In 2016, Alex Segura introduced us to a different kind of private investigator. Not slick, not cocky, not the smooth dude with all the answers, shrouded in a haze of cigarette smoke and mystery, candy on his arm. When we first meet Pete Fernandez in Silent City he’s hungover—or maybe still a little drunk—and definitely not the kind of guy you’d want to hire to navigate the dark Miami underworld and locate your missing daughter. Pete’s five-book narrative arc opens with him at rock bottom—his father dead, his girl gone, barely hanging on to a job and swilling peach schnapps until his face hits the floor. Three years later, and after subjecting our unlikely P.I. to one roller coaster of a story after another, Segura is bringing Pete home in the saga’s final installment, Miami Midnight.
Just as Pete Fernandez has grown—through heartbreak and love, trial and redemption—so, too, has the world Segura creates for him with every new crime. While Miami Midnight brings Pete’s story to a close, it also opens up a new case with the added dimensions of music and the Miami mob. If this last book is Pete’s swan song, I’d think it’s fair to say he goes out with a bang.
Steph Post: Alright, let’s just dive right on in the deep end. Miami Midnight is the fifth, and last, Pete Fernandez novel. Readers have been following your Miami PI for a few years now and with this final installment, the curtain falls on Pete, the lights dim and the show packs up and goes home. Is this knowledge bittersweet for you? Does a part of you find it hard to let go of Pete? Or do you feel confident that it’s time to put Pete to rest?
Alex Segura: You know, I’m torn, because on one hand, I’m excited to move on and do other things in terms of novels, but as I started to wind down the story of Miami Midnight I found my pace slowing, because I was starting to savor writing these characters, and I’d have moments where I’d think to myself, “this might be the last time you write Pete and Kathy together” or “this could be your last Dave scene,” and that’s when I realized how big a part of my life these characters have been over the last decade, almost. That said, when I set out to write Silent City, I wanted to write a story that felt unique and compelling to me—the origin story of the series PI. I was less interested in the “case of the week/evergreen” story, where it’s more about a given adventure and less about the person. And with Miami Midnight, I feel like I did that. Pete goes out in a meaningful way, and I also leave things in a way that if, down the line, I get a story that I can only tell as a Pete novel, I still can.
It’s funny, because with every Pete book, there’s a point in the writing, usually in the first draft, where I think, “I can just kill him, and that’ll really take people by surprise!” Reason and logic usually ends up pulling me back, even if Blackout, the fourth Pete novel, ends with his “demise.” My point is, the best characters are the ones that frustrate you, that make you want to engage with them, even if it means screaming at them. And Pete is like that. He’s a good guy, he means well, he’s talented and smart, but sometimes he can be really frustrating. That’s part of the appeal, I think.
Because I love Pete—and I’ve recently experienced writing my own series wrap-up, so I completely understand the complicated relationship you can have with a character spanning a string of books—let’s take a minute to roast Pete. He is a good guy, but I’d love for you to elaborate on how he can be frustrating. What really drives you crazy when you’re writing him? And what charms of his do you think can set other characters’ teeth on edge? As you say, the best characters are the ones that we want to engage with, even if we’re unabashedly shouting at the book in a crowded, public place.
I love this, yeah, because he is a really good guy, at heart. He means well. But he can be stubborn and thick-headed, and he will throw caution to the wind if he’s got the scent of something. That’s his best and worst trait—he can be fearless. Yet, like any recovering addict, he isolates sometimes and he pushes people away. But that’s what I love about him—he’s complicated and not just a hero. He’s very human, and I love that about him.
I can remember way back, when I first read Silent City and interviewed you about the novel. I was immediately struck by your usage and inclusion of music in the narrative. Now, with Miami Midnight, you’re directly referencing music with part of your plot centering on the murder of a jazz pianist and the recovery of his wife. So, to revisit history, what first prompted you to include musical references in your novels? And did those early inclusions lead finally to a character who is a musician?
I wish there was some overarching plan, but with any book I write, I just put all the things I’m obsessing about in a blender, call it research, and hope it smooths out into a novel. But you’re right, music has always been a big part of the series, for a few reasons. Many of my favorite PI series, books like the Nick Stefanos books or Harry Bosch (though he’s a cop, not a PI, most of the time), feature an element of music. Stefanos stumbles around listening to DC punk. Bosch plays jazz while pondering his next case. Music is a big part of my life and I wanted that to be reflected in Pete’s world, too. I’m a fan, I’ve played in bands, gone to tons of shows, even written rock comics. So it was fun to imbue Pete with some of that. I try to do it organically, in that the musical references don’t feel forced, but just blend in with the story.
“I wanted to write a novel about loss and evolving and seeing others fall along the same path, and how that affects someone, namely Pete, who’s been struggling to stay sober and alive for years…”The idea to weave music into the actual plot of the book came about because I got really obsessed with jazz. I mean, I’ve always been a fan, but over the last few years I’ve started taking jazz piano lessons and really immersing myself in the history of the genre, and there are so many tragic, conflicted figures in jazz history. I loved the idea of Pete having to investigate the murder of someone like that. I wanted to write a novel about loss and evolving and seeing others fall along the same path, and how that affects someone, namely Pete, who’s been struggling to stay sober and alive for years and finally decides—“I’m done, I’m retired.” So what would be big enough to not only pull him out of this stasis, but also make it clear to him that this is what he’s meant to do? Weaving all that into the final installment felt right, and it also made the story more meaningful to write.
Was there any specific figure in the history of jazz that really captivated your attention? I know that with research, we probably use only ten percent of all that we read and learn, so there’s always this leftover information rattling around after a novel has been completed. Is there are musician who you read so much about that he or she began to haunt you? Or, at the very least, make you want to learn more?
There were a few that went into the creation of Javier Mujica. Bill Evans, who, if you’re a jazz fan, is one of the iconic pianists of the last century. Just definitive. So talented and versatile, whether doing his own solo stuff or in a trio. But he also battled depression, heroin addiction, and myriad family tragedies. That duality, of this supreme talent who was mired in such darkness, really stuck with me. Lennie Tristano, not as well-known, also played a role. He was a really gifted piano player who just disappeared—became a hermit, basically, put out these bootleg releases and just taught piano toward the end of his life and it got me to wonder what switch flipped in his head to make him step back from the spotlight and go deeply into seclusion. Javier isn’t as driven to hide away, but I sprinkled in some of Tristano’s story into his creation.
I’m probably about to make a lot of enemies here, but if we’re going to talk about music, and jazz music in particular, I might as well admit it—I’m not a fan. Jazz has always seemed too jarring for me, too lost. I’ve never been able to sink my teeth into it. I once heard someone say that jazz is difficult for some people to listen to because there’s nothing to hold on to. It’s slippery and unpredictable. I have a feeling that those exact characteristics are why so many people are drawn to the genre and I’m wondering if this is true for you. Because while I don’t enjoy listening to most jazz, I am fascinated by it, perhaps intrigued by the madness behind the notes. How do you personally feel about jazz?
I love it, but it wasn’t something that came quickly. In college I remember making a concerted effort to listen to the “classics” to figure out what I was missing—like Mingus’ Ah Um or Miles’s Birth of the Cool. It just didn’t stick, and part of the problem was that I was trying to absorb jazz into my existing “database,” for lack of a better term. I was trying to make sense of something that by its own nature doesn’t make sense. It’s the Wild West. There’s too much that is jazz, or could be jazz, to properly define jazz itself.
But I don’t think you’re far off—there’s a chaos to jazz, but there’s also an inherent, loose structure that’s really soothing, if you catch it. It’s not as natural as, say, a chorus, but it’s as clear as a riff that comes back to signal the end of the song.
The thing about jazz, like baseball, rock music, and comics, is that it’s a wholly American idea. It’s a fairly recent art form, a product of the blues and New Orleans, and it’s also such a wide-reaching term. I think jazz can be very daunting to people, because you don’t know where to begin. You don’t know what counts and what’s good. But that’s also the fun of it—if you like it, it’s good to you. Rock and hip hop and other genres are also complicated and have lots of nooks and crannies, but jazz has also kind of receded a bit from the spotlight, so it almost feels more underground than it ever was. But my point is±—once I liberated myself to just enjoy the jazz I liked, the jazz that spoke to me, I came to respect and understand the rest. I’m pretty OCD about music in that I want to hear everything an artist’s released or compare and contrast albums to see what else was going on, but with jazz there’s just so much, it’s impossible. So I found myself settling into a basic groove of bebop and cool jazz. Miles Davis Quintet, John Coltrane, Cannonball Adderly, Bill Evans, Wayne Shorter, Stan Getz, Art Blakey, Chet Baker, to name a few. I also read a lot of great books on jazz, including three essential books by jazz musician and historian, Ted Gioia—The History of Jazz, How to Listen to Jazz, and The Imperfect Art.
Over the past few years you’ve come to define Miami crime fiction and noir. As a Miami native, the city is in your blood and it shows in your writing. While I’m sure you still had to do some research to create a city as a character almost as complex as Pete or Kathy, I doubt it’s comparable to the amount of research you’ve had to do on the inner workings of different branches of the mafia, which Pete has had considerable dealings with throughout the course of this series and carrying over into Miami Midnight. So, how does one go about researching the mob? I’m hoping for an undercover infiltration story, or at least a sit down with a boss in a greasy dinner somewhere, but, you know, book and film titles will do if they must.
Researching the mob wasn’t easy. I mean, I love the mafia and organized crime in terms of the pure, Shakespearean drama of it, and how it’s evolved over the decades. It’s something I always wanted to write about, and I got the chance to plant the seeds for what would be happening in Miami Midnight toward the end of Blackout with Pete’s confrontation in the final chapter, and how it tied into his time in New York. It sounds creepy to say I’ve been a “mafia fan,” because it’s nothing to really cheer, but The Godfather was one of the first novels I remember reading, at probably too young an age, and that lead me to true crime tell-alls, like Sammy “the Bull” Gravano’s Underboss or Nick Pileggi’s Wiseguy, not to mention the movies those books were based on.
Jumping in for a second just to say—it’s not creepy. I have a dog named Vito Corleone. I get it…
So great! I never knew Vito was a Corleone. We need to talk Godfather the next time we hang out. But yeah, the mob just became an ongoing obsession, like the Kennedy assassination(s)—when a new book comes out about either thing, I’ll buy it. But for Miami Midnight, I didn’t want it to just be Pete vs. the Mafia, because that felt like a stretch. And I’d just finished reading T.J. English’s great The Corporation, which tells the story of the Cuban mob in the 80s up through today, and it just felt like such a natural thread to weave into the story. I had this vision of an aging Cuban gangster desperate to get a painting back, and seeking vengeance for the death of his son, who wasn’t interested in the family business, instead choosing to play jazz piano in dank, dark and off-the-beaten-path Miami clubs.
The one book I point to as important for anyone wanting to get a sense of the Italian mob is Selwyn Raab’s Five Families: The Rise, Decline, and Resurgence of America’s Most Powerful Mafia Empires. It’s just so comprehensive and still human and memorable. It feels like his grand, life’s work. I’ve read it a few times. It’s a doorstop, but you never feel like it’s boring. And it covers everything.
But like I said, I didn’t want it to just be Pete against the Italian mob, so I wanted to include not only Cuban crime elements, but give the whole book a more international scope that tied into what’s happened before with Pete. For that, I went back to McMafia, a book that’s a decade old, but still super-relevant. The book is written like a taut drama, which is impressive because the author, Misha Glenny, hops all over the world and gives you a peek at every rung of the underworld ladder, from the bosses to the foot soldiers. It’s terrifying because you see just how far-reaching the tentacles of organized crime are, and how helpless we are against it.
One thing that has always struck me as interesting—and fresh—about Pete Fernandez is his relationship with Dave, the owner of a used bookstore. As Miami Midnight opens, Pete is working at The Book Bin as he picks up the pieces of his life in Miami and tries to move on from the events of Blackout. What prompted you to initially include this side of Pete’s life and to eventually bring him around to being a bookseller, albeit one who also investigates crimes? Could this be a meta moment? As a writer, is this side of Pete perhaps a nod to yourself?
I think it was something George Pelecanos did, in passing, for Terry Quinn—who was one of the protagonists of his Strange/Quinn quartet of DC crime novels. I remember reading it and thinking “wow, what a cool gig to give a PI!” And so, when Pete loses his newspaper job in Silent City, it felt like a good fit. I don’t think I envisioned how important a role the place would play, though. The Book Bin is loosely based on a used bookstore I used to frequent in Miami, The Book Barn, which has sadly since closed.
But yes, it does allow for some meta commentary. In Miami Midnight, for example, Pete picks up a copy of Bill Boyle’s The Lonely Witness as he’s heading to his office. It just gives me a chance to shout out people I admire, and I think Bill is one of the best of us.
When I pick up a novel, I read all parts of it—glancing at the copyright page if it’s an older book and going all the way to the acknowledgments page to see if I know anyone listed. Of course, I immediately recognized your epigraph quoting crime writer master Laura Lippman. Most authors tend to use epigraphs from works of a previous age. In this case, you’re quoting from a book written by one of your contemporaries. One of things I love the most about the crime fiction community is its close-knit, supportive nature and I couldn’t help but think that including Lippman’s lines was in some way a nod to the connections built around our community. Was this your intention?
Oh, yes. For sure. Laura has been a huge influence, mentor, I dare say friend and just, in general, someone I look to for inspiration. I love her books, of course, but I also think she’s just a great person. She evolves, is open to change and isn’t afraid of talking about difficult things. I stan Laura Lippman, is what I’m saying. But seriously, I’ve tried to, in my own way, thank the people who helped me get here via those epigraphs—like Pelecanos, Dennis Lehane, and so on. Authors I admire who help make up Pete’s DNA. There’s a bit of Nick Stefanos, Pat Kenzie and Angie Gennaro, Tess Monaghan and, to a degree, Bernie Gunther, in everything Pete does.
I’m a big fan of the idea of thanking people while you can, though, so your point about quoting contemporaries is spot-on. I will gush to author friends if I feel they’ve helped me, even with just a kind word or something they’ve written. I think it’s important to let people know they’re doing good work while they’re around, instead of only celebrating them while they’re gone. There’s so much great crime fiction being written now, so many great, unique and diverse voices coming out and enjoying their time in the sun. I hope we can celebrate them meaningfully.
