 Recorded Books presents an unabridged recording of The Whaling Wind by Tony Hillerman, narrated by George Gwadel. This work is copyrighted 2002 by Tony Hillerman. This recording is copyrighted 2002 by Recorded Books. When a patrol officer botches a routine murder investigation, Sergeant Jim Chi has to take the heat from the regional FBI office, which brings Joe Leephorn out of retirement to investigate the situation. Lost gold, lost love, and a mysterious whaling all haunt the Kenyans of the Navajo Reservation, where Chi and Leephorn have to go to track down the heart of the mystery. And now, The Whaling Wind. Chapter 1. Officer Bernadette Manuelito had been having a busy day, enjoying most of it and no longer feeling like the greenest rookie of the Navajo Tribal Police. She had served the warrant to Desmond Nakai at the Kudai chapter house, following her policy of getting the most unpleasant jobs out of the way first. Nakai had actually been at the chapter house, obviating the hunt for him she'd expected and, contrary to predictions of Captain Largo, he had been pleasant about it. She had dropped down to the Beclavito Day School to investigate a reported break in there. That was nothing much. A temporary maintenance employee had overdone his weekend drinking, couldn't wait until Monday to get a jacket he'd left behind, broke a window, climbed in and retrieved it. He agreed to pay for the damages. The dispatcher then contacted her and cancelled her long drive to the Sweetwater chapter house. That made Red Valley next on her list of stops. And Bernie, the dispatcher said, When you've done it, Red Valley, here's another one for you. A fellow called in and said there's a vehicle abandoned up a gulch off that dirt road that runs over to the Cove school. Pale blue king cab, pick up truck, check the plates, we'll see if it's stolen. Why didn't you get the license number from the guy reporting it? Because, the dispatcher explained, the report was from an El Paso natural gas pilot who had noticed it while flying yesterday afternoon and again this morning. Too high to read the plates. But not too high to tell it was abandoned. Come on, Bernie, the dispatcher said, who leaves a car parked in an arroy overnight unless he stole it for a joy ride. With that he gave her a little better description of the probable location and said he was sorry to be loading her up. Sure, said Bernie, and I'm sorry I sounded so grouchy. The dispatcher was Rudolph Nez, an old timer who had been the first to accept her a female as a fellow cop, a real friend, and she had a feeling he was parceling her out more work to show her he looked on her as a full fledged officer. Besides, this new assignment gave her a reason to drive up to Roof Butte, about as close as you could drive to ten thousand feet on the Navajo Reservation. The abandoned truck could wait while she took her break there. She sat on a sandstone slab in a mixed growth of aspen and spruce, eating her sack lunch, thinking of Sergeant Jim Chee and facing north to take advantage of the view. Pastora Peak and the Carrizo Mountains blocked off the Colorado Rockies and the look at Chukai forest around her closed off Utah's peaks. But an infinity of new Mexico's empty corner spread below her and to the left lay the northern half of Arizona. This immensity dappled with cloud shadows and punctuated with the sordid mountain peaks was enough to lift the human spirit. At least it did for Bernie. So did remembering the day when she was a brand new rookie recruit in the Navajo Tribal Police, and Jim Chee had stopped here to show her his favorite view of the Navajo Nation. That day a thunderstorm was building its cloud towers over Chaco Mesa miles to the northeast and another was taking shape near the turquoise mountain of the east, but the rolling grassland below them was bright under the afternoon sun. Chee had pointed to a little gray column of dirt and debris moving erratically over the fields across Highway 66. Dust Devil, she had said, and it was then she had her first glimpse behind Chee's police badge. Dust Devil, he repeated thoughtfully. Yes, we have the same idea. I was taught to see in those nasty little twisters the hard flint boys struggling with the wind children. The good yee bringing us cool breezes and pushing.