Excerpted from "Clever Fox" by Jeanine Pirro. Copyright © 2013 Judge Jeanine Pirro, Inc. Published by Hyperion. Available wherever books are sold. All Rights Reserved.

Chapter 1

Twelve minutes before midnight, December 31, 1979

"Get ready!" Will Harris exclaimed as he wrapped his left arm around my waist while hoisting a plastic cup of champagne to his lips with his other hand. "I can't think of anyone who I'd rather be spending New Year's Eve with."

He leaned down and gently kissed my cheek.

"I feel exactly the same way," I replied.

But his comment made me curious. It sounded as if he had done a mental inventory of all the women in his life before he'd decided that I was his best choice for the evening. Or maybe that was just the prosecutor in me coming out, reading too much into what was clearly supposed to be a compliment. Maybe it was because I had been hurt and lost at love before. My former boyfriend, Bob, had taken away my faith in men. Could I ever believe a guy again? How would I know if it was real?

Both of us looked upward at the glittering ball on the rooftop of One Times Square. It was a clear night, the stars visible in a dark blue sky.

Will had wanted to spend New Year's Eve at my house in suburban White Plains, New York, lounging in front of a cozy fire counting down the final seconds of 1979 along with Dick Clark.

But I'd insisted on escaping into Manhattan to watch the ball drop in Times Square.

My name is Dani Fox and I'm an assistant district attorney in Westchester County, a wealthy suburban enclave. I'm our county's only female prosecutor. Just 110 male assistant district attorneys and me. My specialties are crimes against women and children. Two years ago, I created one of the nation's first Domestic Violence Units and I often spend my days prosecuting husbands who believe their marriage vows give them the right to beat their wives senseless.

These last few months have been especially difficult. My boyfriend, Will, is a reporter at the White Plains Daily and he chronicled several of the incidents that have turned my life topsy-turvy. My troubles began after I filed charges against Carlos Gonzales, a popular Hispanic businessman who'd beaten and raped his teenage daughter. It was a high-profile case and as soon as I got a jury to convict him, our esteemed Federal Bureau of Investigation rushed in to save him because they wanted Gonzales's help in a Manhattan drug case and that was considered more important than punishing a father for beating and raping his own daughter. The Justice Department offered Gonzales a free pass. In return for his testimony, he was told that he'd get a new identity and a fresh start in the Federal Witness Protection Program. Oh yeah, the Feds were also going to relocate his younger kids with him. I was horrified, did some digging, and discovered that this dirtbag had also murdered his wife. Her death had been considered a suicide. I got a jury to convict him again, which stopped the FBI from turning him loose. As you can imagine, that case hadn't made me any friends in the FBI.

On the same night that Gonzales was convicted, I was attacked in my own house by a deranged husband intent on carving the word bitch into my chest. Fortunately for me, Detective Tommy O'Brien, a big Irish cop who works with me at our unit, arrived just in time to stop the attack by firing a gut-ripping round of buckshot into my knife-wielding assailant.

Like I said, 1979 was a tough year.

There were some good things, though. My pet pig, Wilbur, had survived a nasty encounter with pneumonia and nearly died. And I'd started dating Will, although I doubt Will would appreciate being lumped together with my pig's nearly fatal cold when it came to recalling the year's highlights.

Being with him-Will, not Wilbur-in Times Square tonight was exactly what I needed to take my mind off the pain and suffering that I witnessed every day in my office. It is heartbreaking to see the violence that men commit against the very women whom they'd promised to love and cherish as long as they both shall live.

"Five minutes!" Will said, sounding like an excited schoolboy.

I glanced at him. No one would mistake him for a fashion model, but Will was nice looking, tall, and fit. He had a strong jaw, a mop of sandy brown hair that always seemed to need a trim, and wore wire-rim glasses that he was constantly pushing up on his nose. It was his personality that first attracted me to him. Will was curious and smart, a workaholic-just like me-and passionate about his job. If you asked Will who he worked for, he wouldn't answer with the name of the company that owned the White Plains Daily. A corporate official might have signed his paycheck, but Will said that he worked for the public.

The mob in Times Square crowded together more tightly. A tipsy, tall brunette bumped against me, spilling her champagne on my new black leather coat. I didn't complain. 'Tis the season. "Nineteen eighty is going to be our year," Will declared.

Our year? What, exactly, had he meant? There were still parts of Will that remained a mystery; parts that I felt he was keeping hidden from me. Maybe he is just more private than I am. I say what's on my mind and rarely hold anything back when I'm in a relationship. Maybe Will is just more cautious about protecting himself from being hurt.

"Ten, nine, eight, seven," everyone began chanting in unison.

Will and I joined in.

"Six, five, four."

I felt wonderful. It wasn't the cheap champagne that Will had brought with us. It was a feeling of anticipation, renewal, and saying goodbye to one hell of an awful year!

"Three, two, one!"

A roar of "Happy New Year!" enveloped us as Will pulled me close and we kissed. I stood on my toes with my hands around his neck.

We held each other tightly for a minute and were about to kiss again when I felt the pager in my coat pocket shaking. The pager in his jacket began vibrating, too. We reached for them simultaneously. The only pages I get are emergencies so I knew it was not some New Year's Eve greeting from a friend. When the police call, they use a number code on my pager to tip me off. Will's newspaper does the same. We glanced at our codes and both said, "Shit!"

Without uttering another word, Will guided me through the sea of loud partygoers who were completely oblivious to the fact that someone had just been murdered. From a pay phone in a jammed bar on Forty-Third Street, I called the Yonkers police dispatcher who'd paged me.

"The vic's a woman," he said matter-of-factly. "Murdered and more."

"And more?"

"Some asshole cut pieces of her skin off."

"Butchered?"

"Tortured."

I handed Will the phone after I finished my call. He dialed the newspaper's city desk. After he finished, he said, "Sorry, Dani, this isn't how I expected the first night of our new year together to end."

"Me, either," I replied, grabbing the lapel of his coat, pulling him close, and kissing him. But my mind was already miles away. Someone around us broke into a chorus of "Auld Lang Syne."

"How you getting there?" Will yelled above the singing.

"The usual. Squad car. Lights and sirens."

Will knew better than to ask for a ride. Arriving together would have crossed a line. "I got to go," he said. "It's going to take me much longer to get to Yonkers than you."

As he started to leave, I said, "See you at the homicide."