When the meeting broke up, tasks were split. One team changed into plain clothes, switched to their own cars, and headed to the street listed on the parcel's return label. They would loiter in the area, watch the residents and passers-by, and photograph anyone suspicious.
The other team was assigned to the FedEx branch serving Temple City, to secure their cooperation.
It was open sign-up — either assignment was fair game. Both were about investigation and evidence gathering, no direct action. Felix decided on FedEx. Stakeouts were just sitting in a car waiting; he had no patience for that.
The FedEx distribution hub was in Duarte, where parcels for the area were sorted and loaded for delivery. It fell inside Temple Station's jurisdiction; anything beyond would need cross-district coordination, which was always a headache.
They arrived to find the place buzzing — dozens of couriers in hi-vis vests, sorting packages and loading trucks. Seven or eight uniformed deputies drew curious glances, but no one stopped to stare for long.
Carles led the way to the branch manager and stated their business.
The manager's denial was emphatic.
"Our employees are good people — well trained, professional, and law-abiding. Theft is impossible here. We also have in-house inspectors who screen suspect parcels, intercepting any attempt to ship narcotics through our channels. If a package or address is suspicious, we send a controlled delivery and arrest the recipient ourselves before handing them to the police. You can trust FedEx completely — there is absolutely no problem here."
Felix understood the man's defensiveness. Smuggling through their network — or couriers stealing parcels — would be a major stain on their name. If he were the manager, he'd deny it too.
But calling these broad-shouldered, tattooed couriers — many of them with glowing red markers over their heads — "good people"? He'd believe "gang muscle" before that.
Carles didn't bother to soften it.
"Is that so? If I've come here, it's because I have specifics. If you're truly that confident, I'll have K9 brought in. Hope you don't regret it."
LASD's Special Enforcement Bureau had a dedicated K9 unit — dogs trained for tracking suspects, sniffing narcotics, and locating missing persons.
At the mention of K9, the manager's face shifted. California's illegal grow operations fed marijuana across the U.S., and plenty moved through FedEx. Why else have in-house inspectors, if not because there was dirt to cover? Most of the time, nobody checked too closely. But if the dogs came, they'd find something.
He pulled Carles aside.
"I know you — Temple Station's Carles. We could have a… good private understanding, you get me?"
"I don't get you," Carles said flatly. Inside, he was smirking. You know who I am, yet you came out swinging just now? You think I'll walk away empty-handed in front of my own men? Not happening.
"Look, I've got friends — your captain, officers at the Hall of Justice—"
Carles took out his notebook.
"Is that right? Go ahead, tell me which friends."
The man shut his mouth. Dropping names was suicide. Even favours had to be saved for more desperate moments.
"No? Then I'll call in K9."
"Damn it." The manager grabbed his arm. "What do you want?"
Carles allowed himself a slow, satisfied smile.
"Our budget's tight. My deputies' paycheques are looking thin."
"Then go write tickets — two hundred for illegal parking, three hundred for speeding, five hundred for running a red. Faster than robbery."
"Multiple revenue streams," Carles said mildly.
The man's breathing slowed. Then he nodded.
"Fine. I'll speak to Mesa. You'll be satisfied. What do I get?"
"Simple, partner — bring me the courier for Las Tunas Drive, Temple City. He helps us ID a suspect, and we stop looking too closely at your other issues. But hear me — keep your house in order. Next time, you won't get this lucky."
"I'll call him. And you keep off my turf. I'll handle it," the manager said curtly. His glare was hard enough to cut.
He turned and called across the floor.
"Sam! Day off. Go with these officers — they need you."
A powerfully built Black man approached, glancing between them.
"Just help them ID someone, nothing else," the manager told him.
"Yes, boss."
With Sam in tow, they rolled out. FedEx wasn't some mom-and-pop; with its staff count and tax contribution in L.A. County, taking them down outright would be near impossible. Today's goal was never that — it was to flex some muscle, take a side payout, and get the cooperation they needed.
Carles radioed the station: Have "Night Angel" Zhang Yue place another rush order via Weixin, to be shipped today.
They regrouped with the earlier plainclothes team near Las Tunas Drive and waited. Soon, word came back — Zhang Yue had ordered, the supplier promised immediate dispatch.
Minutes later, Sam's phone rang. A request to head to Las Tunas to pick up a package, with the offer of a generous tip. He agreed on the spot.
When the timing felt right, a Black plainclothes deputy — playing the role of a trainee courier — accompanied Sam to a Hyundai Elantra parked at the kerb.
Pick-up went smoothly. Once Sam realised he wasn't the target, he was eager to be done with it.
Back at the car, they opened the box. Inside: marijuana, matching Zhang Yue's order in both type and weight.
Sam confirmed the sender was always the same person — frequent enough that the face stuck in his mind.
Carles ordered a tail on the Elantra and called the station to run the plates for a full registered owner profile.