Growing up, my Dad never talked to my class on Career Day. It was understood that safecrackers weren’t invited. Officially, he had a cover job. One year he was a postman. The next, a wine merchant. He remained too disorganized to keep track of which lie he told to whom when, so, I simply made up some sad excuse and left it at that.

My Dad emitted a kind of mischievous friction, like a cross between a movie star and a class clown which attracted unwanted attention in the sleepy suburb where he and my Mom raised us. I can picture my teachers swapping rumors in the break room about my Dad and what he did for a living. He called me his angel. Proudly carried me on his shoulders until we both collapsed in a tickle fest.

I miss him. Probably why I signed up for this lame ass job.

How good is this safecracker? Is there really a jar filled with jewels waiting for us? Will this heist land me on easy street or behind bars?