Palmini had served in the Navy for two years during the Vietnam War, most of which included duty on a nuclear submarine tender, the USS Sperry, with a short stretch in Hawaii and Oregon. It was while the crew awaited orders on Treasure Island in San Francisco Bay one afternoon that Palmini’s superiors noticed his skill with a baseball bat. When the USS Sperry moved to San Diego, Palmini was issued new orders to fly down to San Diego and report for duty to the sub tender. Once in San Diego, he was assigned to entertain his fellow enlisted men by playing baseball for the remainder of his stint in the Navy.
In spite of his experiences in the Navy, as a campus cop and his three years in the Sausalito Police Department, Palmini lacked confidence in his ability to meet the challenge he was about to undertake. Nickel-and-dime thieves rarely burglarized safes. Safecrackers tended to be professionals with connections to organized crime. That much Palmini knew. It bothered him that, unlike baseball, he was stepping up to the plate in a game where he did not know the rules. Self-doubt in his ability to handle a case of such magnitude was multiplying. After all, the Trident was not your run-of-the-mill place.
Why, he wondered, of all places, does it have to be the Trident? And why me?
The Kingston Trio, a popular folk and pop music group, and their manager, Frank Werber, were owners of the Trident. The group’s ties to the restaurant guaranteed scrutiny by the media and promised political heat on the police department. And if that wasn’t enough, there was another worry gnawing at him. It concerned his police chief, Jim Wright.
Wright had been with the Sausalito police for five years, brought in by the former police chief from the Hayward Police Department. The buzz around the department was that Wright had ambition to run for Sheriff of Marin County. He hung out with the county elite, giving some people the idea he was lining up support and future funding. Among those he entertained were top business executives and council members. Palmini and Walt Potter were frequently asked to join him when he was dining with a CEO or local business executive and encouraged to discuss the workings of the police.
There was a safe burglary that had happened almost seven months earlier in another Sausalito restaurant named Ricco’s. The heist attracted little notice from the press. But then again, Ricco’s, although a popular place, was not in the Trident’s league. Ignoring the deep discomfort throughout his body, Palmini readied himself mentally to tackle the investigation by focusing on the Trident and its significance, as well as its connection to Ricco’s. There had to be one, but where could he start? The same thoughts kept circling in his head. He needed a path to lead him to the answers.
Palmini decided to follow George Rudimenkin’s instructions and head straight to the restaurant without stopping at the Sausalito Police Department first. Fortunately, the drive from his apartment in Mill Valley, with its panoramic views of lush hills and waterways, had a soothing effect. A cup of coffee he picked up at a diner and the aspirin he had popped into his mouth earlier helped soothe the hangover. Being behind the wheel of his car helped him regain his sense of control. It was his pride and joy, for it was the first new car he had ever owned. The lively music coming from the radio helped him forget the muscle pain he’d been so aware of earlier.
The traffic was not heavy on Interstate 101 that morning and he soon exited the freeway onto Bridgeway Street. He passed glistening shops, art galleries and restaurants for which Sausalito is still well known. Then the street curved and there was the tall, two-story building housing the Trident, perched like a giant pelican facing the San Francisco skyline across the bay.
Palmini guided the car into the Trident’s parking lot, which was a large wooden deck. Two police cars were stationed at one end and Palmini pulled in behind them. As he did, he spotted Rudimenkin waiting for him at the far end of the wooden platform by the dock near the entrance to the restaurant. It felt good to see his buddy standing there. Images of Rudimenkin’s mother setting piping hot pierogies on the table at the family’s cabin by the Russian River, an hour’s drive north of San Francisco, flashed before him. The nostalgia quickly dissipated when he got a better look at his colleague and realized Rudimenkin was miles away with his own thoughts. Palmini figured they did not involve pierogies.
Rudimenkin looked cold and aloof and made no effort to walk over to meet him. He just stood there puffing his pipe and eying Palmini. Only the nutty aroma of the pipe tobacco reached out to greet the young detective, its scent mingling with the salty morning air.
“So, what’s going on?” Palmini grinned, hoping for any sign that Rudimenkin might lighten up. “Are we going back to your folks’ place after this? I miss those pierogies.”
Ignoring Palmini’s attempt at humor, Rudimenkin clutched the end of his pipe and indicated with his head for Palmini to follow him to the other side of the wooden platform. Together, they turned their backs to the street and stepped toward the edge of the deck, to face San Francisco in the distance. Sounds of hungry seagulls and water splashing against the pier sliced through the silence between them.
Rudimenkin spoke first. Getting right to the point, he briefed Palmini that armed men had entered the Trident around 3:45 A.M. At gunpoint, they subdued and handcuffed two janitors working in the restaurant. Then they burned through the safes and escaped with the contents. He said the dispatched officer, who took the report, would clue Palmini in with more details, adding that he had asked the two janitors, twenty-eight-year-old Patrick Pendleton and twenty-three-year-old Thomas Ribar, to hang around so that Palmini could interview them.
Rudimenkin reported that he had put in a call to the Kingston Trio’s business partner, Frank Werber. Werber told him that one of the safes contained probably $50,000 and two passports. One passport was his and the other belonged to a female friend.
Palmini asked if Werber was around for him to interview.
“No.” Rudimenkin shook his head. “But the night manager is on his way over. He’s the guy who routinely deposits the day’s receipts through a slot in one of the safes. And get this,” Rudimenkin leaned forward and lowered his voice to almost a whisper, “That night he dropped off $4,300 in the slot and then he left around 2:30 in the morning.”1
Palmini whistled and shook his head, “Hell, they take in that much in one night?” He thought of how many months of regular shifts and overtime he would have to put in to make that kind of money.
Rudimenkin nodded. Then, a mischevious grin spread across his face. “Bill, there’s more, but I’ll let that be a surprise. You’ll know soon enough.”
Palmini did not understand what Rudimenkin was talking about, but at least he was beginning to see signs of the “old” Rudimenkin he knew. The two walked to the west end of the building, then entered the restaurant through one of its side doors leading to the kitchen. Inside, they met with the officer dispatched to respond to the call. The officer briefed Palmini and introduced him to the two employees, who provided him with more details of their nerve-wracking experience. When Palmini finished interviewing Patrick Pendleton and Thomas Ribar, he had gotten a clear depiction of the harrowing experience the two Trident workers went through that night. He also discovered what George Rudimenkin had been hiding. The Trident heist came with its own dress code.
The gunmen had assaulted the restaurant dressed as frogmen. They were all wearing black wetsuits with blue stripes on the sleeves. And they all had on black rubber hoods, the same kind deep ocean divers wore, except for one of them. He had the attached hood hanging off of his collar in the back, but his head was covered by a brown knit cap.2
According to the police reports, the wetsuited gang made their initial assault in the kitchen where Patrick Pendleton was cleaning up. One of them sneaked in from behind, grabbed Pendleton by the left arm and pointed a 45-caliber handgun at his head.
“Just