You could have done this over the phone, but you haven't seen much of Santa Fe so far, especially the area south of town where rutted, dusty roads lead you past several walled compounds tucked into the chaparral. They're all adobe, all designed to fit in with the natural setting, and all very upper class. A trio of plains teepees poke their incongruous heads up from behind a brown wall, announcing your destination.

Carrie March is the widow of a Silicon Valley mogul, a woman of energy who spends much of it presiding over the social life of Santa Fe. Your business cards just came back from the printer and you hand her one. Name, rank, office phone number, cell number.

Only when Carrie hears your mission does her natural enthusiasm wane. "Oh," she sighs. "My brother. Yes. He was planning to drop by. When I didn't hear from him, I considered myself lucky."

Her next few answers fill in the picture. Carrie had been in her twenties when Arnold was born. They were never close and a constant diet of attention from their elderly parents quickly turned Arnold into a dangerously willful boy. He still was.

You can't hide your amusement. "A dangerously willful accountant?"

Carrie bites her lip. "Well, I suppose he is. Arnold's very good with figures."

"He's not an accountant?"

"Of course he is," she adds with a maddening grin.

"But you implied..."

"He's an accountant. Anyway, I married well and used a little of my money to set Arnold up in business. An investment. Do you want to see some authentic teepees? Ever since I was a girl, I wanted a teepee. I don't care if it is the wrong tribe."

You decline her invitation and ask to borrow a picture of Arnold.

Carrie screws up her face. "Arnold's not big on pictures. Wait a minute." You sit there waiting and are finally rewarded with a snapshot of an acne covered, long-haired teenager. "This must be 18 or 19 years old," she apologizes.

You thank her and get up to leave. When you reach the door Carrie shows her first hint of sisterly concern. "Is it bad? I mean, Arnold going missing for two days?"

"Probably not," you admit.

"What about his assistant? Drab thing. Probably the only woman he never made advances on. Helena. She takes care of things like hotels. Maybe they're registered under her name."

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