AN: I'm sincerely grateful to Tesub Calle, for her great insight into an artist's relationship with his or her work. Thanks, TC!

The Rainbow Lake

Chapter 2

Tony didn't have to search his memory for long. He remembered the small, slight apprentice from ESCD, and then recalled that she was the person who'd been locked in with Ziva, as the drug thieves made their escape. Heck, he was never likely to forget his team-mate's incandescent fury at being caught like that.

Now, as he checked out the rest of the apartment, the youngster wailed Ziva's name, and flew, sobbing into her arms. As his partner led the girl over to a long wooden bench against the wall, and sat hugging her, he reflected how much she had changed. When he first knew her, she would have gone stiff with repugnance at the thought of such physical contact; and he smiled inside at the objective tenderness that was gradually calming Sunita down.

Sunita… Sue…It was a very small world. Quinky-dink? Gibbs would say no. He'd double check, of course, but his gut simply had him feeling sorry for the scrap of teenager who'd no sooner been involved in one case, than another was breaking her heart.

Her friends called her Sunny, or Nita, or Sita, or Sue… she was talking too much, but they recognised shock, and let her run on. They liked Sunny, so it stuck. She was eighteen, "Nearly nineteen," and she'd been dating Jamie, mostly long-distance, foralmost a year.

"Long enough to love each other," she said desolately.

"How did you meet?" Tony asked, giving the impression of idle curiosity; but it was all good background information.

"My brother Arjun joined the Corps; we went to his passing out day, and Jamie was painting the scene. I sat and watched him for nearly an hour before I got up the courage to speak to him." The tears welled again, and Tony dug out a clean handkerchief.

"Sunny, what brought you here when you found out what had happened?" he asked as he handed it over.

"It was his wish," she said simply. "But… I thought if I ever had to do it, it would be because he died in battle, not like this!"

"To do what?"

She looked at him with those huge brown eyes and swallowed desperately as she struggled for control.

"Sunny," Ziva urged her gently, "Perhaps you should start at the beginning."

Tony closed the front door, and went to the tiny kitchen alcove to rustle up some warm drinks, as Sunny nodded. She took a deep breath, and began her story.

"I live with my parents, which is fine while I'm stationed here, but I spend a lot of my time here, even if Jamie is… even when he was away. He gave me a key. He knew he could trust me, and I kept it well hidden so no-one could steal it. You see… we never really said as much, because he was never vain, but we both knew he'd be great. That he'd be famous one day…" She waved her hand at the studio. "All this would be worth something… he already pays the rent on this place all year round by selling his work. Paid."

She choked back another tearing sob. "D'you know how much more valuable an artist's stuff becomes if he dies? The ghouls come flocking…" She paused and looked at them both wide eyed. "Was he working on something when he died? At that moment, I mean?"

Ziva nodded solemnly. "A view of the Arlington Bridge… we think he was just sketching to pass the time."

"It'll be worth stupid money now," the youngster said viciously. "Just because he'll never finish it…" The Israeli put her arm round her comfortingly again.

"You were telling us that Jamie trusted you," she prompted.

Sunny nodded. "He had a few gallery owners he trusted, who sold his pieces. All of those works had provenance, and can be accounted for. When he was at college, he drew for his friends; he drew for his marine buddies too. He signed and dated all his stuff. It wasn't ego, people used to ask him to. Anyway, all of that has moved beyond his control, legitimately. But his other work… he valued it because he'd put himself into it. He said that if anything happened to him, and it's specified in his will," Again she had to pause to steady herself, "He wanted me to take charge of it. Apart from a few named works for particular friends, I'm to see that everything is kept together, authenticated, and sold publicly. The money raised is to go to named charities."

She looked round the room again. "He thought this would only be if he were to be killed on active duty… he asked me, and again it's in his will, to destroy everything that wasn't finished, and I… I will, but in the mean time I'm going to make sure it's all kept safe from the vultures. He knew he could die, and what would happen… and, you see, there are a few that he didn't like when he'd half done them… he didn't think they were good enough… the sketches he tore up, the paintings he kept to re-use the canvas. But if he didn't think they were worth seeing, he wasn't going to let them be seen."

She pointed to the grille on the roof-light. "He put that on; it folded back when he was paintingto let more light in. The window to the fire escape is in the passage outside; there's a sheer drop under this one." She pointed to the long window along the side of the studio area. "He strengthened the door and put a decent lock on it. I said he wasn't vain… but he was… proprietorial, I suppose you'd say. He didn't want the wrong people getting his work." She looked round. "The place is as secure as he could make it."

Tony put a mug of hot, sweet tea into her hand. "Jamie really did trust you, to charge you with something so important," he told her.

"I never thought I'd have to do it," the teenager said raggedly. "My Jamie…" the tears ran silently down her face. Ziva held her comfortingly, and Tony called Gibbs.

"I reckon we need you both here, Boss… there's a lot of stuff that needs protecting. And a young lady…" He explained briefly what Sunita had told them, Gibbs grunted an 'on our way' and hung up. Tony knelt on the floor in front of Sunny and took her hands.

"Jamie's car has gone to our forensics expert," he told her. "Everything that was in the trunk has become evidence, including the pencil sketches that were there, and the one that Ziva mentioned. I was thinking that any one of the works here could carrysome clue; they're evidence too, they need to be gone through…"

"You're saying," Sunita said slowly, "That they'd be safer there than here with only me to protect them."

"In a nutshell, yes. You think so too, don't you?"

"I guess I do… somebody killed him…"

"Well, what I said is true; there could be some information to be found, so it could be that we have to take it all. But I'm thinking of you too, sweetheart. You don't need to be single-handedly guarding stuff that could be worth hundreds of thousands of dollars – or maybe more. Do you trust us?"

"Yes."

"Good girl." He patted her hands and released them. "D'you have an inventory?"

Sunny stood up shakily, went to a fairly old computer on a table in a corner, and powered up. "I'll show you," she said. "Jamie was meticulous… here we are. I used to help him keep it up to date…"

A tear splatted down on the keyboard, and Ziva said concernedly, "Are you sure you want to do this just now?"

"Yes." She smiled, a heartbroken, wry smile. "I have a strong fatalistic streak – my Hindu background, I suppose. You were sent to me when I was wondering what to do, and now I know. I'll fall apart later."

Tony peered over her shoulder. There was a list of all the works that Jamie had sold or given away. A star meant sold; the more numerous un-starred pieces had been given away. "That doesn't include anything he did in school, or quick things for his friends before he began to realise he was good."

There was a list of works in progress. "That's going to be important now," Sunnysaid sadly. "Then there's the big list of completed work… I'm better with computers thanJamie, so I've set it up in different ways, alphabetical, chronological, medium, subject, and cross-referenced them all."

Tony nodded approvingly; she was scarcely more than a child, but she knew what she was doing. He was going to ask how many they'd have to take away, when he noticed that Ziva had gone still and was looking at the front door, reaching for her gun. He fell silent, put his finger on his lips, and pulled Sunny to her feet. He steered her over to the archway into the bathroom, pushed her in and shut the door. Drawing his gun he went back to Ziva.

The scratching sound suggested that someone was trying to pick the lock. Ziva stood behind the door and began to turn the deadbolt lever slowly. There was nothing else to do, although she knew that the movement might alert the would-be burglar. Sure enough, they heard a surprised expletive from the passage outside, then the sound of running feet. Ziva abandoned caution and yanked the door open; Tony exploded through it, and took a microsecond to listen, as the window to the fire escape stood open. Clanking footsteps came from below, and he leapt through it onto the metal staircase.

He went jumping and sliding down, but he knew that the motorbike sitting at the foot of the ladder was going to make his efforts futile. He tried to get a clear shot at the bike, but the metal stairs made it difficult, and he didn't want to kill either the fugitive or himself with a ricochet, so he kept on plunging downwards. He didn't get a clear shot at the Honda until it was accelerating away; but he still gave the back tyre his best shot. The rear wheel wobbled and skidded dangerously, but the rider kept control until he was about two hundred yards away, when he braked, jumped off and ran. As he disappeared into a shopping area, Tony said something rude, gave up the chase and holstered his gun.

Clearly someone had called the cops, because there was the sound of an approaching siren, so he was able to turn the bike over to LEOs and get back to Ziva quite quickly; nevertheless he had more sense than not to phone her first to let her know what had happened, so there were two faces looking down through the high window as he climbed up. Ziva looked him up and down suspiciously, checking for damage.

"I'm fine, sweetcheeks. It was me who fired the shot, remember?" Any smart retort was forestalled by the arrival of Gibbs in an agency car, Balboa's team in another, and then the NCIS truck, driven by McGee.

Balboa's team carried very obvious, very large, no messing shotguns, and two of them took up positions at the bottom of the fire escape. Balboa and his SFA made their way up to the top of the building with Gibbs.

"So… took ya at your word. 'Hundreds of thousands of dollars – or maybe more', right?"

"Worth murdering for, Boss. But the evidence thing isn't just a ploy. We're protecting a Marine's legacy here – for the sake of justice, and the benefit of other –"

Gibbs actually put a reassuring hand on his SFA's shoulder. "I get it, Tony. McGee got me a look at the will. He also had the legal department take a look at what we're doing, and they're fine with that. A lot of money for really good causes… How's the little girl bearing up?"

"Brave, determined. She'll do what she has to." He filled the Boss in on the story so far. "LEOs are taking the bike to Abby. I… er, I figured we'd best check everything against the inventory, and take it back with us."

"OK… McGee to help Ms Vaz?"

Tony's smile as he realised that the Boss was letting him make the decisions wasalmost shy. "I thought so, Boss. Good idea bringing the truck, by the way. It's a big job… maybe forty paintings, twelve folders of pastel drawings, dozens of sketchbooks, and the seven that Private Hope left instructions should be destroyed. Sunny – Apprentice Vas – will do that as soon as they've been processed."

"Didn't she tell you? She's been promoted. Hospital Corpsman Vas."

"Hey, no… that's good; she's a sparky kid – well, she would be. But she's in civvies, and I guess it was the last thing on her mind. Anyhows… better get on… it's a big job, and I don't know if other things are more urgent?"

"I'll fill you in on that later – Vance is keeping tabs in case anything comes up."

Tony nodded, and thanked Balboa for coming, then they got to work.

It was labour intensive, to say the least… The folders and sketchbooks were easy to handle, and not susceptible to damage, but forty paintings had to be taken care of. As the load gradually diminished, Tony came across a cloth bag against a wall; it seemed to have two small pictures, each about a foot square, inside. One was a canvas on stretchers, the other was much flatter, and in a light frame.

"Sunny… can I interrupt?" She and Tim were concentrating hard on what they were doing.

She looked at the bag and practically snatched it from him. "Those are mine!" She took in his startled reaction, and was instantly embarrassed. "Tony, I'm sorry! After you've been so kind…" She hesitated, then finally said softly, "They are mine… you… can look if you like… it's OK."

Tony's eyebrows said 'are you sure', then he lifted the two pictures out of the bag. One was a military parade. It was a vibrant picture, full of movement and living colour. "It's a smaller version of the one he was painting when we met. He did it specially for me afterwards. Turn it over."

'For Sunny; the day we met. Love, Jamie.' Both Tony and Tim smiled, but sadly.

She looked at the floor as Tony lifted out the other one. It was a pencil drawing, a portrait of her. She was sitting up in bed, naked, a sheet over her drawn up knees, which her arms circled. Her hair, which they'd never seen unbraided and let down, was loose round her shoulders, and she was looking up at the artist with those luminous eyes, in a few pencil strokes full of warmth and love. She was beautiful, and both men said so. On the corner: 'They can't tell us we're too young. I love you for ever, my Su. Jamie'

Tony squeezed her shoulder, and she put the pictures away. Nobody said anything, there wasn't really anything they could say.

The work went on for a while. They had used up almost all of the bubble wrap that Abby had sent, and were thinking they'd have to start on the bedding, when a commotion in the corridor interrupted their musings.

"I repeat, Sir, you may not enter the apartment, and if you attempt to, I will arrest you for interfering with the course of an investigation." Ziva planted herself firmly in the doorway, in front of an overweight man in his late forties, wearing a plum coloured suit with a yellow figured shirt, the cuffs of which stuck out four inches from the sleeves of the suit jacket. He had a yellow cabbage rose in his buttonhole, and the silver pin on his gold satin tie was an art deco naked woman.

"Don't be ridiculous, young woman. A great talent has been lost, and it's my duty to the nation to make sure that his work is taken care of."

Tony loomed behind Ziva. "And you are?"

The man looked affronted, but he wasn't as tall as Tony, so even drawing himself up to his full height didn't put it over as well as he might have wished. "I am Aslan O'Hare –"

Tony thought incredulously "Aslan?" C. must be turning in his grave…

"I own the Alexia Galleries in the Dupont Circle. I exhibit the finest artists in the United States; my clients include royalty…"

"And are you an executor of Private Hope's will?"

"What will? Er… I mean –"

"Apparently not. So, by means of which legal process are you here today?" Tony was really enjoying himself.

"I… Jamie Hope's work deserves the very best - "

"Ah, Miss Vas?" Tony called over his shoulder, and Sunny appeared, with Tim at her side. For the first time that day there was a glint of steel in her eyes. "This is Miss Sunita Vas, the person named by Private Hope as the executor of his will."

The art dealer gawped comically at the skinny girl in jeans and a hoodie. "That child?"

Tony was having so much fun – at the back of his mind hung the unfunny thought that this awful stereotype was not even the first of the vultures to circle over Sunita's loss, and his enjoyment turned cold and malicious inside him. "Miss Vas, this gentleman is Aslan O'Hare –" He put the very slightest emphasis on the 'Aslan' but kept his face straight.

"Yes, I recognise Mr. O'Hare."

"Is he on Jamie Hope's approved list of dealers?" Tim slipped seamlessly into the charade.

"No," Sunita said calmly. "He most certainly is not."

"I trust that's clear, then," Tony said coolly. "Perhaps you'd like to see yourself off the premises."

"Or I could escort you, of course," Tim offered. He took a step forward, but the art dealer turned without another word and stormed off. The young agent followed him down the passage for a few paces, and then turned back dismissively. Sunny high fived Tony, as everyone else in the room murmured their satisfaction. She laughed, and then collapsed against him, shaking. He led her to the bench she'd used earlier, and sat with his arm round her.

"I've got to be strong," she whispered hoarsely. "This is going to go on happening and happening, and I've got to be strong, and all I want is to cry my heart out for Jamie…"

"You don't have to be strong by yourself. You know that."

Tim sat down at her other side. "What about your parents, Sunny?"

"They're brilliant. But they're away, visiting friends for an anniversary, and if I tell them, they'll come back."

"Wouldn't they prefer that to not being told?" Tim tried not to sound too big brother.

"Probably… I'll tell them as soon as I have time. But they're in Oregon, so they couldn't get back until tomorrow anyway. I'll be fine."

Not alone, you won't, Tony thought, but he'd had a good idea, a brilliant idea if he said it himself.

Gibbs came over. "Got a problem," he said without preamble. "We've checked everything out, nothing's gone down to the truck without being double checked against the list. There's one missing."

"Missing?" Sunny shot up from the bench, and gazed around the now empty studio. All that was left was the collection of materials and equipment. "What's missing, Special Agent Gibbs?"

"This one," Ziva called from the computer. The last completed work listed… an oil painting –"

Sunny pressed her hands to her face. "No…" she whispered. "The Rainbow Lake…"

AN: The title was given me by Imogen, aged nearly five, who drew me a picture of her mum and dad on bicycles, beside what she described as a rainbow lake. I asked her where the idea came from, and she gave me an old fashioned look. "My imagination." Stupid granma for not knowing that!