Dorothy’s mouth quirked beneath the mustache, dislodging it again. It was a joke, sort of. She used to be pretty. But then she fell out of a time machine and got sucked into a tunnel through time and space. Her hair had turned white, and a spare bit of machinery had sliced up her face, leaving her with a jagged scar that stretched from her temple, over one eye and past her nose, and ended at the edge of her mouth. Pretty was no longer a word anyone would use to describe her.

Now she was . . .

Interesting.

“I could say the same thing about you,” she said. This wasn’t a joke. Roman was prettier than any man had a right to be, with his cool blue eyes and dark skin and messy black hair that had a way of looking intentional even when the wind had blown it into knots.

“Touché,” Roman said. He’d grown a real mustache just for tonight, and he was wearing a pair of fake, gold-rimmed glasses to make himself seem older. He used the glasses to full effect now, letting them fall down the bridge of his nose so that he could peer over them, eyebrow cocked rather seductively.

The effect had him looking more like a movie-star version of a college professor than a cop.

Dorothy was far past being taken in by Roman’s beauty. She made a gagging noise that caused his eyes to move to his reflection in the car window, brow creased in concern.

“Too much?” he asked, flicking a strand of hair off his forehead.

“You aren’t going to find any admirers in an empty museum at one in the morning,” said Dorothy.

“Ah, but there will be security cameras. And didn’t you say something about a police composite sketch?”

“You want to look your best for a police composite sketch?”

“In the movie version of this heist, I’d like to be played by Clark Gable.”

Despite herself, Dorothy grinned. No one could accuse her partner of false modesty.

“You have your dates mixed up,” she said, throwing her car door open. “Clark Gable died in 1960. This is 1990.” She hesitated, pretending to think. “Maybe Ben Affleck?”

Roman shot her a murderous look.

They climbed out of the car and crossed the street, stopping outside a wrought iron gate. A brick building hovered just beyond the trees, barely more than a dark shadow under the dim, yellow streetlights.

The Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, Dorothy thought, looking up. She frowned. In the photographs, it had seemed so much bigger.

A black box hung from the brick wall outside the gate. A year ago, Dorothy wouldn’t have known that it was an intercom, but, now, she leaned in close, pressing down the button with her thumb.

Static, and then a man’s voice. “Can I help you?”

“We’re with the Boston police,” Roman said. “We’re here to check on a disturbance in the courtyard.”

He flashed a small, gold badge at the camera that Dorothy had told him would be hanging above the fence. The security guard on the other side would see exactly what she wanted him to see: two Boston cops, dressed in stiff blue uniforms.