemed to help by the end of the next day and pulled the Operation Flushed Out file. He reviewed his notes from the initial meeting, jotted down some additional thoughts as he drank his now-only warm third cup of coffee. Come in. McMillan responded to the knock on the door. Finch and Del Rios entered the office and once again sat down in the two chairs in front of McMillan’s desk.

Okay, what’s the status on Operation Flushed Out? McMillan asked as Jack immediately began outlining his plan.

Well, sir, here’s where we stand. We’re waiting patiently for a shipment to arrive typically by cargo ship to the Port of Tampa. It’s picked up on the docks and brought over to this auto shop owned by Carlo Estevez. At some time, it’s moved by car up to and sometimes beyond New York. We know Estevez is the distributor in Tampa, and the objective is we need to get him up here to New York and with the drugs.

That’s a gimme. Tell me something I don’t know, McMillan responded matter-of-factly.

I’ve thought about how to eventually get this to occur, using Michael Boland, our pigeon. Now I just can’t walk up to him after not seeing him these past few years. Obviously. So I decided to reacquaint myself with Michael through his wife, Suzanne. Jack’s plan was also personal, remembering her to be a real charmer, recalling her deep green eyes and great figure, and someone he continued to think about. Of course I could have developed another plan to meet Michael besides this one, but I would like to see her again. Jack was reflecting silently on his innermost thought.

Jack continued, Anyway, not to bore you with the details, but we now know, through the help of the other agencies’ shared databases, she belongs to this home business, GiftAmerica. More interesting is that I found out she’s attending some sort of convention at the Hay-Adams at Sixteenth and H Streets in DC next Thursday and Friday since she used her credit card to make her reservation. That’s where I’ll make my initial contact. Then I’ll take it from there to develop Michael Boland as our pigeon and to keep her safe by somehow separating Suzanne Boland from her husband while the operation is in play. Jack knew he was going to dazzle Suzanne with the perception of success and money. "The real problem is that since we don’t know when the next shipment will be coming up, everything—I mean everything, sir—for the first stage of this operation has to be in place and ready to go at a moment’s notice. The object is a rip-off of the delivered drugs by us or rather Michael Boland." Jack concluded his summary and waited for McMillan’s response.

Okay. It sounds as if things are getting off the ground. Carmen, what part are you playing in this? McMillan needed to know.

Well, sir, both Jack and I discussed this operation in pretty good detail. There are only two things that I’ll be responsible for so far. First, eventually, I’ll make contact with Suzanne Boland to, shall I say, encourage her to separate herself from her husband and to connect with Jack. Since Boland’s the pigeon, this will be important for her own safety, as Jack mentioned. Second, I’ll be going out to Long Island to rent a house in time for the arrival of Estevez. Hopefully in another few weeks.

Jack continued, I will need Michael Boland’s New York State driver’s license and an original—nothing stamped ‘duplicate’ or ‘copy,’ with his actual photograph, but with a phony address and as far away from Yonkers where they live. No sense in providing the poor guy’s real address, then truly putting his life—and his wife’s—at stake any more than it needs to be already. A copy of his Social Security card, same thing, an original. McMillan was taking notes on the yellow legal pad.

Finch continued, I don’t know if this can be done, but I’ll need an audit letter from the IRS to be sent to Michael Boland at a specific time regarding sixty-five thousand dollars of undeclared income, including interest, penalties, that type of thing. Then later a second letter generated explaining it was all a mistake. I’ll also need to know in advance the number of his specific bank account, a savings account preferably, if the guy has one. Hopefully this can be arranged. McMillan’s eyebrows gathered together as a result of Finch’s challenge.

Don’t worry about what and cannot be done, Finch, that’s my problem. Jack squirmed at the rebuke. Anything else?

That’s it for now, sir, Jack said, not wishing to press the issue any further.

What about you, Del Rios?

Well, to move our operation along, I’m also going to need a New York driver’s license, also with my photo but in an alias; and the alias’s signature in my own handwriting if we have the technology to do this, I’m not sure. I’ll also need a checking account opened up in the alias’s name, phony address, and telephone number, and of course with some money in it. That’s it for now, sir.

McMillan interjected, Okay, so for right now two New York driver licenses, one Boland, one,—he looked up at Carmen—what name?

Ugh, Maria Cortez. The answer came quickly as Carmen started to think about whatever happened to her best friend and schoolmate back in Arecibo, Puerto Rico. Carmen’s thoughts continued to briefly wander, recalling the day years ago when her father finally got his long-awaited promotion but required a transfer to Miami, Florida, and how sad Maria was when Carmen told her about the move. They never communicated with each other after Carmen moved away. Carmen made a mental note to herself that she needed to try to locate Maria once again.

As McMillan glanced down at his list, he repeated what he had written. One Social Security card, Michael Boland. He looked at Finch. Date of birth on this guy?

Just give me a moment, sir. Jack hated the fact that he didn’t have Boland’s birth date and appeared unprepared in front of McMillan. He pulled out his cell phone with the Facebook app and started typing. Oh, please be like the millions of other people and have a page. Jack almost actually prayed. Boland’s page came up. May 26, 1976, sir was Jack’s answer.

McMillan continued to review his list. "One driver’s license, one checking

account for Maria Cortez with, how much will you need, Carmen?"

Two thousand should cover a rental deposit, sir.

Okay, two thousand, McMillan finished, and IRS assistance with a collection letter for sixty-five thousand dollars, interest and penalties calculated, a letter of apology, and a specific savings bank account number all for Michael Boland. Fine.

McMillan didn’t care about the details as to why these requests were made, completely trusting his agents. Don’t forget, both of you need to put in your operating budget down to accounting so we can start releasing some cash. I’m sure you’ll need it.

We sure will, Jack thought as the meeting came to an end, as he glanced at his watch. 9:27 a.m. still plenty of time. Jack took the elevator down to the first floor. The elevator opened, and Jack immediately turned to his left and walked down the long hallway until he reached the unmarked door, with the electronic gray pad on the left. He swiped his ID card through its slit and heard the door to the Accounting Department unlock.

Good morning, Peggy!

Good morning Agent Finch, how are you?

"Great. Who’s in the back today?

Marilyn. Let me get her on the line. Peggy called, then said, Go on back, Jack. Jack walked into Marilyn’s office as he had done countless times before.

Good morning, Jack, what do you need?

My credit card if you don’t mind.

Sure. Marilyn got up and walked to the back, closing a door behind her. Jack, for all the years he spent in the building, always wondered what was back there. A safe of some sort, he always concluded.

Marilyn returned, sat back down at her desk with the platinum credit card in her hand. Sorry, Jack, but you know the routine.

Go ahead, I’m not listening, he said with a smile.

Mr. Finch, as Special Agent in Charge and an employee of the Drug Enforcement Administration, you have the privilege of using this credit card with an unlimited budget, Marilyn looked up and off the script, within reason of course.

Of course, Jack replied.

You are required to let us know weekly when you use the card, what the charges were for, who the creditor was and, naturally, the dollar amount. Additionally, deposits made into this account will be in increments and only as necessary and ordered by you and only you and with all the mandatory forms completed and submitted to this department. As always, this initial deposit is excluded. Do you understand this SAC Finch?

Yes, I understand, Jack replied in a serious and purely disingenuous voice.

Excellent. Please sign this form which details what I just explained to you.

Jack signed the form and pushed it back toward Marilyn.

Okay, Jack, how much? Marilyn asked, completely losing the formality.

Jack knew what he needed this initial money for but wasn’t sure how much, so he picked a number. Five thousand as my first draw should be enough for now.

No problem, Jack. The money will be in your account before you leave the building.

Jack picked up his credit card, said his goodbyes and left. He went back to the elevator up to his office.

Janet, I’m out for the rest of the day. Jack stated to his secretary.

No problem, Jack.

Jack left the building and decided