He never put Emma’s suitcase on top. That’s where he put his own, which was smaller and flimsier.

Somebody had been in the room.

For a minute, he didn’t move. Head cocked, he listened. Each beat of his heart hammered a nail into his chest. But apart from his rattled nerves, he didn’t hear a thing. Finally, he picked up the suitcase, carried it to the bed, and opened it.

Another surprise. The cover’s interior lining had been peeled back along its perimeter, just like the transparent plastic sheets used to hold snapshots in a photo album. It hadn’t been cut or damaged in any way. Looking more closely, he discovered a track in place to secure it, no different than a ziplock bag. By the moon’s half-light, he discerned a rectangular indentation the size and shape of a wallet or a deck of cards. It was a compartment for concealing papers or documents, something to escape a customs inspector’s scrutiny.

He closed the suitcase and returned it to its place. Emma’s carry-on bag was sitting below the desk. No black leather calfskin this time, just an all-weather rucksack stained from years of use. He opened the outside compartment and was relieved to find her wallet where she kept it. Her identification was intact; money too, in the amount of eighty-seven francs. Her credit cards were untouched. He opened the coin purse. A few francs. A bobby pin. Tic tacs. He closed the bag, then ran his hand along its bottom. His fingers snagged on a bracelet. He recognized it as one that Emma wore from time to time. It was light blue and fashioned from pressed rubber similar to the Livestrong bracelets popularized by Lance Armstrong, the seven-time winner of the Tour de France.

Three-quarters of the bracelet was thin, but at the point where it rested beneath the wrist, it was noticeably thicker. He ran a finger over the protrusion. There was something hard and rectangular inside it. He played with the bracelet for a moment, before realizing that he could pull it apart. The bracelet split to reveal a USB flash drive. It was a device used to move files from one computer to another. He’d never seen it before. Emma was a demon with her BlackBerry, but she rarely took her laptop out of the office. He reconnected the bracelet and slipped it over his wrist.

Just then, he heard footsteps advancing down the hallway. He put down the rucksack and searched the desk. Maps. Postcards. His compass. Pens. The footsteps came nearer, echoing loudly.

“Right this way, Officer. It’s the room at the end of the hall.”

Jonathan recognized the hotel manager’s voice. The key entered the lock. He opened the center drawer and saw a brown, leather-bound book. Grabbing Emma’s rucksack with one hand, he threw the book inside it and bolted for the terrace.

The door opened. Light spilled into the room from the hotel corridor.

“The policeman was dead?” the hotel manager was saying.

Without a backward glance, Jonathan flew from the room and jumped off the balcony onto the hillside.

“They’ve been there,” gasped Jonathan as he flung himself into the Mercedes. “Someone searched the-”

He looked over to the passenger seat. Simone wasn’t in the car. He checked the floor for her purse and found that it was gone, too. She’s left, he thought. She came to her senses and got the hell out of here while she still could. Jonathan leaned on the dashboard, gathering his breath. His eyes moved to the ignition. The keys were nowhere in sight. With a fright, he spun and checked the backseat. Neither Emma’s bag nor the box containing the sweater was there. Simone had left and taken everything with her.

He fell back, confused, tired. He looked at the fat book on his lap. Opening it, he began to skim the names, addresses, and phone numbers. It’s a start, he thought.

Just then, the passenger door opened and Simone slid into the car.

“Where were you?” he asked.

Simone shrunk back. “I walked to the top of the hill and back. If you must know, I wanted to smoke a cigarette.”

“Where are Emma’s things?”

“I put them in the trunk in case one of us wants to lie down.”

Jonathan nodded, calming himself. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s just that they’ve been there. I mean in our hotel room. They took the place apart. Top to bottom. But they were good. Very neat. I’ll grant them that. They almost got it right. And then I would never have known.”

Simone stared at him, his fright mirrored in her eyes. “What are you going on about? Who was there? The police?”

“No. At least, not the real police.” He explained about the strange manner in which someone had searched behind the lining of the suitcase and the odd depression the size of a deck of cards.

“Only her suitcase?” Simone asked. “What were they looking for?”

“I don’t know.”

“Think, Jon. What could have been inside it?”

Jonathan brushed off the question. He had no idea. “Give me the keys. They might be coming.”

Simone handed him the car keys. “Slow down. No one’s coming. Look.”

Jonathan stared out the rear window. The street was deserted. The storm had confined the town to quarters. He leaned back and closed his eyes. “Okay,” he murmured. “We’re okay.”

“Of course we’re okay,” said Simone.

“I heard voices in the hallway. I think the hotel manager was with the police. They were talking about the policeman in Landquart. They know it’s me.”

“You’re safe for now. That’s what matters.” Simone gestured toward the book in his lap. “What’s that?”

“Emma’s address book. We need to find who she knew in Ascona. If one of her friends sent her those bags, their name will be in here.”

“May I?”

Jonathan handed her the leather-bound volume. It was as thick as a Bible and twice as heavy. Emma had liked to say that it contained her life, and nothing less. Simone placed it on her lap and opened it solemnly, as if it were a religious text. Emma’s name was inscribed on the flyleaf. A succession of addresses had been scratched out below it. The most recent was Rampe de Cologny, Geneva. Before that there was Rue St. Jean in Beirut. U.N. Camp for Refugees, Darfur, Sudan. The list went on, a road map of his once and future life.

“How many names does she have in here anyway?” Simone asked.

“Everyone she ever met. Emma never forgot anyone.”

Together, they pored over every page. A to Z. They were looking for an address in the Tessin. Ascona. Locarno. Lugano. Any phone number with the 091 area code. They found names in every corner of the globe. Tasmania, Patagonia, Lapland, Greenland, Singapore, and Siberia. But nowhere did they find mention of Ascona.

Thirty minutes later, Simone set the address book on the center console.

Emma didn’t have a single friend who lived in the southernmost canton of Switzerland. Ascona did not exist.

Rooting in his pockets, he came out with the customer half of Emma’s baggage receipts. “We still have these,” he said. “The porter said that the name of the sender was recorded at the departure station.”

“I don’t think the Swiss are so easy to give out information as that. You’ll have to show identification.”

“You’re probably right.” Jonathan handed Simone the receipts, then started the engine.

“Where are we going?”

“Where do you think?” he asked, head turned over his shoulder as he backed the car onto the road.

Simone shifted in her seat, pushing her hair behind one ear. “But Emma had no friends there. We have no idea even where to begin to look. What can we hope to accomplish?”

Jonathan pointed the nose of the car downhill and touched the gas. “I know how to find out who sent Emma those bags.”