Chapter 46 : The Administrator Problem
Warren Cole lived in a modest house in Gotham's northern suburbs—too modest for a man with his spending habits.
The investigation had taken five days. Five days of Terry's people watching, documenting, building a picture of the man who was strangling Harleen's research. The picture that emerged was depressingly predictable: gambling addiction, expensive tastes, and a position with access to funds that weren't properly audited.
"He's in deep to three different bookies," Terry reported, spreading photos across my office desk. "Total debt is somewhere around eighty grand. He's been skimming from Arkham's research budgets for at least two years to keep his head above water."
I studied the photos. Cole at a casino in Atlantic City, chips stacked high. Cole accepting an envelope from a man I recognized as a mid-level Falcone associate—a loan shark, technically independent but connected enough to survive. Cole at a restaurant in the Diamond District, ordering wine that cost more than my first week's income in this city.
"The shell companies?"
"Three of them. He routes the stolen funds through fake vendors, then cycles them back to himself as 'consulting fees.'" Terry handed me a folder of financial documents. "All documented. The pattern is clear enough that any halfway competent auditor would catch it—if anyone ever bothered to audit."
"Who signs off on his budgets?"
"The Director. Who also happens to be Cole's brother-in-law."
Of course. Gotham's corruption always folded back on itself, family connections and political favors creating networks of protection that made accountability impossible.
"The bookies," I said. "Can we get them to cooperate?"
"Already done. They're willing to confirm the debts if needed. One of them owes us a favor from the Marco days." Terry paused. "What's the play, boss?"
I thought about Harleen. Her exhausted face in that coffee shop. The desperate hope in her eyes when I'd offered to help. The idealism that still burned in her despite everything the system threw at it.
"No direct confrontation," I said. "We let the evidence speak for itself."
Three days later, Warren Cole arrived at his office to find a manila envelope on his desk.
I wasn't there, of course. But I'd arranged for a camera to capture his reaction—the color draining from his face as he leafed through documents detailing every fraudulent transaction, every gambling debt, every piece of evidence that could end his career and send him to prison.
The note was simple:
Restore Dr. Quinzel's funding. Full budget, no restrictions. Resign from Arkham within six months. Or this goes to the DA.
You have 48 hours.
I watched the footage in my office, nursing coffee that had gone cold. Cole's hands shook. His eyes darted around his office, looking for surveillance, for threats, for anything that explained how his carefully constructed house of cards had collapsed.
He didn't find anything. He wouldn't.
Within 36 hours—faster than I'd expected—Harleen's research funding was restored. A formal memo went out describing an "accounting error" that had inadvertently redirected resources. Dr. Quinzel's rehabilitation program was declared a priority initiative, with budget protection for the next fiscal year.
Cole didn't resign immediately, but he started drinking more heavily. Started missing meetings. Started showing the signs of a man whose world was crumbling.
He'd be gone within six months. And Harleen would never know why.
The call came three days after the funding was restored.
"Darek!" Harleen's voice was bright, alive with the enthusiasm that had been crushed out of her in our last meeting. "You won't believe what happened. They restored everything! Full budget, priority status—it's like a miracle!"
"That's wonderful news." I kept my voice neutral, pleasantly surprised. "What changed?"
"Apparently it was an accounting error. Can you believe it? All this time, and it was just bureaucratic incompetence." She laughed. "I'm choosing to believe that, anyway. The alternative is too depressing."
The alternative—that someone with power had been deliberately sabotaging her work—was exactly what had happened. But she didn't need to know that. She needed to believe in the system, at least a little. Needed to think that sometimes things worked out through normal channels.
"I'm happy for you," I said. "You deserve this."
"I don't know how I'll ever repay you. You've been such a good friend through all of this."
"Stay safe. That's repayment enough."
"You keep saying that." Her voice softened. "Is everything okay? You sound... I don't know. Tired."
"Running a business takes it out of you sometimes." Not entirely a lie. "But I'm fine. Really."
"Well, if you ever need to talk, I'm here. You've listened to me complain enough—it's only fair I return the favor."
We said our goodbyes. I set down the phone and stared at the wall.
The guilt was unexpected. I'd helped her—genuinely helped, without violence, without permanent damage to anyone. Cole would lose his position, but he'd done that to himself through years of corruption. Harleen's research would continue, her patients would benefit, everything I'd wanted had been achieved.
But I'd manipulated her life without her knowledge or consent. Made decisions about what she should believe, what she should know, what was best for her.
"Is that protection or control?"
The question had no clean answer. I was her friend, yes. But I was also trying to be her guardian, protecting her from a fate she didn't know existed. Every choice I made for her—every piece of information I hid—was another brick in a wall between truth and safety.
"The Joker. That's what this is about. Everything I'm doing, every manipulation and secret, is about keeping her away from him."
The reminder helped. Whatever moral compromises I was making, they were for a purpose that mattered. Harleen Quinzel didn't have to become Harley Quinn. That future wasn't inevitable—not if I was careful, not if I was clever, not if I was willing to make the hard choices.
Selina found me in the office an hour later, still staring at the wall.
"Successful mission?" she asked, settling into the chair across from me.
"Harleen's funding is restored. The man responsible will be gone within six months."
"Then why do you look like you just committed murder?"
"Because I didn't." I met her eyes. "And somehow that feels more complicated."
She studied me for a long moment. "You're protecting her. Whoever this Harleen is, you're trying to save her from something."
"How do you know?"
"Because I recognize that look. It's the same one you had when you came for me in that penthouse." She reached across the desk, took my hand. "Just remember—you can't save everyone. And sometimes the people you're trying to protect don't want to be saved."
"I know."
"Do you?"
I didn't have an answer. She squeezed my hand and let the silence stand.
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