‘LUCKY DAY’
Zeus uses photography as a way to connect with the outdoors and share moments that often go unnoticed. Specializing in wildlife and landscapes, they prefer to let nature speak for itself instead of staging or altering, believing the best images come from patience and presence. For them, photography isn’t just about taking pictures—it’s about creating a record of the simple, striking beauty that’s always around us.
LUCKY DAY
INCIDENT REPORT #2024-PCH-1147
Location: Pacific Coast Highway,
Las Flores Canyon, Malibu
Date: March 17, 2024
Time of Call: 12:01
Investigating Officer: Det. Monica Torres, LASD
The man had been rich for less than two hours. He drove a brand-new Bentley. British Racing Green. Tan interior. There was blood. And there were avocados scattered like dropped marbles across the northbound lanes.
Detective Monica Torres pulled on her nitrile gloves and walked the perimeter. The rear half of the car looked showroom fresh. The front half looked like it had tried to mate with the Peterbilt and lost. Officer James Nichols, LAPD, was already photographing the truck driver. Alive, barely, being loaded into the ambulance. The two DOAs were still in the Bentley.
"Rear seat first," Torres said. "Then we'll let Fire do the extractions."
"Good afternoon, Detective," said Nichols. "And isn't it a fine day for some roadkill guacamole?"
Torres looked at his badge.
"Officer Nichols, I appreciate your attempt at humor, but let's…"
"Keep things professional," he interrupted. “I get it.”
She looked him in the eye. He half-smiled. They both went back to work.
The back door opened cleanly. Inside: one leather briefcase, worn at the corners. One blue blazer, old-school Nordstrom label, lapels too wide for 2024. In the right pocket, a business card for Matthew J. Larsen, Esq., Estate Planning, Century City. In the left, drugstore reading glasses.
"Evidence bag," Torres said, handing Nichols the jacket.
The briefcase had exploded papers across the back seat. Legal documents, blood-spotted and stained. Torres photographed them in place, then began gathering. She read as she worked:
ARTICLE II: FUNERAL AND ADMINISTRATIVE PROVISIONS I direct that my remains be cremated and that my ashes be scattered over the Pacific Ocean at a location no less than five (5) nautical miles west of the Malibu Pier…
A will. Recent, by the crisp fold marks.
She kept reading:
Section 5.1 – Personal Property to Wife I give and bequeath to my wife, MAUREEN ANN COLLINS, if she survives me, all of my personal effects, clothing, jewelry, household furniture…
Torres looked up. "Wife's already dead," she said to Nichols. "Everything's contingent on 'if she survives me.'"
More pages: Rothkos, Pollocks, de Koonings. A 1963 Ferrari 250 GTO. A 1967 Shelby Cobra. Charitable bequests to UCLA, American Cancer Society. The kind of will that takes two hours to read aloud in a Century City conference room with bottled water and a view of Century Park.
"Can you lift this?" Torres had moved to the front.
Nichols came around and raised what was left of the roof. Torres aimed her flashlight into the compressed space.
"Female, early twenties," she said. "Pink Adidas tracksuit. Louboutin heels." She moved the light. "She's in the driver's lap,” she continued. “The position of the body suggests what had been happening at the moment of impact.”
Nichols said nothing resisting his instinct to make a wise-crack.
They let LAFD do the rest. Jaws of Life, twenty minutes, bodies extracted and laid on gurneys. Torres went to the driver first. Male, seventies, thin. Gray hair, khaki pants. The left side of his face was intact: pleasant, ordinary. Could have been anyone's uncle. The right side wasn't there anymore.
She reached into his front pocket. Wallet. California license: Martin Scott Mason. 3565 Greenwood Ave, Los Angeles 90066. Date of birth: March 17, 1950.
Today was his birthday. Seventy-four years old.
Torres walked back to the Bentley and opened the glove box—what was left of it. Inside: purchase order. 2024 Bentley Continental GT, $403,100. Trade-in: 1992 Nissan Altima, $800. Date of purchase: today. Time: 10:47 a.m. A small metal tin of Altoids.
She did the math. He'd owned it for about ninety minutes. Imagine finally owning the car of your dreams. For an hour and change.
"Detective?" Nichols was at the trunk. "You need to see this.”
The trunk was empty except for one item: a leather document case, expensive but old. Torres opened it. A single page slipped out, caught the ocean breeze. She grabbed it before it could fly.
ARTICLE VII: DISTRIBUTION OF THE TRUST RESIDUARY PRINCIPAL …contingent upon the verification of the lawful and irreversible decease of MAUREEN ANN COLLINS (aka "Sugar"), I hereby direct, declare, and devise that the entire remaining principal…currently valued at THIRTY-NINE MILLION UNITED STATES DOLLARS ($39,000,000), shall be distributed in full, fee simple, and absolutely…to MARTIN SCOTT MASON provided he shall survive said Maureen Ann Collins by not less than thirty (30) calendar days.
Torres read it twice. Three times. Handed it to Nichols without speaking.
"Thirty-nine million," Nichols said.
"Today," Torres said.
"Guy hit the jackpot."
Monica Torres started to think about the $348,000 in her retirement fund. If she could stand a few more years, she'd get her detective's pension. Wait a few more years and Social Security would kick in. Would it be enough to live on? It would be more than enough if your retirement lasted ninety minutes. It struck her as kind of funny that retirement was the moment you were supposed to start living. What the hell was now?
The two law enforcement professionals sat in her Prius with the doors open, assembling the timeline:
Marty Mason wakes up in Mar Vista. Puts on his old, trusty blazer. Drives his '92 Altima to Century City for the reading of his father's will. Sits there for two hours learning that Maureen Ann Collins, last known as "Sugar," his father's third wife, is dead. Has been dead for thirty-one days. Which means the contingency is satisfied. Which means Marty Mason who has lived like a retired postal worker for seventy-four years, has just inherited thirty-nine million dollars.
He then leaves the lawyer's office at roughly 10:15 a.m. Drives to Beverly Hills. Walks into the Bentley dealership and pays cash; or, more likely, a wire transfer for a 2024 Continental GT in British Racing Green. Drives it off the lot at 10:47 a.m.
Then east. Down Wilshire, down Sunset, into East L.A., where at some point he picks up Angela Maria Estevez, age twenty-three, of Figueroa Street. Tracksuit. Louboutins. Tattoo on her lower back: a floral design with raspberries. Another on her forearm: La vida es Bella. Torres murmured, “Life is beautiful.” She photographed both.
Then west. Back through Sunset to PCH. Right turn, heading north. Spring day, new car, Pacific on the left, pretty girl in the passenger seat. Maybe he tells her about the money. Maybe he doesn't. Maybe she just sees the Bentley and the old man's hands shaking on the wheel and decides to get to work.
Somewhere near Dead Man's Curve, he drifts left. The Peterbilt driver—Jesus Moreno, age fifty-two, of Oxnard, hauling avocados from Ventura to L.A.—has no time to brake. The impact is head-on at combined speeds exceeding seventy miles per hour.
Both die instantly. The truck driver survives with a crushed pelvis and broken ribs.
The two law enforcement professionals look at the Pacific and simply feel the light wind.
By 6 p.m., the scene was cleared. Traffic moved normally. Torres sat in her car filling out the incident report on her laptop. The form had spaces for: Time of incident. Location. Parties involved. Cause of death (pending coroner). Estimated speed. Road conditions. Weather conditions.
There was no space for: Man inherits fortune on his seventy-fourth birthday. Buys dream car. Picks up sex worker. Dies happy.
What would she do with $39 million? She could barely imagine $1 million. She had lived simply since the divorce. She didn't need a big life. But in the glow of the evening, with the scent of avocados in the air, she felt that maybe it was time to start living. Whatever that meant.
Back to the matter at hand.
She wrote: Driver error. Distraction. Vehicular manslaughter (victim deceased). Traffic fatality.
Before she closed her laptop, she added one note to the file, the kind detectives include for their own reference:
Subject's wallet contained: California license. $43 cash. Denny's receipt ($8.47). Ralphs Rewards card. Library card (L.A. County, Mar Vista branch). No credit cards.
Glove box: Bentley purchase order (today). Owner's manual (unread). Box of Altoids.
Trade-in: 1992 Nissan Altima, 226,000 miles.
Before she closed the laptop, she deleted "Box of Altoids." She'd taken the metal tin before it went into the evidence bag.
She closed the laptop. Started the Prius. The sun had dropped into the Pacific, painting the sky purple and orange. Nichols was still at the scene talking to the last of the CHP units. He waved. She waved back.
On the drive south to the station, she thought about the will's funeral instructions: cremation, ashes scattered five miles west of Malibu Pier, no service, no obituary. Martin Scott Mason’s father had planned his exit carefully.
His son hadn't planned anything.
Who would come to her funeral?
They say death is what you felt before you were alive.
CASE STATUS: Closed DISPOSITION: Traffic fatality, driver error, no criminal charges EVIDENCE LOGGED: Personal effects, legal documents, vehicle records NEXT OF KIN: Unknown—attorney Matthew J. Larsen contacted for estate information
Torres filed the report at 8:17 p.m.
The next morning, Monica Torres had four new cases in her inbox.
She drove to Malibu instead.
The pier was nearly empty. She parked and walked to the end with the Altoids tin in her pocket. Five miles out there, Mason’s father had wanted his ashes scattered. But what about his son?
She opened the tin. Three mints left. She threw the first. A small arc. A splash she could barely hear over the waves. She threw the second. The third she held for a moment. She looked at the tin: Curiously Strong.
She threw the last mint. It disappeared into the gray-green water. Somewhere below, it would dissolve slowly, then be gone.
Rob Schwartz writes from New York City. He has written for Madison Avenue, Hollywood and points beyond. He is currently working on a collection of short stories.
