The Digital Coroner, page 2
“What was that?” Fenway asked.
“Can’t even pick up after themselves,” Piper muttered. “One of those black velvet curtains that separate the rooms—it’s on the floor. Right where everyone’s walking.” She pushed it with her foot against the wall. “At least there it’ll be out of the way.”
“A lot of artists leave their stuff lying around.” Fenway grinned, trying to add levity, but Piper was having none of it.
“I won’t deny there are problems with NFTs,” Piper said, standing in her ray of light. “Everyone knows that. I know the validation of NFTs doesn’t necessarily prove anything. Can’t be trusted as a signature. Easy to create an NFT of an artwork you don’t own. I think sometimes the people who come back to this technology want us to go back to the Dark Ages.” She bit her lip. “But I thought NN0V8 was different. I thought this museum would show the value that NFTs could bring to the art world. Not just the art world—to humanity.”
Fenway nodded and opened her mouth to change the subject, but Piper was on a roll.
“Art connects us with who we are as humans,” Piper continued, her words gathering steam as if she were giving a seminar. “Just because I can’t draw or paint doesn’t mean I can’t be an artist. I can reconfigure technology in ways that make people think differently. Put things into perspective. Make a political statement. But this?”
Piper was one of Fenway’s closest friends, but she was still young. Only a few years younger than Fenway, but obviously had a more sheltered upbringing. Piper was more idealistic in a lot of ways. Piper took a step away, fuming.
After a moment, Piper turned to Fenway. “I read a profile of Vaughn Trask in Emerging.”
“Sorry—who? In what?”
“Emerging. It’s an online news site about new technology and new ways to use existing technology. Some fascinating stuff.”
“Okay—and who’s Von Trapp?”
Piper rolled her eyes. “Vaughn Trask, not Von Trapp.” She spelled the name. “Anyway, he was talking about how art was under attack since the advent of artificial intelligence and pirating. ‘The loudest voices for advocacy have prioritized democratization over privacy.’ That was one quote in the article. He talked about how art will go away if artists can no longer support themselves.”
“Sounds reasonable.”
Piper looked around, the spotlights from the ceiling flicking on and turning off with every step she took. “Sounds like he was giving lip service to people like me who actually believe that technology and art go hand-in-hand.” Piper extended her hand, another light coming on. “Canvases, paint, the discovery of bronze—all technological advances.” She scowled. “You think Michelangelo could have painted the Sistine Chapel ceiling if he hadn’t studied corpses? If he hadn’t been a driving force to advance Western society’s medical technology—” Piper stopped herself. “Sorry. It’s just—I expected so much more. I expected something new.”
“Something ‘innovative,’” Fenway offered.
Piper smiled, though her eyes still looked sad.
They walked into the next exhibit—and this was a small room, barely large enough for two people. And a surprise: hanging on the wall was a painting, about three feet square. An image of a man sitting at a table, back to the viewer, staring at a purple-and-blue desertscape through the window. Interesting—a southwest theme without the strict red-and-dusky-gold color palette that often came with the subject matter. Powerful use of line, too, a little reminiscent of early twentieth-century artists from France and Spain. A large placard, almost as big as the painting itself, was on the wall next to it.
Desolation
O. Lockberry
Oil on canvas
What is an NFT? NFT stands for “non-fungible token,” a one-of-a-kind digital asset that asserts ownership of a piece of digital, or increasingly, in-real-life artwork. Blockchain technology is at the heart of the NFT process; a digital ledger stores each NFT’s information and ID code. The NN0V8 museum takes artwork like Desolation, converts it to an NFT, and uses those assets to create the experience you see in these exhibits.
“How about that?” Fenway said. “Real art.”
Piper studied the painting. “Yes. I like the use of color. Unexpected.” She shot a glance at Fenway. “Not exactly using technology in a new way, though.”
They trudged through six more exhibits, Piper’s tutting and grumbling becoming more pronounced as they walked, especially as they encountered a stray cardboard box or a piece of packing foam.
“We sure paid a lot of money for a museum that looks so unfinished,” Piper muttered.
“Probably need it for all the slip-and-fall lawsuits,” Fenway said, moving another box out of the way with her foot.
The last room was huge, like a warehouse. A long bench stood on one side of the warehouse room. Beanbags and floor pillows filled the vast room. Must be a nightmare for a germaphobe.
An enormous screen took up the wall opposite the bench, at least fifty feet high, filled with swirling, whirling shapes. Fenway stared, blinked, and stared again. What were those shapes? Floating books, open with the spines cracked? Thousands of them, appearing to flap wings and float in and out from the sky. At first, the flapping units looked like a flock of birds, but quickly turned into two distinct groups that lengthened vertically.
But the shapes moved too quickly, and the resolution of the film wasn’t good enough for Fenway to figure out what the shapes were. Piper, her scowl now deeply etched on her face, stood next to Fenway, her arms crossed.
“More NFTs.” Disdain dripped from Piper’s whisper.
“The birds?” Fenway whispered back.
Piper nodded. “They’re all NFTs. All loaded onto a cloud-based server and displayed on this large screen.”
“Who’s the artist?”
Piper pursed her lips. “It’s listed as Vaughn Trask, if you can believe it. Not only is he the founder of this museum, he sells most of the NFTs here and he’s the artist behind this steaming pile of—”
The door behind them opened. A white couple, the man in his late fifties and the woman in her early forties—entered the space. They dressed like tourists: the man in an aloha shirt, khaki shorts, and sandals; the woman in faded jeans and a tank top with the famous neon Las Vegas welcome sign at the top and “If You Win It, I’ll Spend It” in a bold font underneath. The man’s sunburned face wore a scowl that almost rivaled Piper’s. The woman’s eyes were wide, staring at the large screen.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” the woman said, her voice full of wonder.
The man grunted. “Me neither.”
The woman frowned and hooked her arm around the man’s elbow. “Now, Stan, don’t be like that. You can see the work Vaughn put into this.”
“Can you?” Stan said. “There’s a lot of darkness and some big screens and a lot of words on the wall I don’t understand. You might see art in those weird lights. I see my money going up in smoke.”
“Keep your voice down.”
“Sorry.” Stan continued speaking, but Fenway could no longer make out his words, although his tone was rushed, urgent, angry.
Piper leaned to the side and whispered in Fenway’s ear. “I think that’s Dr. Stanley Schup.”
Fenway grunted. “You’re making me feel old. I don’t know who that is, either.”
“President of Brush & Charcoal Venture Partners. A private equity firm specializing in art-related startups.” A smile touched the corner of Piper’s mouth. “He won an auction at La Vincenza for one of those Renfros you were talking about.”
“So he knows art.”
“He knows what makes money.” Piper stifled a giggle. “Schup posted to Photoxio—he’d donated the Renfro to his rich friend’s foundation. His rich friend hung it upside down. Lots of people made fun of it online.”
Fenway glanced over at the couple, the man becoming more animated. “Come on,” she said, “let’s get out of here.”
“I wanted to be inspired,” Piper mumbled, walking toward the exit and ducking behind the blackout curtain.
Fenway followed a few feet behind Piper, then paused. “I don’t care if he...” Schup said, then lowered his voice.
Fenway listened closely, standing a few feet behind the curtain. She looked out of the corner of her eye at Schup, whose voice had increased in volume again.
“…thinks he’s going to get any more money out of me, he’s sorely mistaken.”
Oof. Fenway turned away before the couple caught her eavesdropping, ducked under the blackout curtain, and pushed the door open into the bright light of the foyer.
“…don’t know how you think you can get away with it!” Piper shouted to Fenway’s left.
Fenway blinked, disoriented, her eyes not used to the bright light. She was blinded for a moment as Piper continued to yell.
“You’ve taken work by real artists and you’ve reduced their work to a label flying around on a screen!”
“Miss,” another voice said, “please lower your voice.”
“Nonsense, Roberto,” a third voice said, this one deep and rumbling. “This is exactly what the NN0V8 museum is here for. Discussion. Transformation.”
Fenway’s eyes started adjusting to the brightness. To her left, Piper stood in front of two men, one the person who took their ticket money, and the other a tall white man in a tailored suit with a pink-and-blue dress shirt with an oversized collar, open at the neck, no tie. The ticket-taker looked horrified; the man in the suit looked amused.
“Transformation? You’ve transformed art into nothing!” Piper’s left hand was at her side, clenched in a fist, and her right hand gripped the purse strap around her shoulder so tightly, her knuckles were white.
“And perhaps that’s what makes NN0V8 such a unique experience,” the man in the suit responded coolly.
“I’m not just a visitor,” Piper said. “I’m an investor. And you’re not just transforming art into nothing—you’re transforming my investment into nothing.” She stamped her foot like a toddler who wasn’t getting her way. “This is theft, Mr. Trask. It might be legal, but make no mistake. This is theft.”
Fenway’s eyes focused on a group of five people gathered inside the front entrance, gaping at Piper’s outburst. A woman in front of the group had her phone out.
Pointed straight at Piper.
Chapter Two
Oh no.
Whatever Piper thought she was doing, she was losing this battle. Fenway stepped forward and took Piper by the elbow.
“Fenway,” Piper snapped, “what are you—”
“You’ll end up getting doxxed if you don’t shut your mouth and leave,” Fenway murmured into Piper’s ear. “You’re being recorded, and you’ll end up as one of those crazy-lady-yells-at-employees videos on Photoxio.”
“But that’s Vaughn Trask, and he can’t get away with—”
“I don’t care,” Fenway hissed, pulling Piper into the gift shop, out of range of the phone camera. “You might be right, and you might have an excellent point, but if that woman posts that video without context, you’ll look like an entitled white woman yelling at employees. It won’t end well for you.”
“I—”
Fenway kept maneuvering Piper through the gift shop, toward the exit, and finally out the door. The heat of the desert smacked Fenway in the face, but she pushed forward with Piper at her side, past the red Alfa Romeo and into the parking lot.
“I had something to say, Fenway.”
Fenway continued walking, almost pushing Piper forward. “And you have every right to say it, but it doesn’t mean it’s a good idea. I dealt with Barry Klein and the stupid politics of small towns and the internet way too much over the last year. Viewers won’t give you the benefit of the doubt in that video. You scared the bejeezus out of the guy who took our tickets.”
Piper shook Fenway’s arm off, though she kept walking forward. “I’m sick and tired of shutting my mouth to make other people comfortable.” She turned to glare at Fenway. “And you should be too. Vaughn Trask is ripping people off, and someone needs to say something about it.”
“I don’t care about anybody’s comfort level,” Fenway said, more firmly now that they were almost halfway through the NN0V8 parking lot. “I care about optics. It looked like you were lecturing an employee on your opinion of what the museum would be.”
Piper stopped. “Well, so what?”
“Because I don’t want a video to go viral.” Fenway kept eye contact with Piper. “And I don’t want you to be the poster child for yelling at employees.”
“I didn’t—”
“That’s what it looks like, Piper.”
Piper frowned. “Agree to disagree, I guess.”
“You spent a hundred bucks on something that disappointed you. I get it.” A bead of sweat, this time at Fenway’s temple, dripped down the side of her face. “But the recording won’t show what you spent. The guy in the suit—”
“That was Vaughn Trask.”
“The guy in the suit wasn’t facing the camera,” Fenway continued. “No one will see the smug look on his face. They’ll see you shouting at two employees telling you to lower your voice.”
Piper exhaled in exasperation.
“I’ve been there,” Fenway said. “I’ve been right, but I sometimes need to shut the hell up to help my cause.” She gave Piper a small smile. “Even when I was in the right. It’s not about making others comfortable, it’s about survival.”
Piper kicked the ground with her sneaker.
“Come on, Piper. When you were working at the sheriff’s office, you were right, but HR forced you to resign anyway.”
Piper was quiet. “I guess I see your point.”
They both turned toward the parking lot exit and began walking, threading their way between the cars and SUVs.
“I still think I’m right, though—” Then the strap on Piper’s purse slipped off her shoulder and she squeaked as she tried but failed to catch it on the way down. A few items spilled out of the top of her purse—the key ring, a small tube of lip balm, and more, glinting in the harsh sunlight.
Piper cursed loudly.
“It’s fine.” Fenway bent down and retrieved the lip balm before it could roll underneath a white SUV.
Piper grabbed her keys and a few other items and dumped them back in her purse, then stuck her lower lip out and exhaled loudly, the red hair above her forehead ruffling.
“Got everything?” Fenway asked.
“Let’s just go,” Piper said.
Fenway nodded.
They walked in silence for a few minutes before Fenway spoke again. “Did you really invest—”
“I believed in their approach,” Piper said. “McVie gave me a bonus, and I wanted to do something good with it.”
“So you invested in an art museum? This art museum?”
“Better than a hedge fund.” Piper thrust her chin out. “Or so I thought.”
“Okay, I get it.” Fenway cleared her throat. “Can I ask—what were you expecting to see?”
“Something immersive. Something new. Maybe to experience myself inside some of the art pieces using technology. Maybe something interactive.”
“Well, those lights were activated—”
Piper scoffed. “Please. A five-year-old with a My First Science Project kit could set up a sensor to make lights turn on.” Piper kicked at the ground. “I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this.”
Fenway paused. “So—dinner? We can complain about the museum over a good meal.”
Piper groaned, pulling her purse strap back up onto her shoulder. “After all that, I’m not sure I’m hungry.”
“Huh. I thought with you getting so angry, you would’ve worked up quite an appetite.”
Piper shrugged.
“Maybe you’ll feel differently when we get to the restaurant,” Fenway said. “After that terrible museum, I need something satisfying. I’m thinking the enchilada plate at the Mexican place just past the museum. Can’t replace a bowl of chips and salsa with an NFT.”
“I guess I could use a cold drink,” Piper muttered.
“Yes. A margarita. On the rocks.”
“I meant like an ice water. Because it’s so hot.”
“Sure,” Fenway said, “you can have one of those too.”
Six empty margarita glasses between the two of them. Fenway signed the credit card receipt and pushed the payment tray to the center of the table.
“See?” Fenway said. “You were hungry.”
Piper pushed herself to her feet and tottered slightly. “Oh,” she said. “That was—those drinks were a little stronger than I thought.”
Fenway stood up. They’d been there almost two hours, and the burrito in her stomach was working overtime to soak up the tequila in the margaritas. She was steady on her feet—plus, she’d had three glasses of water, too, so she knew she wouldn’t have a hangover tomorrow. Driving was out of the question—or she wouldn’t have felt comfortable getting behind the wheel, anyway—but an early alarm and ten hours of driving tomorrow shouldn’t be a problem. She checked her watch—eight fifteen—then grinned at Piper. “I’m just glad you’re feeling better.”
“Yeah, it’s just the hopes and dreams of my whole life, completely shattered.” Piper’s words were a little slurred, but not bad; she might be tipsy, but not drunk. “The marriage of technology and art, destroyed in an hour of walking through a shitty museum.”
“Three cheers to late-stage capitalism,” Fenway said, offering Piper her elbow. She might only be tipsy, but Fenway wasn’t taking any chances, especially with the purse-spilling incident in the parking lot. “I say we go back to the hotel room and go to sleep. We have a long drive tomorrow.”
“I can take the first shift,” Piper mumbled.
“Sure,” Fenway said. They’d cross that bridge when they got to it.
Holding onto Fenway but trying desperately to look like she wasn’t, Piper took a few uncertain steps, then steadied herself. They left the Mexican restaurant and turned right on the sidewalk toward the Cartwheel Hotel & Casino.
