Back at the precinct, Detective Roberts sat at his desk, staring at the preliminary report. The shooting scene at Mario's Pizza had been a mess: shell casings everywhere, blood spatter on the walls, and Daniel "Big Truck" Williams dead on the floor. Yet their only witness – if you could call him that – was acting more like a seasoned operator than a traumatized pizza shop worker.
Captain Thompson appeared beside his desk, coffee in hand. "Let it go, Roberts."
"Captain, you can't tell me this doesn't feel wrong," Roberts insisted, spreading out crime scene photos. "Three different caliber shells found at the scene. Professional hit team. And our pizza guy takes a bullet to the head but walks home like it's nothing?"
Thompson sipped his coffee. "Sometimes, son, the best way to solve a case is to understand which cases can't be solved."
"What do you mean?"
"Thirty years on these streets teaches you to read between the lines. This hit has Salamanga written all over it. Clean, professional, warning message sent. Their cleanup crew is probably halfway to Miami by now." Thompson's voice carried the weight of experience. "And Sean? He's not gang, I can tell you that much."
"Then what is he?"
"Everyone in this city has secrets. Focus on the cases you can close."
Meanwhile, in his cramped office above a nail salon, Saul Goodman was making calls. His conversation switched rapidly between English and broken Italian as he navigated the complex web of Newark's underground power brokers. Sean might not have hired him officially, but Saul knew an opportunity when he saw one.
The office door opened, and Sean walked in, still wearing his hospital bracelet.
"Ah, Mr. Rockefeller!" Saul hung up quickly. "I was just discussing your case with some... concerned citizens."
Sean settled into the cracked leather chair across from Saul's desk. "I don't recall hiring you, Mr. Goodman."
"Please, call me Saul." He leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "And you didn't have to hire me. Let's just say I have a nose for potential clients who might need my particular set of skills."
"And what skills would those be?"
"I'm what you might call a criminal lawyer." Saul paused. "With emphasis on both words. In a city like Newark, sometimes you need someone who understands both sides of the law."
Sean studied him for a moment, then smiled. "Interesting. But I'm just a pizza shop worker who got caught in the crossfire."
"Of course you are," Saul agreed smoothly. "And I'm just a humble public servant. But hypothetically speaking, if someone were to come out of nowhere and survive a professional hit while displaying unusual... capabilities, they might want someone watching their back. Legally speaking."
"Hypothetically speaking," Sean echoed, "what would such services cost?"
"First one's free." Saul grinned. "Consider it an investment in our future professional relationship."
Sean stood, adjusting his jacket. "Well then, hypothetically, I might need information about the Salamanga family's real estate holdings in Newark."
"Hypothetically, I might know someone who knows someone who could help with that." Saul reached for his Rolodex. "But I should warn you – the Salamangas don't take kindly to curiosity."
"Neither do I," Sean replied, his smile never reaching his eyes. "And Mr. Goodman? Make sure those 'concerned citizens' you were talking to understand that I'm not a threat to their business. I'm just looking for some answers."
As Sean left the office, Saul sat back in his chair, wondering what exactly he'd gotten himself into. In his years of navigating Newark's underworld, he'd learned to spot players from pretenders. Sean Rockefeller might look like a pizza shop worker, but he moved like a shark – and the waters in Newark were about to get very interesting.